Sex, Lies and Bonsai

by Lisa Walker

  ‘There was no way I was ever going to be seen in public in that get-up, with or without a surfboard.’

  ‘You would have looked like a cheerio,’ says Sal.

  Despite the fact that I avoided the water from then on, the gifts continued: framed surf photos, a paperweight in the shape of a surfboard, Roxy Girl T-shirts, Hawaiian-print board shorts…

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I say.

  Dad and Rochelle are waiting on the verandah to say goodbye. A parcel sits on the table next to them. It is about the size of a coffee-table guide to surfing locations around Australia.

  Rochelle gives Dad a surreptitious nudge as we approach. She mutters something out of the side of her mouth. It sounds like Tell her.

  ‘Sally,’ says Rochelle, ‘let me show you the Japanese garden.’

  ‘I’ve already seen—’ Sally catches Rochelle’s look. ‘Oh, okay. Great.’ They wander off along the balcony.

  Dad’s moustache is drooping, as it does when he is worried. He gives me a hug then lets go. His hands hang by his side looking like they don’t know what to do with themselves.

  Dad has the awkward hand gene too. I have never noticed before. At least that is something we share. If I inherited that from him, who knows…

  ‘Maybe we’ll go for a surf when you get back? Now that you’re…’ He trails off.

  ‘Swimming?’

  He nods.

  ‘Sure. It’s a date. You and me, six am, out the Point.’

  He smiles.

  I smile.

  ‘You mean it?’ His moustache is looking perkier already.

  ‘Hey, why wouldn’t I?’

  He coughs. His face goes a bit red. He opens and shuts his mouth, then speaks quickly. ‘I’m so proud of you, Eddie.’

  ‘You are? Why? Since when?’

  ‘I always have been. I know I haven’t shown it, but I’ve always felt you were something special.’ He thrusts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

  ‘You have?’ This is so unlike Dad, to talk about feelings.

  ‘You’re the only one on my side of the family who’s ever gone to university. And now, look at you, off to Japan. All by yourself.’ He blinks and for a moment I’m afraid he might cry.

  Tears aren’t that far from my eyes either. I step forward and hug him again.

  He wraps his long, muscular arms around me. ‘You look just like your mother. She was beautiful too. And clever. I couldn’t believe it when she chose me. I’m just a dumb surfer. She was amazing, your mother. And you’re amazing too.’

  I feel a lump in my chest. I step back so I can look at him. ‘I always thought…you would have liked a boy. One who surfed.’

  ‘That never mattered, Eddie. All that mattered was—’

  ‘Spit it out, Dave,’ says Sal. She and Rochelle have come back. ‘We’ve got a plane to catch here.’ She winks at him.

  Rochelle nods in an encouraging way.

  ‘All that matters is that you’re happy,’ says Dad. ‘You are happy, aren’t you?’

  It’s a big question and a difficult one for a girl who’s been crying all morning to answer properly. ‘Yes,’ I say. And it’s almost true.

  Rochelle steps in for an embrace. She feels solid in my arms, strong and warm.

  ‘Say bye to Jay for me?’ I say this lightly, keeping its meaning between the two of us.

  She nods. ‘He’ll be sorry he missed you.’

  ‘Let’s rock, Ed,’ says Sal.

  Rochelle nudges Dad again.

  ‘Oh. I almost forgot. Happy birthday.’ He picks up the parcel and hands it to me.

  It is fairly heavy. Definitely a hardback book on surfing. I unwrap it. It is a small laptop computer.

  ‘Because you only have a desktop. And you’ll be travelling…’ Dad looks at me anxiously.

  I hug him. ‘It’s perfect. It’s just what I need.’ I run my hand over its shiny surface. ‘I love it. I love it to bits.’

  Dad beams.

  ‘He thought of it himself,’ says Rochelle. ‘I didn’t know what to get you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  I turn halfway down the stairs and wave to Dad and Rochelle. I feel the way I always do at partings: as if I want to run back, start again, do it all so much better. Do my whole life so much better. I wonder if everyone feels like that.

  Then I’m in the car with Sal, driving through Darling Head. In twelve hours I’ll be in Tokyo, but for now I’m still here in this place I know so well. I wind down the window, smell the salt air and try not to look for Jay.

  It is Saturday morning and the streets are busy with surfers: getting out of cars, strolling across the road, walking languidly back from the water with an ease and calm that reeks of satisfaction.

  I know I’ll be back, and perhaps next time I’ll be one of them. Next time I’ll do it so much better. I smile, thinking of what Dad said. You’re amazing. Am I? Damn it, maybe I am.

  ‘Look at that old dude.’ Sal slows the car to avoid hitting an old man on a bike who wobbles across in front of us. He is wearing a yellow raincoat and gumboots despite the warm morning. His leathery face is etched in a criss-cross of wrinkles. Grubby canvas bags hang off the back of his bike. He looks like an Indian sadhu with a fishing rod.

  It is him; the man on the beach from that night. It is definitely him.

  I lean forward, open my mouth and am on the verge of calling out. Then I stop. I no longer know why I wanted to talk to him. Jay was right. What difference would it make? Was she happy? Was she sad? Can you ever know how someone feels by looking at them? I watch him wobble away.

  The last words from Mum’s notebook are still in my head.

  I push off and swim, as if that is a way to leave this behind, like a cloak swept away in the current. And sometimes it seems that it might be. As my arms move through the water I can feel the darkness leaving me. If I go hard enough and fast enough it can’t catch me. But I have to stop eventually. I can’t swim forever.

  ‘You know him?’ asks Sal.

  ‘Kind of.’ For all these years I have been searching for absolution, for explanation; to be told that there was nothing I could have done. To be told she was smiling. To be told she was crying. I am surprised to find it doesn’t matter anymore. His yellow raincoat vanishes around the corner, taking all those questions with it. I can’t swim forever.

  It could be that I have forgiven her. It could be that I have forgiven myself.

  ‘I’m expecting some Japanese-influenced erotica from you,’ says Sal, as we hit the highway. ‘They’re pretty wild over there, I hear.’

  ‘I can’t do that anymore.’

  She looks at me over the top of her sunglasses. ‘Why not? Chance of a lifetime — hot tubs, kimonos, those kinky little fans — think of the possibilities.’

  ‘But sex isn’t like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Trashy and cheap.’

  Sally meets my eyes. I’m expecting her to try to talk me around, to say something sarcastic to lighten things up, but she doesn’t.

  ‘No, not when it’s good.’ She reaches out and squeezes my hand.

  We are silent for a while and I am beginning to think she has found a previously unexplored vein of sensitivity until she speaks. ‘You were so good at it, you know. I think it’s your forte. If it’s a matter of money, I could probably—’

  ‘It’s not about money. I don’t think I want to keep writing about lust, Sally.’

  Sally looks as if I have just admitted a sexual interest in cockroaches. ‘What do you want to write about then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something deeper.’

  ‘Damn, Ed.’ She slaps the wheel. ‘Where am I going to find another writer?’

  ‘Do it yourself. You’ve had sex, right? You know what it’s like. It should be easy enough.’ I can’t resist the little dig.

  ‘I’ve tried.’ Sally gives me a sheepish smile. ‘It’s not as easy as I thought it would be. I can see where you were c
oming from with the manly sea cucumber now. It’s hard finding good metaphors.’

  I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘You’re telling me, babe.’

  ‘Fuck. Send me back some of those sexy Manga comics then, will you? I might be able to do something with them.’

  ‘You’re still doing it then? The sex counsellor thing?’

  ‘Shit, yeah. This stuff is big. I’m going to be setting up franchises in Sydney and Melbourne soon I reckon. There’s a job for you here any time you want, Ed.’

  ‘Advertise,’ I say.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘For an erotic writer. You’ll find someone for sure.’

  Sally nods. ‘Yeah. Right on. I’ll do that tomorrow.’

  I get Sally to drop me off at Departures. I’ve already told her I don’t want her to wait. I can’t stand long farewells, hanging around making small talk.

  She pulls over in the drop-off zone and gives me a hug. ‘I’m still your life coach, you know; if you need anything — dating advice, hot-tub etiquette, inter-cultural flirting… Can’t wait to see what bad habits you come back with.’

  ‘Thanks, babe. You’re the best life coach I’ve ever had.’

  ‘You keep up those conversational skills, won’t you? Remember start shallow, move deep.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’ve mastered that one yet. I always hit my head in the shallow end because I try to go deep too fast. I’m not one of your success stories, am I?’

  Sally laughs. ‘Yes you are. Totally. Look at you. Here you go, off to Tokyo. How cool is that? You’re taking control of your life, mate. You’re walking the walk. Talking the talk. High five.’ She holds up her hand.

  I slap it. As I open the car door I almost take out a harassed-looking woman with a loaded trolley. ‘Sorry.’ She glares at me as she goes past.

  ‘Hey, Edz.’

  I look up.

  Surf-boy Tim is standing on the footpath beside the car. He has a padded board bag over his shoulder. ‘I’m going down to Bells.’ He pats his board bag. ‘I got a longer board, like you said.’

  I eye his board. ‘Six one, is it? That’s the shot. Good luck.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks.

  ‘Japan.’

  ‘You going to that big comp in Shikoku?’

  I nod in a noncommittal way. ‘Hey,’ I pull my purse out of my bag. ‘Here’s your autograph.’

  Tim’s face lights up. He takes the greasy paper bag and looks at Dad’s signature. Hey Tim, carve one up for me, it says. He folds it carefully and slides it into his pocket. ‘Now I’ll have good luck for sure. Do you mind if I tell the Rip Curl people I’m a friend of yours?’

  ‘Better not. I’ve jumped to Billabong and they’re a bit shitty. Tell them you know Dad. You’ve got the autograph.’

  ‘Yeah, cool.’ He waves and heads towards the checkin, where a broad-shouldered man is waiting for him.

  ‘Edz?’ says Sally.

  I shrug.

  ‘Rip Curl?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘You’re a dark horse, Edie McElroy. Well, go get ‘em,’ says Sal. ‘Be all that you can be. Play hard or go home. No guts, no glory. Live the dream.’

  ‘You’d better save up some of that motivational pep talk for when I get back, Sal.’

  Sally leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘And look after your heart while you’re at it, Ed.’

  Sally and me. Me and Sally. I wave as she goes and wish we could do it all again, only better this time.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  When inspiration does not come to me, I go halfway to meet it.

  SIGMUND FREUD

  T-shirts and thongs are the travelling uniform of choice in Coolangatta Airport. The business suit has no place in this departure lounge. If the mood was any more laid-back it would be comatose. It is hard to believe you can get on a plane here and arrive in Tokyo nine hours later. The idea seems ridiculously far-fetched. Coolangatta to Tokyo should be at least a ten-day journey.

  I should fly by light aircraft to Darwin, or maybe ride a camel. On arrival in Darwin I’d locate a sturdy boat in need of crew and sail north into the mysterious East. On the way I might sight whales, fight off a giant squid or repel pirates off the coast of Taiwan. As I sail into Tokyo harbour the sight of the snow-capped Mount Fuji would fill me with elation…

  But here I am on the Gold Coast, standing in the queue for the Jetstar checkin.

  Sunburnt surfies are catching jets back to Sydney or Melbourne. Soon I will join my fellow cut-price flight passengers. I will watch formulaic Hollywood movies and eat salty chips as Australia slips away beneath me. The blinds of the plane will be pulled down against the sun. It will be dark when we get to Japan. Maybe I will see the lights of Tokyo as we land.

  Tomorrow I will eat ramen in a Tokyo noodle bar or battle with the crowds on the subway. I will practise saying O genki desu ka? and Konichiwa. I will use chopsticks and try to fit in, but I will always be a foreigner, a Gaijin. It is hard to process a world that moves so fast.

  ‘Tokyo?’ says the girl behind the counter.

  I nod, hardly believing it myself.

  I am early for my flight, so after I’ve checked in my bags I don’t go through customs. A sign on the wall says ‘Free Wi-Fi’ so I sit down on a plastic seat and open up my new computer. Dad has set it up for me; all I need to do is connect. All around me people are saying goodbyes and hellos. A big Maori man embraces an embarrassed-looking boy who must be his son. There is an emotional charge about airports, even this one. They are a no man’s land, a place to voice feelings you might not admit to at other times. If you don’t say it now, you’ll never get the chance.

  The computer gives a soft ting. I have two emails. I am intrigued by the second one, but my mouse slides over it to the first.

  Dear Sooty,

  I too was deserted by my father on the streets of Paris. I remember —

  I delete this one. Philip is not quite as much fun as I hoped he would be. He seems reluctant to drop his cover story. The second email is titled Japanese Crab Drawings? It is from Djennifer and is very long. My eyes flicker through it.

  Hey Edie,

  You must be the hardest person in the world to track down…staying at the Sands Resort…boring as bat-shit conference on crabs…rather sexy man in short shorts…put up these drawings…Poirot…superhero. Erotic crab writing…connection…inner muse.

  God…so good, Edie…so whimsical, so funny-sad, so deeply philosophical. It spoke to me…divine feminine…dragged away…emergency design issue…on your trail. I didn’t know it was actually you!

  I just rang your father again… Japan. Amazing! Serendipity! Kismet!

  I slow down as I reach what seems to be the crux of the email.

  I have a new idea for a Japanese-influenced crab-themed Hotpunk range. I’m sure you’re in big demand, but I’d love you to create a suite of original illustrations to go on the merchandise. Think crabs in kimonos, samurai crabs, crabs doing tea ceremony. Please say yes! It’s a big job, but I’ll pay you what you’re worth.

  Hugs and kisses, Djennifer

  Pressing Reply, I type Yes and send. I smile as I close my emails. Whimsical, funny-sad, philosophical. I’ll take it as encouragement; maybe I am in big demand. This day, which seemed doomed, is now picking up — first Dad, then this.

  I still have a few minutes left until I need to go through security. Maybe it is time… Yes, I think it is. I open Google. The story I have been avoiding can’t be sidestepped any longer.

  The tale of Sylvia Plath’s suicide is well known. Struggling to write as a single mother after her separation from Ted Hughes she succumbed to depression. She carefully sealed the kitchen to ensure the gas would not escape and harm her sleeping children. She left food in their room in case they got hungry.

  Frieda and Nick Hughes were the children sleeping in the bedroom at the moment their mother decided wanting everything was the same as wanting nothing. What happened to tho
se two sleeping children?

  Sadly, Nick’s story is one that I already know. Despite being a successful marine biologist in Alaska, a few years back he took the same path as his mother. He could not escape her legacy. That is why I have been so scared.

  But what happened to Frieda? I haven’t dared to find out. I identify with her too strongly, as if my life is on a parallel track to hers. Is her life warped and twisted? Will mine be too? I breathe in and out to calm myself. I know I need to follow this path to its logical conclusion. I think I am ready.

  My fingers pause on the keyboard, hesitate and type in the words Sylvia Plath’s daughter. I hardly dare to see what I will find. As I peer through lowered eyelids, a wave of relief washes over me. I open my notebook at the front. Only a tattered page edge is there to remind me of my pain diary. Otherwise the slate is clean.

  Frieda is a highly regarded artist who has published two books of poetry. There is indeed a certain symmetry here. But it is a beautiful symmetry, not an ugly one. Perhaps she dabbles in erotic writing too? There doesn’t seem much else to find out about her, but there is enough for me to imagine what her life might be like.

  I wonder, now, why I was so scared. Does it matter that Frieda is a highly regarded artist? I don’t think it does. It is the rest of her life that counts. I imagine that she might enjoy baking. Sylvia was a great one for making cakes. On the day she wrote ‘Medusa’, she made banana bread. Lemon pudding cake was the accompaniment to ‘Lady Lazarus’. Perhaps Frieda makes the best cakes in town. Perhaps not. In any case, it is the pleasure she takes in it that matters. Maybe she and her girlfriends like to drink cask wine in the afternoons and recite poetry? I don’t know. I’d like to think they do.

  And maybe that is what success is about, finding simple pleasures that make life worthwhile. Coming to terms with the past and moving on.

  It seems strange now that I have worried about Frieda for so long. I am not her and she is not me and just maybe I am not a failure at all. I might be a work in progress, but I have potential.

  When I look up I see a figure at the far end of the terminal. He is wearing a black hoodie and his dark hair falls over his face. He is staring at the departure board. For a moment I am suspicious. I am familiar with the apparition of the lover syndrome, where you see the yearned-for face in every crowd.