and swirled around the room circling her,
aiming for her,
cutting her,
lifting her skin
and peeling away
her whole personality
I read through tears. Felt my blood go cold. She was right. Her mind and body were unravelling.
I stopped for a while. I didn’t want to read on but then there were lines and memories about Mum, Dad. I needed to read them as much as Margie needed to write them. Words bunched together without punctuation. Some incoherent, unfinished, ideas left in midair. Like her speech when the medication took hold of her. Words flying around her brain, buzzing like a frenzied wasp.
Secrets Secrets
I know something you don’t
It’s magic, like someone casts a spell
and circles around
the lower part of my body.
It is definitely there
but not proven
because it is invisible.
My mind is playing tricks on me. It spins me
out.
Nobody had ever told me that something strange
sometimes changes your body
or that my mind had such
powers,
and through thought I was changing,
Becoming more
masculine.
We are squeezed in tight in the ladies’ change rooms at Melbourne’s upmarket David Jones store. Margie is trying on a silk dress, a cobalt blue with small, black polka dots and a thin piece of black velvet ribbon that I tie for her. Her eyes twinkle as our father’s once did, the same almond shape and upward tilt that makes them look like they really are smiling. She giggles and pushes my hands away from her neck. ‘You’re choking me,’ she says.
‘Anyway, I don’t like the tie. Or the dress.’
I wander out to the discount rack searching for a bargain, something that she will like. Once we shared clothes easily but less so these days. Where I have rounded with pregnancy and childbirth, Margie has narrowed. Her already slim waist is even smaller.
‘Try this,’ I say and hand her a strawberry-coloured linen dress in a Jackie Onassis style. She slips it over her perfect breasts and slender hips, the colour lighting up her cheeks and defining her dark curls scrunched up in a bun. All my life I’ve envied those curls.
‘Look at those ugly fat legs,’ she says, pulling the dress over her head and throwing it on the heap, piling up on the floor. ‘I hate them, they’re like tree stumps.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. No-one looks at your legs. Not with a smile like yours.’
It’s true, ‘Our Margie has the face of an angel,’ Dad always said. Margie was the one worth taking to the dentist, worth the investment in braces way back when no-one in our house, our street or our school could afford braces.
‘We both missed out on Mum’s height,’ I laugh. ‘Let’s just pick a couple of dresses and try them at home with high heels.’
‘Forget it,’ Margie says. ‘I’m not going.’
I pretend not to hear. I pretend we are still happy, still giggling about the pushy shop assistant at Georges who tried to convince me the plastic jumpsuit with all the gold zips suited me and my crew cut hairstyle. ‘Très chic,’ she pretended. Sometimes, it seems to me, we spend our life pretending. But it was easier and I wasn’t prepared to face the truth then, not in the middle of Melbourne with my baby boy in his pram; waking now, hungry for his milk.
‘We could try Country Road at Collins Place. They’ll have something.’
‘I said I’m not going.’
I can’t look at her. I fuss around James, offering a dummy as I rock the pram. She’s gathering the clothes in her arms now. Crying.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You just don’t get it. I can’t go.’
‘No, I don’t get it.’
How could she not go to our brother’s wedding? It’s a week away. Maybe she will change her mind. Maybe she’ll feel better tomorrow.
We drive to the farm in silence, apart from the occasional whimper from James. I should have fed him at the shops. The feeding is wearing me out. It never seems to be enough. ‘Keep feeding’ the nurse told me, ‘builds up your milk supply. The more you feed, the more you make.’ She made it seem simple, but I struggle. He struggles. I am anxious. He is unsettled.
I curse the traffic and curse Margie. I don’t want to be stuck on the freeway. I want to be at the farm or in a park with James and Margie, walking in the brilliant sunshine, laughing, her mimicking me or anyone else she thinks is fair game. As the traffic slows I picture a happier time when we were young and we climbed up on to the roof of our house to get closer to the planes that flew directly above us on the way to the new Tullamarine airport. We giggled and, carefree, we danced our way across the tiles, balancing and waving to the people we imagined watching us from their tiny windows in the sky. When I was older I went there, to the roof, alone, to plan my escape.
Turning onto the gravel road towards home, Margie undoes her seat belt.
‘I can walk from here,’ she says.
‘Don’t be silly.’
Lifting James from his seat, I soothe him. ‘Nearly there, honey,’ I whisper, as we unload into the house.
‘Do you want me to get anything?’ She asks as I settle on a chair with James.
‘A glass of water would be great, thanks.’
When she’s gone, I let the tears fall. I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t stand this game, this pretending, never saying what needs to be said. It eats away at me, slowly draining energy like a syringe drawing blood. I sniff back the tears. I can’t let her see.
‘I meant what I said,’ Margie says, throwing herself on to the sofa, turning her face from me to the wall.
‘Meant what?’
‘That I’m not going to Andrew’s wedding.’
‘Why? I don’t understand.’
‘I can’t go. I just can’t.’
She never did go to the wedding. It was tough accepting that. And much harder accepting that she was sick, really sick, and I didn’t know how to make her better.
When it’s time to move from the farm, when the medication is doing its work, and the group sessions Margie has as an outpatient have given her some confidence to return to living on her own, we scan the newspapers: the ‘To Let’ columns and the ‘Shared Accommodation’ sections.
‘There’s a cheap flat in North Fitzroy,’ she says, circling it in red pen. Together we head to the real estate agent’s office in Nicholson Street. It turns out to be a dump.
‘I like it,’ Margie says before I voice my concerns. ‘I can scrub it up a bit.’ She’s keen to live in the trendy area so I give in and we go back to the office to fill in the forms.
‘How much is the bond?’ Margie asks. Her mouth is dry and her lips cracked, courtesy of the new tablets. She speaks through her squeezed mouth, pushing her sore lips away from each other. The bald agent in his yellow shirt and green tie ignores her and turns to me, ‘Four weeks rent,’ he says. ‘Seven hundred dollars,’ he adds as Margie’s hands shake and she writes in the details of her previous rentals.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Moonface says to me as if Margie isn’t there. ‘Why is she shaking?’
I want to slap his face. I know my sister can hear him. Insensitive bastard. I hold back from giving his smug little chin a serious Broady right hook. Instead I rip up the application form into tiny pieces and scatter it over his floor.
‘Why did you do that?’
‘He was so rude. He’s not getting a cent from us.’
‘It’s no big deal,’ Margie shrugs. ‘I’m used to it.’
Later that week, Jon carries the single mattress from the truck parked at the back of the pale brown, solid brick flats.
The three of us drag her few possessions upstairs to number eight, on the second level.
‘My lucky number,’ she grins as she puts the key in and opens the door.
‘Where do you want
it?’ Jon asks, surveying the tiny bedroom. ‘Not much choice.’
‘Against the wall, near the window,’ Margie laughs. ‘Actually it would be nice to have a bedroom window. Maybe next time, but I do promise not to move again for a while.’
It may be a promise that’s hard to keep for our restless Maggie. I think of all the places before this one, Rathdowne and Cardigan and Grattan Streets, Carlton; Brewster Street, Essendon; Napier Street, Strathmore; followed by a house in Napier Street in Fitzroy; then Dundas Street, Thornbury as well as the farm and the caravan, the hospital wards and now St George’s Road.
As if reading my thoughts, Margie turns to Jon, ‘So, Jon, how many times have you shifted me now?’
‘Too many,’ he says, hauling her desk up the stairs as she packs away some pots and pans. When Cathy arrives with some housewarming gifts, we head across the road to the hotel to celebrate.
Margie is excited but anxious, exhausted from the move. Jon’s mate, Mick, joins us and asks her about the flat. She half-answers, hiding her face behind her hands. He leans in to her. ‘Take your hands off your face, Margie. You’ve got a pretty face.’
Twenty-two
The campervan rolls its way down the steep road leading to the campsite at Mitta Mitta. The cool, green river inviting. James’s silky soft skin smothered in sunscreen ready for his dip. Eighteen months old and he’s like a leech, clinging to his father, following his every move. I watch as they glide together playing crocodiles in the rocky shallows and then James gathers some rocks, too big to carry, so he can build a dam with his dad. How will he go with a little brother or sister, I wonder, as I rub my swollen stomach? My well-advanced pregnancy and the unusual March heatwave are slowing me down.
I know I’m lucky to have this holiday, the first since Margie’s stay with us and her return to shared living, this time in South Yarra. I try to relax, but, even under the water, floating along the calming river, I can’t settle. I try duck diving, the water closing over me, holding my breath forever like when I was a child. But Margie is not there counting for me, calling me to come up for air.
Swimming towards James, my stomach cramps with anxiety. Lately, it is my one constant feeling. I think of Mum swallowing bottles of Mylanta for relief. Maybe that will work for me. I take James from Jon; lift him in the air and drop him back into the water. His shrieks and giggles making us laugh.
But it’s no good. I can’t settle. The doctor’s words haunt me. ‘Sometimes it’s a one-off episode,’ she said. ‘It may be triggered by stress or a stressful event and never appear again. But, as you know, for others it’s recurring and lifelong.’
The bank of the river is steep. I manage to climb to the top, wave to the boys and head through the bushes to the hotel and public phone box beside it. Long distance beeps and my brother’s voice immediately reassures me.
‘Margie’s good,’ Tom says. ‘We’ve been to see a couple of movies. Funny ones. She’s in good spirits. Try not to worry.’
But I did worry. A little less when I had a glass of wine or a book in my hand, but most of the time I imagined the worst. Would I always be that demented six-year-old, listening to voices behind closed doors?
The hot autumn day is beginning to cool down as I walk back to the river. Inside my swollen stomach, I feel our new baby growing. Will it be a brother or sister for James? It’s so close now and I’m not sure I’m ready.
‘One day we will go to the sea,’ Margie promised James when he told her about the river holiday. It was the week before and we were visiting her apartment before we left. She was reading a story from his new book, There’s a Sea in My Bedroom.
‘You are so good with him,’ I said. ‘You’ll be a great mum.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Of course you will. One day you will have your own kids.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know, just a feeling.’
‘I’ve got a job,’ she squealed when I answered a call from Margie the day after we returned from our holiday. Was I dreaming again? I was doing it all the time these days. Day. Night. Alone. In the middle of a conversation I drifted.
The last night of our holiday I had dreamt about my mother. I was sitting on the end of her bed, gossiping the way we used to. Mum said she wanted to see James, to check that all was well and to bless the new baby on the way. It felt real. Mum wasn’t dead. She was with me, holding James.
Waking from that dream was horrible. It felt worse than when she died. My eyes were wet and heavy. I’d been crying in the dream. It felt like I’d lost her all over again. I was too scared to go back to sleep. I asked her not to come again and she didn’t for a long time. Now my dreams of Mum are rare but welcome.
But Margie’s voice was real. And she had good news. She had been out of work for some time, shifting from cheap rentals to even cheaper shared rooms. She was desperate for a job.
‘It’s a great job, Caz.’ She hardly ever called me Caz. That was Grandad’s name for me, not hers. But I figure she can call me anything when she sounds that happy. ‘What’s the job?’
‘It’s in reception, for a magazine. Can you believe it? Me at a magazine!’
‘If it’s a fashion one, I can believe it. You will look the part. Need any new clothes?’
‘Nah, I’ll wait until the first pay packet. They’ve said they want me to collate articles and photos around deadline time. It’s all the things I did before at The Herald.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. It’s all I managed to get in before she’s off again, telling me about the interview. I took a box of matches and lit a candle. I hope it works out, I whispered to the photo on the mantelpiece, my favourite one of Mum and Dad, before the kids came along. It was taken at Mum’s cousin’s wedding, taken in 1955, a year after they met and Dad arrived in Australia. Dad is grinning, his emerald tie flapping across his shoulders. Mum leans into him, her hair swept across her face away from her piercing green eyes that match her long gown.
‘You look so much like Mum,’ I muttered.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I thought I heard you say something.’
‘I was looking at a photo of Mum. You look like her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You’re the lucky one.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, everyone says you look like her, and I look like the boys.’
Margie laughed. A big laugh. A laugh I’d almost forgotten.
‘No you don’t. You look like Aunty Eileen. And you waddle like her too.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
Above the humming of the crowded restaurant I hear Paul’s voice. ‘Over here,’ he calls as he stands and waves at us. Friday night in Carlton. Red, white and green flags decorate the eclectic eating-houses of Lygon Sreet, Melbourne’s Little Italy. Smells of garlic and salami and melted mozzarella warm my stomach and ease my tension. Food always comforts me.
Background music and Mum’s favourites, Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra, add to the ambience. Margie looks stunning: smiling and relaxed in a plum-coloured dress with a wide black belt showing off her slender waist. Her dark curls frame her face and hint of blush and lipstick give her a healthy glow.
Why am I nervous when I should be happy? The family is gathering for a birthday celebration and to farewell Andrew, his wife, Jaci and their toddler son, Casey, as they head off to work and live in America. I push my fears away. ‘When do you go?’ I ask, giving them a hug and flopping into a chair to support my aching back and expanding stomach. Only a few weeks to go and I’ll be a new mum again.
‘Fly out Sunday. Luckily Rip Curl has set us up with a great unit on the beach.’
‘California?’ Tom asks.
‘Yep. Santa Monica.’
‘I’m going surfing,’ Casey says. ‘I’ve got a new surfboard,’ he grins and climbs onto Margie’s knee, beside James.
‘You off t
o the grand final this year?’ Andy asks Paul.
‘Yep. We’ve got a couple of tickets but I’ll get you all in if you want to go.’
‘How?’ I ask
‘Trust me,’ Paul grins.
‘Yeah, don’t ask,’ Jon calls from the other end of the table.
My nephews are growing up. Mathew and Michael and Luke chat to their uncles and my only niece, Nicole tells me how she’s just started school. I allow myself a moment to enjoy them. But happiness is tinged with regret. What would it be like if Mum and Dad had lived? What if they were here enjoying all of this?
‘How’s Dorrit Street?’ I wonder aloud. Paul and Margie have just moved there with a bedroom each and enough space for the rest of the family to crash on a sofa or the carpet.
‘It’s great,’ Paul says. ‘I just walk out the back door and across the lane for work.’
‘Luke loves the attic,’ Margie adds.
‘Yeah. The stairs are cool,’ Luke agrees.
Suddenly I feel lighter. My head, my shoulders, my stomach slouch with relief. I had wanted this new house to work out for them. I didn’t like Margie being on her own. Just the week before I had spotted her walking across Princes Park from her old flat, carrying her belongings in a green garbage bag. I cried when I saw her through the car window.
‘What are you doing?’ I called as I pulled up beside her.
‘Shifting.’
‘Why didn’t you wait for me to drive you?’
It seemed Margie and Paul and Luke had already made a trip across the park, dragging their blankets and pillows through the cemetery beside the park towards Dorrit Street.
No time for crying. I stared hard at the pictures on the wall, photos of pretty white houses on a cliff with the calm, blue ocean below. And one of my favourites, the Amalfi Coast, a place I doubted I would ever get to see.
Paul’s laugh, so much like Mum’s, interrupted my daydreaming and I tried to tune in to the family conversations.
‘Matthew’s got an audition,’ Johnny says, as all eyes turn to him.
‘That’s great,’ Margie says. ‘What’s it for?’
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