Ralph called me one morning. ‘Sylvia’s left a message on my answering machine telling me off. She said Norma’s distraught because I won’t speak to her.’
Typical Sylvia. I was incensed, but Ralph thought it was funny.
‘You know, for the first time since I found out I was adopted, I have to say, I feel luckier than you!’
He was getting to a point where he was finally able to talk about it all dispassionately, and so I felt it safe to ask if he was going to find out who his real parents were.
‘Not at the moment. I just need to assimilate all this before I go stirring that pot. One day, though, I think I’ll want to know about them. Maybe make contact with them if they’re still alive. Even if they’re not, I think I’d still want to know who they were, why they gave me up, and if they had any other children. I might find I’ve got some siblings out there who aren’t tossers.’
Even as Ralph’s grief waned, he continued to come over often and we’d go for long walks or go out for a bite. Eventually, our discussions drifted to other things. Ralph and I never ran out of conversation, but the issue was no longer all-consuming.
Several months had passed, and it was on a Saturday evening around seven o’clock that he called and asked if the kids were home.
‘Nope. They’re at Reuben’s this weekend. Why?’
‘Can I come round? I need to talk to you.’
I felt that knot in the gut again. ‘Is everything okay? What’s wrong? Are you sick?’
‘Nothing is wrong and I’m not sick. I just need to talk to you.’
I noticed something different about Ralph when he walked in. There had been a shift; I sensed he was at peace. We sat down at the kitchen table, but then he suddenly seemed a little nervous. He started fidgeting.
‘What is it?’
He looked down at his hands for a bit, then said, ‘You know what this discovery of mine means, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘We’re not cousins.’
‘Uh-huh. I know. Maybe not by blood, but—’
‘It’s not just about blood. I’ve never fit with my family—either of them, obviously—but you don’t fit with yours, and you’re bloody related to them.’ We both laughed, and then Ralph went quiet before continuing. ‘I’ve only ever fit with you, Ruthie.’
‘Yeah, same.’
‘I know you said you’re glad they adopted me because otherwise I wouldn’t be in your life. But I think we would have somehow found each other. It was written in the stars.’ Ralph looked down at his hands again, and then looked up at me. ‘I love you.’
‘I know. I love you too.’
‘No. Ruthie. I really, really love you.’
‘What?’
Ralph took a deep breath. ‘I love you like ... tomato sauce. Je t’aime. I have for years. I just squashed the feelings because they seemed inappropriate. Incestuous. But I think I started to come undone that day by the pool in Noosa, you know, when Maxi said something about you being able to pull off that look—the little red dress and boots. Then when you turned up later with the fire engine red hair and that sexy green dress and I tried to hit on you—God, I still feel embarrassed when I think about that—but ... it just got harder for me to deny the feelings to myself. And I’ve seen the way you’ve watched me sometimes, and it’s made me wonder ... ’
We stared at each other. I was momentarily dumbstruck.
‘W-what about Maxi?’ It was all I could think of to say (maybe as a means of diversion).
‘What about her?’
‘You’ve had a thing for her since we were all kids. You were crushed when she dumped you.’
‘Wounded pride. And it was just puppy love.’
‘It was hardly puppy love at my wedding!’
Ralph looked at me blankly.
‘You two got it on in the back of Albie’s car. Have you forgotten?’
‘No, I remember. But that was more about storming the trenches than anything else.’
‘Huh?’
‘We were partnered. She was having digs at me the whole time and the tension turned sexual. Kind of felt like foreplay after a while. I guess I just took my one-upmanship with her to another level.’ He smiled at the memory (or his wordplay).
‘Maxi’s always having digs at you—’
‘And it stopped arousing me a long time ago. But this is not about Maxi and me. It’s about you and me. Ruthie ... you’re my Twin Flame.’
Silence.
More silence.
A silence encore.
‘Say something, Ruthie ... please!’
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. The way he looked at me when he confessed his feelings a couple of minutes earlier had made me feel naked ... or was he imagining me that way?
Shit. He’s my cousin, my cousin! I remembered back to when I thought it would be morally wrong to go for Maxi if I ever decided to bat for the other team because she was like a sister. I started hearing music, and Sylvia droning in my head. A fricking medley ...
The Hollies intoning about twisty roads and me being able to carry him ‘cause he’s my brother, who ain’t heavy. Bullshit—at just over six feet, he is heavy ... and he ain’t my bloody brother! He’s my cousin ...
Elvis saying it’s okay to be kissin’ cousins because we’re all related anyway, seeing as we’re descended from the first man and woman ... although, I guess it depends which creation myth you’re invested in. The characters of ancient myth bonked their cousins, siblings, children, parents and animals. And they thought that was okay ...
Panic. Confusion. Erratic thoughts. Ralph wanted more than a friendship. What will the neighbours think? But he’s not a blood relation, is he? His mysterious, long looks at me in the past had unnerved me a little. Oh, boy ... The Beach Boys again, three decades on still oombopbopping about good vibrations. But this time, dear God, Ralph declaring he loved me like tomato sauce! What will the neighbours think? No, he’s not my cousin. I’m not his cousin. Just as Maxi’s only like a sister, Ralph is only like a cousin. I’m his Twin Flame. Is he mine? If so, what if these combined flames combust? A conflagration ... Jesus! What will the neighbours think?
Oi! Nisht gut! I felt bad. The sound of music once more. Woolly mitts and kitty-cats’ whiskers. So not my favourite things. I don’t like cats, I’m allergic to wool and I still felt bad. Oeuf, pest! What will the bloody neighbours think? ‘Shut uuuuuuuup!’
‘Sorry.’
‘No. No. Not you. Sylvia’s running riot in my head.’ I started hyperventilating.
Ralph, who knew I’d stopped buying paper bags, got up, cupped his hands over my mouth like he had done all those years ago at Zelda’s wedding. ‘Just breathe. Breathe!’
I did as he instructed, and as I calmed, things slowed down. But there was an awkward tension between us.
‘I think I need to be alone, Ralph.’
He nodded, and with his head hung down, he left.
I sat for a very long time in a space of nothingness—no thoughts, no feelings. I eventually collapsed into bed, exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. It was dark. The earlier head noise was back and had now intensified. I’d recently read an article about how to survive a hostage situation. It felt like I was in one, with Sylvia as my captor.
I tried to remember the strategies outlined in the article: be positive, don’t grovel, don’t become hysterical, try establish a rapport with your abductor, don’t insult them, try to co-operate, try to escape, blah, blah, blah. None of these had ever worked when Sylvia and I were eyeball to eyeball; why should it be any different when I was shadowboxing? Everything was met with resistance. Everything. And I was angry with Ralph. For someone who always needed to tell me everything, how could he have kept this a secret for so long? Then again, how could he have told me? Still, I felt a little betrayed. I lay wide-awake into the early hours, tormented—sinking into the muddy underworld, assailed by the crazies—gods and monsters (Neptune, Achilles, Harpies, Gorgons & Co).
Then something happened just as the sun started to come up. I staggered into the bathroom and went to the loo. I stared at the mirror after washing my hands, and noticed something different. I looked the same, but my thoughts had become more, well, my thoughts. They felt real and pure, not refracted through a Sylvia lens. And then they became animated in my psyche, coming to life as a sort of video and audio collage ...
The realisation that for a long time, I’d felt more for Ralph than I thought was healthy for a blood relation; sneaking looks at him from when he outgrew the gaucheness of childhood and early adolescence into a striking looking guy (and obviously, he’d picked up on that); not really liking any of his many girlfriends for no reason that I could put my finger on; the room lighting up for me whenever he walked in; wanting to share pretty much everything with him (and only him); feeling sensual when he hit on me that afternoon by the pool in Noosa! And then, there had been our exchange a few hours before the makeover; before he’d made the pass: You listen to your gut and your heart. So why haven’t you found your Twin Flame? Because she’s yet to listen to hers. And until she does, we won’t connect.
I didn’t want to live the rest of my life like Sylvia had—unhappy, bitter, seeing only the negative, craving and struggling for the approval of the disapprovers so you could then feel good about yourself. In that moment, I understood her. I really got her. I believed she had always wanted the best for me, but at the same time, because I was a spirited child, I was a constant reminder of the moxie she had lost. No. Not lost. Relinquished. Her soul-sapping techniques had taken their toll—left me feeling powerless. And with my vitality drained, I’d allowed myself to lapse. I’d let it happen! It made sense that I had been a thorn in her side, but it was never about me. And it wasn’t like she respected me when I became submissive, anyway.
Lately, I wasn’t quite so willing to entertain the fears that had run my life. I was tired of them: of the fear of asserting myself, of being different, of wearing what I wanted, of what the neighbours would think, of travelling, of large social gatherings, of wind, boats, warts and obese people. And the big one—the fear that something terrible would happen to me on a Sunday. Now I could see it was all unfounded. So, enough already!
Sylvia was enslaved by her angst. And Joe, with his God complex, was also controlled by fear. Of women, maybe? Whatever. He didn’t stand up to Sylvia, nor did he stand up for me. Frightened folk who foisted all their anxieties on me. Big mouths; small lives. But Ralph ...
Ralph had shown me how to handle life fearlessly. I was well-travelled but I didn’t much like the journey I’d been on for most of my adult life. He wasn’t well-travelled, but he was well-versed in daring. Mostly, he dared to be himself, not a version of it. Many considered Ralph weird, but he didn’t care. ‘Weird just means different,’ he’d said. And although he wasn’t always immune to succumbing to tribal mores, he didn’t remain at their mercy for long. When all was said and done, he could not be ‘converted’. His spirit was way too big for the body it inhabited. In that moment, I realised, I remembered that mine was also. My recent experience with the real estate agent reminded me I didn’t need to inhale Ralph’s courage. I had direct access to my own. My gut rumbled—I could hear it! I could hear my gut! And my heart seemed to open up, releasing feelings for Ralph that had been a long time coming. His declaration had awakened prohibited, dormant sentiments buried under the frightening, painful garbage that choked them, and had to be sloughed off first.
So. What about what felt right for me? What about my rights?
I’m here because I’m meant to be here. No mistake. And if I’m meant to be here, I have the right to be me, not some conversion of that to fulfil someone else’s wants. This still entails good manners. They’re important. But as for effective social conditioning and what the neighbours would think ... FUCKET!
Now I see me.
I finally fell into a contented sleep, but the insistent ringing of the doorbell woke me an hour later. It was only seven o’clock and I tried to ignore it. Whoever it was didn’t let up, though. I dragged myself out of bed, splashed cold water on my face and opened the front door to find Ralph leaning against the doorjamb.
He was wearing his glasses, but they didn’t hide his swollen, bloodshot eyes. And with his dishevelled hair sticking out all over the place, he reminded me of that little boy whose pet duck had been so coldheartedly taken away.
‘I’m sorry, Ruthie. I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have said anything.’ He seemed so sad and so vulnerable. ‘I hope it doesn’t change anything between us.’
I looked at Ralph, my best friend and confidant. Not a little boy, but a man who wanted and had asked for more; who had taken a risk by inviting me on what was sure to be a mother of a roller-coaster ride. I hate rough rides; they’re fraught with uncertainty and turbulence. But the one person I could always depend on to sustain me through the many up and down ones had always been Ralph.
Another odyssey ... do I dare strap myself in?
Just then, as if in answer to my question, I heard a lone voice in my head, like a whisper carried on the west wind: There’ll be no firkin vanilla deodoriser on that ride.
Baubo!
I knew, unequivocally, this screwy goddess with a face that only a mother could love—or, maybe not—would be there to help me find the humour throughout the steep loop-the-loops.
Ralph was looking at me anxiously, waiting for some sort of response.
I smiled at him, and then said softly, ‘I hope it does.’
The End ... The Beginning
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Table of Contents
Part One: In Hot Water
Chapter One: Family Jewels
Chapter Two: Fourplay
Chapter Three: Dates & Lemons
Chapter Four: Not with a Bang but a Whimper
Chapter Five: Her Big Fat Jewish Wedding
Chapter Six: Fruity Nuts
Chapter Seven: Lights on, Nobody Home
Chapter Eight: Warts ‘n’ All
Chapter Nine: Wind Beneath My Minge
Chapter Ten: An Ill Wind Sucks
Chapter Eleven: Escape from the Mad House
Chapter Twelve: Ship of Fools
Chapter Thirteen: Wedding Daze
Chapter Fourteen: Real Estate Low-down
Chapter Fifteen: Kiddie Litter
Part Two: Tea and Sympathy
Chapter Sixteen: Casual Chic
Chapter Seventeen: Doctoring
Chapter Eighteen: Dropping(s)
Chapter Nineteen: Latest Crazed
Chapter Twenty: Fashion Flops
Chapter Twenty-One: Inside Jobs
Chapter Twenty-Two: Pieces of Work
Chapter Twenty-Three: There’s the Rub
Chapter Twenty-Four: Up-endings
Odyssey In A Teacup Page 28