She once told me that her boyfriend's sister had her head shaved too. I didn't bother to tell her why I had no hair. I didn't want to stop her from smiling at me the way she does. She reminds me of honey. She trickles through the cafe, oozing her sweetness on everything around her.
On Sundays, when the weather is nice like today, the cafe fills quickly. The noise of chatter drowns out the sound of the birds in the park down the road. The sound swallows me up and I can sit, alone, without being noticed.
I watch a young family strolling towards the park. They look happy, each parent holding one tiny hand of the girl between them. Every few steps she giggles as she is swung high into the air. Ahead of them a little boy stops and stands beside his scooter, waiting for them. I watch as they disappear around the corner. Once they are out of my sight I stand and leave the clutter of the cafe behind me.
I am walking home from work the next day when I see the postman pushing something into my letterbox. I find an envelope with Mum's scribble. On entry to my first-floor apartment I throw the letter on the kitchen table and hope that in time it will get lost under the mess.
Before leaving Australia I opened an email account for Mum and told her it was a faster way to reach me. Now I am pleased she ignored me; it is easier to lose an envelope. You could lose a small child in the mess of my apartment, so a letter isn't hard to misplace.
Mum's letters are well-intended but fall short of reminding me why I should keep living. I often consider the different options available to me for ending my life after reading Mum's letters.
Maybe drowning.
I glance around the apartment. Barely any surface is left naked, cluttered as it is with dirty kitchenware, newspapers, unopened mail, books, CDs, towels and clothes strewn about the place. There was a time before all this that my home was always clean, back when I had Melissa.
A tremble runs through my stomach and I realise that I haven't eaten since breakfast. I reach the fridge and mentally catalogue the possibilities for my dinner: fish fingers, ice-cream, toast, cereal. Or perhaps all of it, mixed together. I tried Nutella with fish fingers once, when my food situation became more desperate than usual.
I settle on cereal, but find that my milk smells of the steam that seeps from the manholes that blemish the city's pavements. It even has yellow slime floating on the surface, breeding.
I give up on self-catering and grab my coat from the back of the chair. I jangle the pockets and hear my keys rattle a response. Out the door and down the stairs, I head to Jack's Place, a diner on the corner.
As I walk into the glare of fluorescent lights, Jack looks up and raises his hand to his forehead, giving me a mock salute. His real name is Jack, after his dad, but everyone calls him Joe.
‘What can I get for you, Lucy?’ he asks, sliding himself on his elbows to rest in front of me.
He is what my mum would call a ‘smooth operator'. He has thick brown hair, a sideways grin and has a way of talking directly to you, as though there is no-one else around.
I want to tell him that I would like to order a new life, I'd be happy to just start with new hair, but something tells me that Joe couldn't really handle the truth. I think it is his lazy grin. Joe doesn't struggle, he doesn't know how to.
‘Burritos, Joe,’ I say, throwing in a twang to emphasise my accent.
Sometimes I think he only bothers with me because he is holding out for a Miranda Kerr look-a-like to one day hit the diner with me. He once mentioned that he thought all Australian girls looked like supermodels. Then he met me.
Joe slides away to punch my order into the cash register and as he moves I see my reflection in the mirror that runs along the back of the counter. I look worse than usual. There are bags under my eyes that look as though they have been on a shopping spree.
Tonight I have tried to cover my bare scalp with one of Mum's colourful silk scarves, tie-dyed in oranges, yellows and browns. I reach up and drag it from my head. It makes me look like a middle-aged lady with cancer—that would be too simple.
Joe swaggers back moments later and places a polystyrene box in front of me. ‘Takeaway burritos for the lady.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, getting up to leave.
‘Hey, Lucy?’ I stop and look at him, wondering where this is going. ‘What are you doing Saturday night? A few of us are heading to a club, if you're not doing anything you should come.’ I am not sure how to respond to this but shrugging seems to be a good start.
‘Where are you meeting?’
‘Here, after we close. Around 11 pm.’
I nod, ‘Okay. See you then.’ I try to smile but it turns out to be more of a grimace. I turn quickly, leaving the bright lights behind me, and walk out into the crisp night air.
Across the street I catch a glimpse of a man who looks familiar, but I can't place him. He is smoking and kicking the fire hydrant softly with the tips of his Converse shoes. He looks up at me and stares, not even bothering to pretend to look away. He throws his cigarette on the sidewalk and crosses the road without looking. I think he is coming towards me to say something but at the last minute he dodges me and pushes his way into the diner. I expel the air that I have been holding on to, mentally shake myself off and head for home.
On Tuesday I am sitting on the subway, heading to work. I have found a seat at the far end of the carriage where I slouch in the corner and pretend to read my book—on hair loss, a generous gift from my psychologist. But really I am playing a game, watching a girl from the corner of my eye who sits diagonally across from me.
She is pretending to read too, but I know that she is really staring at me. I wait until she is fully absorbed in watching me before I look up and stare directly back at her. Her cheeks flush crimson as her brown eyes flutter to the floor.
I often pass my time on the subway like this, tallying up the ones I catch out. When I reach one hundred I will get a tattoo, maybe a scar on my wrist.
The train intercom rasps and spits out the muffled voice of a woman announcing my stop. Outside it is raining. I make a run for it until I am standing outside the door of Malignant Music. It has a crack running across it like a vein popping out in anger. Through it I can see the grey curls of the owner's hair. There should be some rule about the age of people who own music stores. As I lean on the door it falls slowly inward and I am confronted by a bell that alerts Michael to my arrival.
‘G'day, mate,’ he growls, in what he thinks is a good Australian accent. It sounds like a schnauzer giving birth. He smiles too much. I swear he has taken someone else's quota of smiles and I am pretty sure it is mine that has been swiped.
‘Hi,’ I offer, placing my bag beneath the counter and taking my name tag. I pin it to the bottom of my black work T-shirt as the bell jangles and a man with an unshaven chin walks through the door. His eyes are shadowy and bloodshot. He shuffles closer, his Converse sneakers dragging on the carpet. Sniffing deeply he looks up at me and I see his features converge into something familiar.
‘I am looking for a CD,’ he mumbles.
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Who would've thought.’ We stare at each other in a sort of Mexican stand-off for a moment before I continue. ‘Well we have a wonderful selection of classical.’ My offer is met with slightly raised brows.
‘Actually I was looking for…’ then he pauses a moment. ‘Aren't you that girl from Languid Lounge? We met Saturday night.’
‘Yes.’
‘And last night, at the diner?’
‘Not sure,’ I shrug.
‘Are you following me?’
‘Well, I work here and you don't. So maybe it's you following me?’ I turn away and walk over to a poster that has left its Blu-Tack behind on the wall while trying to escape.
‘Sorry.’ He clears his throat. ‘I'm Mark.’
‘Okay. What do you want Mark?’
‘Nothing, I didn't know you worked here.’
‘I meant, what CD were you after?’
‘Oh,’ he stutters, ‘um, just loo
king for some Muse.’
After another few minutes of awkward conversation Mark finds what he is looking for. I point to the counter, where Michael is standing, and tell him goodbye.
‘Have a nice day.’ I beam, as though it is something I do all the time.
Mark is the last real customer we have for the day, or at least the only one who actually makes a purchase. In the absence of clientele, I tidy the shop as much as I can without taking away its grungy appeal. A music shop needs dirt and mess, or at least, this is what I tell Michael when he nags me.
I lean over the counter and open the paper to the ‘Seeking/ Wanted’ ads. I often think of placing an ad in there: ‘Girl seeking new head of hair and a sunny disposition.’
Most of the ads are pretty bland but there is one at the bottom of ‘services’ that catches my eye. It is written by a lady who insists she ‘would be the best cleaner in New York, if someone would just give me a chance'. The desperation appeals to me.
Maybe I could do with a cleaner.
I tear the ad from the page and stuff it in my pocket.
The afternoon gets no busier so Michael gives me an early mark.
It is raining heavily when I leave and I have no umbrella but I decide to walk the six blocks to my place anyway.
When I get home I pull the ad, which is now soggy, from my pocket and call the cleaning lady. We arrange for a trial clean. I am not sure really what we are trialling, but it seemed important to her, so I agreed. I have Thursday morning off work. She tells me this suits her also. I tell her my address, spelling it out several times, confirm the time and hang up.
Lecky arrives before the arranged time on Thursday morning and pushes her way into my hangover with a shrill but well-intentioned voice. I watch her smile disintegrate as she looks at my mess.
Two hours pass and Lecky is still cleaning. From the confines of her earphones a tinny tune escapes and fills the space like a mosquito I cannot catch. It bothers me but when Lecky smiles at my frown and asks for reassurance (again) that I am okay, I tell her that I am fine. ‘Just tired,’ I say. I think I see the beginnings of a frown crease her face, but then she smiles and returns her attention to the toilet bowl.
She takes her time, moving through the apartment methodically. Slowly I begin to see my broken life coming back together, resembling the old Lucy—the Lucy that didn't run away. I am scanning my newly-clean kitchen when Lecky approaches. I assume, to check on my welfare again. If this is what it is like to have a cleaner, I am not sure I want one. Cheaper than a psychologist, though. I breathe out the air that I have been holding when she holds up an envelope for display.
‘I find this,’ she says. ‘I leave it here,’ she offers, placing it on top of the TV. I nod mutely and continue to pick a pimple that has scabbed on my chin.
I lean over and take the letter, flipping it over in my hands, surveying the familiarity of the writing. I sniff it, but it just smells like paper. Sometimes Mum sprays her letters with perfume. Maybe she's given up on mine.
After three hours Lecky tells me she is done. As I get up, the beanbag tries its hardest to pull me back down. I struggle free and scan the apartment. It feels brand new. I like the result but not enough to pay for it, at least not again.
‘Thank you,’ I offer, doing my best to smile nicely. ‘But I am not sure I need a cleaner.’
‘Oh?’ She frowns. ‘You don't like?’
‘Yes, I like,’ I say, apparently not able to speak proper English anymore. ‘But I only work part-time. So I can't afford you.’ I pull a $50 bill from my wallet and push it in her direction. I am not really sure what is a ‘fair’ amount, so it will have to do. I thank her again and shuffle her towards the front door. She pauses and looks at me.
‘Why you ask me here?’ she frowns. She isn't angry, it is a frown I know all too well—she is disappointed.
‘I am sorry,’ I mouth, closing the door as quickly as I can, before she notices the tears that have begun to well in my eyes.
It is at least a day before I decide that I should open the letter that Lecky found. I pick it up several times and even place it in my bag to read on the subway. But the letter stays where Mum put it, slowly suffocating in its envelope until on Friday evening I take hold of it and plonk myself on my bed.
With a glass of wine biding its time on my side table, I slowly pull at the layers of tape Mum has used to seal it down. About halfway through I stop.
I need to get out of here, I need people around me.
Climbing off the bed I drag my coat over my shoulders, take my keys from the floor in the entrance and shuffle out the door.
When I get to Jack's Place I see Joe in the kitchen. I shuffle towards the back of the diner and slide into a booth. I sit, fiddling with the menu and wait for him to emerge.
Across the way in another booth I spot Casey, the waitress from my Sunday cafe, sitting in a blue-knit sweater reading a magazine. She looks up suddenly and I think she has spotted me. Her face falls into an open grin. I return the smile and wave a little, but I realise that it is not for me.
I follow the smile and notice that it was meant for Joe. As she returns her attention back down to her magazine she catches me in her sight. I swear the smile she gives me is even bigger than the one intended for Joe. She scrapes back her chair and walks over to me.
‘Can I join you?’
‘Sure,’ I say, smiling properly for the first time in a while. ‘Joe, is he your boyfriend then?’
‘Yeah, but we've only been together for a little while.'
‘Right.’
‘What's that?’ she asks pointing at my letter. ‘I hope I am not interrupting?’
‘It's nothing important. Just a letter from my mum,’ I say, sliding it back into my bag.
‘You two girls know each other?’ Joe asks when he comes to take my order. ‘You still coming tomorrow, Lucy?’
‘I think so. Are you coming Casey?’
‘She sure is,’ Joe responds.
‘Okay then, I'll come.’
When my food is ready I leave the diner, imagining what it will be like to spend a night out with Casey. She makes me think of Melissa. Both girls are in my head as I step out onto the pedestrian crossing that takes me to my block of brownstone flats. I walk out onto the part of the road that is painted like a zebra, without looking. A horn sounds and I am taken back to another time.
Melissa sits in the back of the car, I am in the front with Sara, who is at the wheel. Melissa is whining. ‘We should've taken a taxi,’ she says. ‘Shut up,’ I tell her. ‘Sara is trying to concentrate.’ Ahead of us the traffic lights turn orange. I think we can make it and so does Sara. Her foot presses the accelerator a little harder, she looks over at me and smiles.
I hear the horn again, in front of me the glare of headlights blind my sight, I realise I have stopped in the middle of the crossing. I go to run my fingers through my hair, the way I used to. But it's just not that simple anymore.
I return home from work on Saturday afternoon, throw my keys on the kitchen table and head straight for my wardrobe. There is not much in there that inspires me. Usually I am not too bothered by my lack of clothing options, and it has never struck me that perhaps it is all a little monotone and grungy. I settle on the only real colour I can find, a green button-up shirt, and my best jeans. I am even considering wearing a scarf, to impress Casey.
The hours seem to drag by until finally I can wait no longer. At 10 pm I walk out the door, looking as good as I know how to. I decide to head to Jack's Place and wait there.
It is busy when I arrive but I manage to find a booth to hide away in. I order a Coke from the waitress and sit, slowly sipping on it until I see Casey enter. I throw my hand in the air and wave spontaneously. Shaking herself out of her coat she slips through the crowd and comes to join me. As she slides into the booth I notice Mark standing nearby, staring at me.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
‘Could ask the same of you.’
‘I was here first, again.’ I am cut off by Casey who thinks that we must be friends. She literally bounces in her seat and asks us where we met.
‘Languid Lounge, but we're not really friends,’ I offer. ‘We just kinda keep meeting.’
Mark nods his head and slides into the booth beside Casey. He sits, mutely, sniffing and staring at me until finally Joe comes over and we are ready to go.
Languid Lounge is heavy with heat and noise when we arrive. I push my way past a few sweaty girls leaning against a pole trying to look cooler than they are, watching them as they throw flirtatious glances at Mark who follows me like a lost child. Reaching the bar I bark out a list of drinks to start the night. Casey catches up and squeezes in beside me, wrapping her arm around my waist like we are close friends. She smiles conspiratorially and whispers something in my ear about having a dance with her.
‘Let the boys get this,’ she says, taking my arm and pulling me towards the dance floor. As a general rule, I don't dance, but Casey is persuasive, and very attractive, and I like standing under the glare of her spotlight.
The night continues in this same fashion. There's more dancing than I am used to, but as shot after shot slides its way down the back of my throat I gradually get better at it.
We are all dancing when Mark moves towards me, pushes something into my hand and nods his head towards the bathrooms. Joe and Casey, who are wrapped around each other, barely notice our exit. We reach the bathroom doors. I push straight through to the boys'. Mark follows.
When we return to the dance floor I realise Snow White really knows how to dance—we move like electric whisks, in perfect unison. I am lost in the moves as a girl pushes me aside on her way to the bar. I stumble and fall to the ground. A foot digs into my back and another hits my calf as people trip over me. I wait for the next blow, wondering where it will get me this time.
I look forward to investigating the bruises in the morning. It is comfortable down here, I think I might stay and have a little nap. I close my eyes for a moment until I feel a hand wrap around my bicep. Slowly I rise to a standing position and notice that it is Mark's hand.
The Life You Choose and That Chose You Page 24