‘Important not to interrupt the momentum you’ve got going, Rose.’
‘I’ve been driving for four hours, Roger!’ I blast him. ‘We’ve just dropped off a hitchhiker. I have to take my Mum home, and I have to see someone in hospital. If that is okay with you?’ I add sarcastically.
‘So what’s in all that for you?’ he yells straight back. ‘Dropping people off! Driving people home! Visiting the sick. Shit, Rose, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not a nurse!’
This hits my funny bone because I remember deciding I would be a nurse last summer. I can’t stop laughing and I turn to Mum who is looking even more bewildered.
‘Got to go now,’ I lie. ‘Call you tomorrow.’
‘Remember, you would be an absolute disaster as a nurse!’
‘Thanks Roger!’
‘So who is Ms Angst?’ Mum asks curiously.
‘Oh, it’s just . . . a silly nickname,’ I say, clicking my phone off and putting it back on the dashboard. I push down the blinkers. No way I’m going to tell her about writing for Sauce. Not tonight anyway. No doubt someone in my family will find out, one way or another, so I’ll explain when I have to.
We round the corner into Alfred Crescent. Our house looks dark and quiet from the street. The others aren’t back yet. Mum has always hated going home to an empty house. She never mentions it now, but . . . I feel for her as I pull up outside the front. It’s wrong that she should have to, I think. After nearly thirty years of being married she shouldn’t have to be alone like this. It makes me pissed off with Dad all over again.
‘So whoever it was calls you . . . Ms Angst?’ Mum frowns.
‘It’s a joke,’ I mumble.
She is quiet for a minute.
‘You are the only one of our children who we didn’t flip and flop about with trying to choose names,’ she says. ‘Right from day one you were Rose!’
I’d heard this before but it still has me flummoxed.
‘But what about now?’ I ask shortly. ‘Dorothy is more a Rose than I am! And I’m more a . . . Dorothy.’ My voice peters out. I know I must sound like such a dick. What the hell is a Dorothy meant to be like anyway?
‘Absolutely not!’ Mum says fiercely. ‘You are definitely Rose.’ She frowns, puts her hand out and runs it a couple of times over my stupid, hacked-off hair, not smiling or even looking at me. ‘You are my tough and shining Rose,’ she adds quietly.
My tough and shining . . . Rose!
‘Mum!’ I burst out laughing. ‘Roses are not tough and they don’t shine!’
‘Wrong!’ she says. ‘Roses are very tough. You’ve got to look after them, cut them back, water them and feed them, but if you do then they go on and on. They’re tough and in certain lights they shine.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well.’ I try not to sound as pleased as I feel. ‘You’re the gardener.’
‘That’s right,’ she slides open her door, ‘I’m the gardener. I know!’
I open the back of the van and help her get her things out and we walk together to the front gate.
‘You’re going to see her now?’ she asks lightly.
‘Yep,’ I nod and look away. They all know about my plan to see Zoe but I have deliberately played it down. What is the point of making a big deal out of something that might not work? A lot of time has passed. A lot has happened. With the best will in the world, it might not be such a good idea for Zoe and me to try to patch things up. You can’t make something dead come alive again.
We stop at the front gate. Mum puts down her bag.
‘Good luck then,’ she says, grabbing me by the shoulders and kissing me on both cheeks.
‘Thanks.’
‘Working in the café tomorrow?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’ve got one more day off.’
‘So why not stay here tonight?’ she suggests lightly, taking her bag from me. ‘After such a long drive, why go all the way out to Hurstbridge? Go see Zoe then come back here.’
‘Thanks. I might,’ I say shortly. ‘Bye Mum.’
I watch as my mother turns and begins to walk up the steps to the front door. Something sort of melts inside me as I watch her fiddling around with her key, and slipping it into the lock. She looks strong and purposeful and vulnerable all at the same time.
‘Hey Mum!’ I call out, without knowing what I want to say. She turns around and my insides heave to a halt again, because, right at that moment, in the dim light, she seems so utterly . . . special. Her hair falling out of her bun, all untidy. Her clothes crumpled and a bit grubby from the long trip. This expectant smile on her face as she waits for me to speak.
‘Thanks for coming with me,’ I call, ‘and . . . everything.’
‘Oh, Rose!’ She gives one of her airy laughs and a little wave. ‘Thank you, darling! Thank you so much for all the driving and for everything else, too. I absolutely loved it.’ Then she disappears inside.
I watch from near my van as the hall light is switched on and a flood of yellow light pours out onto the front porch, then the front rooms light up, too. A warm yellow glow spills from the kitchen window and I picture her walking through the house, switching on the lights, washing out the teapot, refusing to be mournful. Making the best of things. Seeing our house all lit up like that gladdens me somehow, makes me feel lucky. Even though I don’t live there any more.
When I get out of the lift on the eighth floor I’m feeling jumpy in the extreme. What if she’s changed her mind about seeing me? I should have rung. Told her I was coming tonight. What if she is too sick to talk? What if she tells me that she’s going to die? What do I say to that? How do I behave? What if her mother is here? Shit! I could make a run for it . . . right now.
But I seem to be stuck on autopilot. I cross to the desk and ask the nurse for directions. I walk off like a docile zombie down the white corridor. It smells of disinfectant, and it’s filled with shiny, complicated equipment and bustling staff, none of whom look like they’ve ever been confused about anything, ever, in their lives. From the young doctors with the stethoscopes around their necks to the smiling nurses, to the old, dark-skinned guy collecting used linen, they all know what to do in every situation. I’m sure of it.
I see the ward number on the half-open door and I’m suffused with panic all over again. What if . . .? But there is nothing for it now. I’ll have to go in.
Zoe is lying alone, eyes closed and earphones in, with two empty beds on either side of her. I stare. There she is, my ex-best friend. The same wild, dyed-blonde hair, broad brow and wide mouth but . . . thinner, I notice. I tip-toe in a little further. She’s in a white hospital gown and there is a drip hooked up to one arm. I move closer and she opens her eyes. They are exactly as I remember them from when I first saw her in Year Nine: startlingly bright, green and lovely, but now with what looks like a black shadow smudged all around them. Initially startled, her face soon breaks open into one of her smiles, and I am suffused with the feeling that it is absolutely right for me to be here.
‘Hey Zoe,’ I say softly. I’m standing quite a way back from her bed, waiting for her to give me a signal to come closer.
‘Rose,’ she pulls the earphones out, lifts up the arm connected to the drip and motions me forward. I notice a lot of bruising, all the way up from her wrist on the inside. ‘God, you look . . . wild,’ she murmurs wonderingly. I’m immediately bamboozled. Me? I look down at my ordinary old T-shirt and jeans and sandals, wondering what the hell she means.
‘Oh.’ I smile, running a hand across my head. ‘The hair.’
‘You do it yourself ?’ she asks approvingly.
‘Yeah,’ I admit ruefully.
‘God!’ she laughs admiringly. ‘I love it.’
‘Thanks.’
She motions to the end of the bed. ‘Take a pew, why don’t you?’ So I do. Up close I can see she’s pale and sick, that the black shadows around her eyes have nothing to do with make-up.
‘S
o . . .’ I begin, on the point of asking her how she’s feeling and what exactly is going on with her illness and treatment, but I . . . don’t. Some instinct tells me she doesn’t want to answer those kinds of questions. Instead I point to the earphones lying on the bed. ‘What are you listening to?’
‘You heard of Nunchukka Superfly?’ Her smile breaks out again when I shake my head, and she hands me the earphones.
‘Well, get a load, Rose! They’re fantastic!’
‘Okay!’
So that’s what we do. Listen to music and talk about it. Music and bands. Who is hot and who is not. All the goss we’ve heard around the traps, about what bands are breaking up and who is playing where and who has a new album out. Neither of us speaks about parents, or families or funerals. Nothing about sickness, or friendship either.
But after little more than half an hour I can see that she’s flagging, so I don’t stay long.
‘I’ll go now,’ I say, standing up. She nods. Her mouth trembles a little and I think she might be going to cry. But she doesn’t. She looks away towards the window and at the same time reaches for my hand.
‘You’ll come back?’ she asks, holding on tightly. There is a self-mocking smile around her mouth, but her green eyes are deadly serious.
‘Of course I will,’ I say.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow?’
Her face relaxes, she nods and we say goodbye.
I’m fine going down in the lift with all the other people. I feel relieved and pretty much on top of things, like the whole visit worked out way better than could be expected. I walk through the hospital foyer, past the raffle stand and the florist, and then past the café. The smell of coffee and food reminds me that I’m ravenous. I stop and walk in but see straightaway that they’re closing up. There isn’t much left to eat except some old sandwiches, curling up at the edges. I decide I might as well wait till I get back home.
On the way out through the front doors I see the ‘Ladies’ sign and I think, Oh yeah, I need the toilet. So I go in there and push my way into a cubicle. I close the door. I undo my jeans, sit down and . . .
And then I crash into a heap. I cry and cry and . . . cry. So much so that it feels like it’s never going to end.
Fuck this! I think angrily as I grab another handful of toilet paper to soak up my streaming eyes and nose. What is this about? Last time, at least I knew that kid’s mother was dying! There was a reason. I don’t know anything about what’s going to happen to Zoe. Maybe it’s all going to be fine. They might be expecting her to get completely better and go on to live a long, happy life. So until I find out otherwise . . . cut the drama queen crap!
But I can’t seem to. I keep seeing that drip sticking into her, and the half-filled, soft plastic bottle above. I see the big black bruises running up and down the insides of her arms. I see her, lying alone in that strange bed, in her white hospital gown with her bright eyes and her wide hopeful smile and . . . it just brings me undone. It makes me want to howl like a dog for the rest of my life.
Eventually I venture out of that cubicle, wash my face and dry it with a few pieces of rough paper towelling, trying not to meet the eye of a girl about my own age who is talking into her mobile phone. She must have heard me crying because she breaks off her conversation to watch me a moment.
‘You okay?’ Her voice is full of fake concern.
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ I mutter. She starts applying mascara and then lipstick while she talks, checking me out surreptitiously all the while, like I’m some kind of freak who might do something dangerous any moment. I splash more cold water on my face, dry off again and straighten my shoulders.
She is applying gloss now. One layer and then another, and another! She twists this way and that, preening in front of the mirror. Checking out how flat her stomach is and how far her bum sticks out and how much of her boobs are on show. I head for the door, yelling at her in my head. I might be a freak, but I’ll bet anything I’m a more interesting freak than you are . . .
It is a relief to get out of the hospital and into the soft, still evening but all that crying has left me disoriented. I’ve come out on the other side of the building and I panic momentarily. Where am I again? Where the hell did I leave the van?
Then I recognise the Royal Parade and Grattan Street corner, and I relax and start walking, feeling clearer with every step. I reach the van and try to decide where to go. I’m starving. It would be so easy and convenient to head back to Fitzroy, raid the fridge and stay the night. But something tells me not to. Something tells me to sit still with my lonely life for a bit longer. My mother and sisters want me and Zoe to be unknotted and ironed out and put back in place as soon as possible. Fair enough, but I don’t know if that’s going to happen, or even if it’s possible. If I go back to Fitzroy tonight then I know I’ll be in for an interrogation session like no other. They’ll come flying in from all corners of the house, desperate for news, full of all kinds of advice and arguments. I smile to myself as I unlock my van. I don’t need questions and comments or advice tonight. My family can wait.
I get in and start up the engine, then notice my phone pulsing red. Someone has rung and left a message. I pick up the phone and click the button and wait, still smiling to myself as I try to guess who it will be. One of my sisters for sure! I can predict the message too.
Hi Rose! Just wondering how you got on with Zoe. Call us.
Hi Rose! Just want to check if you’re coming back here tonight and . . .
But it is a male voice. I’m puzzled at first, because whoever it is doesn’t identify himself and I don’t immediately recognise the voice.
‘Hey Rose! I’ve been wondering about the girl who sings on her bike. She still around? Call me. I’ve moved house. New number . . .’
It takes me longer than it should. But when the penny drops, I replay it again and again.
After all this time, after all the shit that has gone down . . . this one is truly a surprise.
Suddenly I am wild with delight, jumping out of my skin, picturing him at the funeral in that daggy suit of his father’s and the warm smile. ‘G’day Rose!’ Whatever is rushing around my system feels like it might be dangerous so I turn the van off, get out again, lean up against the bonnet and try to calm myself by checking out the stars. But it’s hopeless. You can’t see much at all in the city.
I take a few deep breaths and get back in again and fire up the engine.
There is no one home in the Hurstbridge house, so I bounce in and switch on a few lights. I go to the kitchen and unpack the things I bought on the way home – bread and butter, cheese and apples – and start making myself a few toasted sandwiches. When they’re under the griller I look around the funny little kitchen. It pleases me that someone has cleaned up a bit and bought milk while I’ve been away. Must be Barry. Stuttering Stan doesn’t drink milk. Hey, things might be on the improve.
When everything is ready I take my supper to my room at the front of the house. I open the door and stand a moment. Every single thing is as I left it. A straight, well-made bed, a neat desk, a chair and one of those collapsible canvas wardrobes, with six little cubicles down the side for undies and folded things. There is no print on the wall, or rug on the floor, or cushion. The only real splash of colour is the navy and pink floral bed cover. It suddenly amuses me to see the dozen books from the library stacked so neatly in their separate piles on the floor by my bed: fiction, non-fiction, crime, school texts. My shoes, too, are lined up like soldiers under the window waiting for orders, and my clothes hang in sober straight lines from the flimsy railing. All very commendable, but for some reason part of me wants to mess it all up tonight. Somehow I don’t feel like the same girl who went to great trouble to get her room looking like this before she went away.
I decide there might be a better use for this wild burst of energy than messing up my room, so I settle myself down at my desk. Why not have a go at making Roger’s morning deadline?
I pull the scraps of paper from my pockets and bag, those few notes that I made while I was away, and start reading through them, wondering if there is anything that I can use.
Don’tcha just hate the way . . . There are half a dozen of them and some have distinct possibilities, but not one of them feels urgent. I know if I’m going to work all night, then that is what I need. It’s got to sing out and beg to be written.
At that point, I start mucking around with a different start.
Don’tcha just LOVE the way life messes you around! One minute you’re on the fast track to success, sure as hell you’ll get there, and then . . . wham! It tosses you off course and you’re flailing around like a piece of stray gunk from an old, rusty fishing trawler. You surface, gasping, half blind. What’s the point? you ask. Friends let you down. Your family drives you nuts. Your career is so far off the rails it doesn’t matter and . . . even your name seems like a sick joke! For years you’ve wished you’d been called something different.
Then something happens and you suddenly see it from a different angle. You start appreciating it. You start loving it. Once that starts, you’re away. It’s like being on a wave. You hook into the swelling energy below and start gliding. Nothing can stop you now . . .
Ah shit! Roger will have a fit if I go down that track. He’ll be howling like a dog. Crying for mercy. Come on, Rose! I can hear him shouting down the phone at me. Where is the spite? Where’s the venom? Sauce doesn’t do . . . nice! Do I want to stay up all night working on something he’s going to chuck right back in my face? I sigh and put the pen down, stand and have a long stretch. Well . . . I’d better think about that one.
I go into the grimy bathroom and check on the rate of hair growth since this morning. Miniscule. Damn. Why did I do it again?
The girl who sings on her bike!
He was probably just being nice at the funeral when he said my stupid hair was okay. Anyway okay isn’t good, is it? It’s not fantastic or pretty or beautiful. It’s not overwhelming in any way. I turn this way and that, trying to see it from his point of view. Guys don’t like girls with weird haircuts like this . . . Do they?
Rose by Any Other Name Page 29