Love and Punishment

by Unknown

  This Christmas Day Francie imagined she’d be sitting on her bed with a bag of potato chips and a bottle of champagne, getting blind drunk. It seemed as good an option as any.

  Francie sat at her mother’s kitchen table looking at her salt and pepper shakers wrought in the likeness of a rooster, hen and yellow baby chicks in a plaster nest. Carol had taken complete leave of her senses and made pizza with fetta cheese, smoked salmon and capers!

  ‘I saw it on a cooking show,’ she said bashfully as she put the serving plate on the table. You can put all sorts of things on pizzas nowadays. Although you’ve got to draw the line at tandoori chicken. The base is Italian and the topping is Indian, and I don’t believe there’s any point in mixing them up. It just leaves all your guests confused.’

  And thanks for that, Martha Stewart.

  Joel and Vanessa were actually a very nicely matched couple. Joel was wearing a clean long-sleeved sweatshirt which hid his tattoos, and Vanessa sported a nose-ring. It was the first time Francie had ever met a psychiatric nurse with piercings. It was a first for Carol too. Francie entertained herself watching her mother desperately trying to avoid looking at Vanessa’s left nostril . . . and right eyebrow. Joel’s arm was at exactly the right height to drape over Vanessa’s shoulders. They looked good together, whatever that meant. Their hair was the same colour, they were both wearing jeans, they both . . . oh, what the hell! Who knew anything about how couples were made?

  Maybe Dave was right. Our need for love precedes our love for anyone in particular. No, that couldn’t be it. It just didn’t explain the legion of single women in their thirties who were dissatisfied and still searching for The One. And it certainly didn’t explain why she had rejected Dave.

  Joel had spent four months online getting to know Vanessa, and here they were now, sitting in the family kitchen, holding hands and beaming at each other under the watchful gaze of older sister and mother. It really was a very old-fashioned way to make a love match. If they’d been sitting around a table in Bombay, would it have been much different?

  They hadn’t even had sex. At least, Francie was presuming they hadn’t. Not unless they’d pulled over on the freeway on the way back from the airport and done it in the car. Francie observed them both carefully. What Joel had said was true, they did seem to know each other very well.

  ‘Mum, you’ll have to scrape the capers off for Vanessa. They make her feel sick.’

  ‘And this photo must be from when JoJo went on the student exchange to Japan in 1995.’

  Of course it was no surprise to Francie when Joel and Vanessa announced their engagement. But Carol! She got such a shock she hoiked up a caper which bounced off the plastic tablecloth and rolled across the carpet tiles and under a plant stand.

  ‘Oh my goodness! Pardon me!’

  Carol jumped to her feet and straightened her apron. She dabbed at her mouth with a paper serviette. ‘Engaged! Well, I have to say . . .’

  Uh-oh, here we go!

  ‘I’m thrilled for you both. Congratulations!’

  Francie was astonished by her mother’s reaction, and then she saw that Carol was almost paralysed with emotion. After the obligatory hugs and kisses all round, it took the three of them in the room to wrestle her back into her chair. When she was finally sitting in front of a celebratory glass of warmish champagne, which had been unearthed from the crystal cabinet and cooled with ice cubes, she regained some of her senses.

  ‘A wedding!’ Carol breathed.

  Francie knew that her mother’s mind was whirring with the possibilities. Flowers, frocks, tablecloths, gift registries, menus, crockery, cutlery, lights, camera, action! Francie knew her mother was thinking about all this because she was doing the same. She was her mother’s daughter, after all. And then mother and daughter alighted, simultaneously, on the one contentious issue—the guest list.

  ‘Dad and Denise will have to come,’ exclaimed Joel, thrilled with the notion. Thrilled with himself. ‘And Stella.’

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth Francie felt something crack. For twenty years the inhabitants of this house had never uttered the ‘D’ word. It was as if Joel had thrown a rock through the panel of a glasshouse and the cold air had come rushing in. In the ensuing silence—as they sat picking sharp splinters from their clothes; as Joel looked at his mother; as Vanessa looked uncomprehending; as Carol took a long look at the wall clock and registered that it needed dusting—Francie summoned up her courage.

  ‘Yes. Denise. Joel’s been to their place. It’s great, isn’t it?’ she said cheerily.

  Carol turned on Francie, her cheeks flushed an angry red. ‘I cannot believe you can sit here in this house and bring her name up as if it means nothing at all.’

  ‘Mum, it’s so long ago . . .’ Francie began.

  ‘It might be to you, Francie. It might mean nothing to you. But if you knew what that woman has done to this family.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mum, can you stop calling her that woman!’

  ‘Don’t swear, Francis. I don’t like it.’

  It was obvious that it wasn’t the swearing her mother objected to so much as the mention of Denise’s name. Francie could feel her own cheeks grow hot.

  ‘Her name is Denise McKenzie, Mum. She’s been married to your ex husband, our father, for two decades. She is my stepmother and Joel’s. And as for not knowing what she’s done to this family . . .’

  Carol was on her feet, hastily stacking dishes complete with uneaten pizza, and gathering knives and forks in a clattering heap.

  ‘Not in front of visitors,’ she huffed, and turned to march to the kitchen sink.

  Francie was duly admonished. Yes, of course, manners.

  ‘I’m sorry, Joel. I didn’t want it to be like this. Sorry, Vanessa . . .’

  Joel drew Vanessa closer to him to protect her from the gathering thunderclouds. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve told her about all of it anyway,’ he said.

  Vanessa dealt with the families of psychiatric patients all the time. She had the good sense to vacate the kitchen.

  ‘Is it OK if I go and check my emails in your room, Joel?’

  There was a polite moment as Vanessa collected her backpack, kissed Joel on the cheek and headed down the hall. Francie watched her go and reflected that she liked Vanessa. She liked her a lot.

  When it was clear she was out of hearing range, Francie took another deep breath. This conversation had been a long time coming. She stood behind her mother and watched her back bent over the sink, the bow of her apron neatly tied. Carol began her familiar, soothing ritual of squirting dishwashing liquid into the running water. It all said, go away, I’ve heard enough.

  ‘Mum, you have made it very clear, every single day since Dad left, what Denise is supposed to have done to this family. But maybe she hasn’t done anything. Maybe it’s all in your head. What are we going to say if Joel and Vanessa ever have a family? Here’s Grandma, Grandpa and that woman? It’s long enough now. Time heals all, you said. Christ! How much time do you want?’

  Francie saw her mother’s shoulders hunch at the taking of the Lord’s name in vain. A plate was ferociously banged in the dish rack as a rebuke. Francie was startled, but kept on.

  ‘Joel and I have known, every day of our lives, how hurt you were when Dad left. But we can’t pass your anger on to another generation. It can’t be this hereditary thing. I won’t let it be.’

  Carol hurled her yellow-handled dish mop into the soapy water and spun on her heels to face her daughter. Her face was a contour map of rage. She was in a place Francie hadn’t seen her venture for many years.

  ‘You don’t know, Francie! You don’t know what it felt like! You were both just children! How could you know?’

  Francie and Joel rolled their eyes at each other. Francie was nominated to continue.

  ‘He left me and Joel too, didn’t he? It wasn’t just you.’

  Carol grabbed a tea towel from its blue hook and pushed past Francie. She
was at the table now, brushing crumbs off the floral plastic cover into her trembling hand.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like to have people pointing at you. “Oh, there’s Carol McKenzie, the woman whose husband ran off with his young blonde secretary. What’s wrong with her?” And what chance did I have to make a new life with two little children? NONE.’

  Francie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You cannot be serious. You can’t still be blaming us for the fact that you’re single. You also said you’re supposed to become wiser. Listen to yourself! You haven’t learned anything. What’s wise about you?’

  Carol clenched her fist full of crumbs and fought to regain control of her emotions. It didn’t take long. She was an expert.

  ‘I’ve learned enough to know that romance is just a fantasy. I’ve told you. It’s just a silly illusion. It’s some modern invention which doesn’t actually work. Look at all the broken marriages out there. What’s the point of it all? Just rely on yourself. You’ll be a lot better off.’

  It was at this point that Joel at last chose to speak: ‘So what are you saying, Mum? That Vanessa and I shouldn’t get married?’

  ‘I’m saying . . .’

  He looked up at his mother and brushed the hair from his eyes. ‘Are you saying that I should stay here living with you? Watch you knit doll’s clothes, clean the house, watch bloody quiz shows on TV for the rest of my life? At least Francie’s out there taking a chance. Look at what you’ve built here! A fucking coffin for yourself. Full of pieces of SHIT!’

  Joel stood and snatched up the salt-and-pepper perfect poultry family and dashed it against a cupboard.

  ‘STUPID FUCKING KNICK-KNACKS AND PAINTED PLATES AND DOILIES AND VASES AND PIECES OF SHIT!’

  Carol darted for the dustpan and brush and when Joel blocked her way, stood instead and buried her face in her apron. Francie and Joel could hear her sobbing through the gingham. Francie moved to comfort her mother, but Joel caught her by the arm and held her back.

  ‘Joel . . .’ Francie was panicked. This was all her fault. Everything was getting out of control.

  ‘No, Frank, you’re right. It’s long enough. Dad left and I’m leaving too. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not bringing Vanessa into some weirdo eighties time warp. The two of you should talk. You know what I think.’ With that Joel stomped from the kitchen and down the hall to where Vanessa had taken shelter from the storm.

  Francie stood behind Carol and circled her arms around her mother’s heaving shoulders. She lay her face on her neat bobbed cap of hair.

  ‘Mum . . . it’s alright. We didn’t mean . . .’

  Carol lifted her head and Francie felt her mother’s body become rigid.

  ‘Goodness,’ she sniffed. ‘I really should clean up this mess.’

  Twenty-Five

  Francie’s mobile phone was ringing. She checked the time on her bedside clock. It was 7.30 am. Gabby was right on cue.

  ‘Thank you, Oprah, for this morning’s little sermon! At least it means I won’t have to go to church today. You know, I can forgive you for being a little sneak and going behind my back, but there’s one thing I can’t forgive you for, and that’s for depriving me of the pleasure of kicking your arse out the front door. You and I both know that changing an editor’s copy is a sackable offence, you—’

  ‘Fuck off, Gabby.’

  There! Francie had said it out loud at last. She snapped the phone shut, turned it off and threw it into the laundry basket.

  So there was at least one shore on which her message had washed up and then exploded like a stepped-on landmine. She was propelled from her bed, down the hall to the front door. She collected copies of the Sunday Press and the Sunday Star lying on the tiled terrace and darted back to her room.

  Francie retrieved the P.S. supplement and the rest of the papers followed her phone. After all, she didn’t work at the Press anymore and would never have to read the rags again.

  Her modest Seriously Single column was now a bloated beast disporting itself across a double-page spread. All the letters were in there. That was no surprise, since Francie had signed off on the pages herself. And then—Francie steeled herself to read it—there was her own letter.

  A Letter of Apology to Miss Poppy Sommerville-Smith.

  Dear Miss Sommerville-Smith,

  Although you have occupied my every waking thought and haunted my dreams for the past six months, we have never met. Like so many, I have admired your dedication to excellence in your chosen craft. I have watched you on the stage and on television and seen that you are a tremendously gifted woman. A person of substance and integrity.

  When my relationship of five years ended earlier this year and it came to light that you had taken up with my ex partner, I cast you as the villain in my private tragedy. I could only think of my situation as being a devastating loss. I felt that there had been a crime committed against me and that you were the perpetrator. You were the criminal and deserved to be punished.

  Driven by jealousy and anger I, in turn, committed a crime against you. I wilfully destroyed your property and in doing so caused you a great deal of distress. Even when faced with the consequences of my actions, seeing for myself the pain I had put you through, I still refused to take responsibility, and for that I am truly, truly sorry.

  The truth is that this has never been about you. How could it be? As I said, we have never met. It has been, it is now, all about how my life is unfolding, and what I need to learn to be a more loving and complete person.

  I have known, since I was a small girl, that falling in love comes with no guarantees. People change, they fall out of love, they die, they leave. What I have learned now is that we have to take our circumstances and have the courage to look deeply into them and see what can be learned.

  I have now had the chance to walk on the dark side of love. I feel that I have descended from the surface of the physical world into the underground of the soul. While this has been at times a frightening and lonely journey, I can see that in this shadow world there are many things to be discovered. It is as if I had entered a cave and ignited a small flame only to see jewels sparkling in the walls of rock in front of me.

  Where there was separation there is now independence. Where there was certainty there is surprise. Where there was invincibility there is vulnerability. Where there was the grief of death there is now the joy of resurrection. What was lost will be found. While none of us can ever know the unique path another soul is destined to take, you, Poppy, have become part of my journey. I feel as if you have been sent to me as a guide, to challenge me to reach a deeper understanding of my own nature.

  My life is a story of my own making. Whether it turns out to be a cautionary tale or a heroic myth is up to me. This letter is my way of absolving you of any responsibility for where my story leads me. As I said, I deeply regret any pain I have caused you and I ask your forgiveness.

  This is my last ‘Seriously Single’ column. Thank you to all my readers and correspondents for your indulgence during the past two years. I have had a brilliant time talking to all of you. You have constantly amazed, inspired and amused me.

  I hope every one of you finds happiness, with or without a person to share it.

  Love and goodbye, from Francie McKenzie

  Francie put a pillow over her head and tried to get back to sleep. In vain. By 9 am she had read her letter seven times and was reading it again when Johnno’s head appeared around the door.

  ‘Morning . . .’

  ‘Johnno! Hi, come in, come in.’ She sat up against her pillows and affected a breezy air. Johnno shuffled in the door and Francie smiled to see him. He was his usual dishevelled self in a holey grey Planet Ark sweatshirt and an old purple sarong. His hair looked as if it had been tortured with a cattle prod. Francie saw he was holding a copy of P.S.

  ‘I stayed the night here with Jess and just went out to get croissants and the papers,’ he explained. ‘I see you have yours. Mind if I sit dow
n?’

  ‘Sure. Sure.’ Francie smoothed a spot on the bed for him.

  Johnno sat down, barely rumpling the sheets. His frame was small, wiry, but it vibrated with an energy which couldn’t be ignored. It was almost electrical and disturbed the grid of every room he entered. While she didn’t always agree with everything he said, Johnno’s passion was unimpeachable. Francie could never recall him telling a lie. Or pulling a punch. No wonder he and Jessie had found each other. Each was searching for the truth in their own way.

  Francie breathed in. Stuck her chin out. So tell me, Doc. How’m I doin’?

  ‘I read it. You did a good thing . . . at last.’ Johnno saw Francie’s contrite face and was encouraged to go on and say the rest.

  ‘I’ve been so fucking mad at you! You cannot know the damage you caused. You can count yourself lucky I didn’t catch up with you in the last week because, honestly, Francie, I wanted to kill you!’

  Francie started fiddling with the edge of the sheet. ‘I know, I know,’ she murmured. ‘Was it, you know, really bad?’

  ‘YES! It was really, really bad! Nick has been out of his mind. Poppy has been almost suicidal. Not only did she have you trashing her stuff, but then she gets the blame for it! And whatever you think about her, you have exacted cruel and unusual punishment. You’ve asked for her forgiveness, but don’t expect that you’ll get it.’