The reason I felt ill was because of the meds. ‘I might need the antidepressants but not the antipsychotics.’
‘If you stop the antipsychotics, you will have a relapse of symptoms.’
I frowned and crossed my arms.
‘We recommend medication be taken for at least a year or two after recovering from a first psychotic episode.’
One-size-fits-all for everybody. Straight from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
Aimi returned her glasses to her face. ‘But this wasn’t your first episode.’
Touché. I took a deep breath and sat up straighter in my comfy chair. ‘I’ve been hospitalised three times in twenty-one years.’
‘There’ve been several other times when you’ve been unwell.’
‘The first time in hospital, they didn’t even say “psychosis”. They didn’t know what was wrong with me. I’ve seen the report. The second time was when I burned my hands at Broken River Road — who wouldn’t have been psychotic? I was only eighteen.’
‘That must have been very traumatic.’
‘And the last time,’ my face felt hot, ‘I don’t even know what happened.’
‘It’s OK to feel upset, Sidney.’
I pressed my lips together and looked at the painting on the wall: an abstract seascape with white mat board and black frame.
‘About a third of people have one psychotic episode and it’s never a problem again. Another third have one or two more episodes. And for the final third, like you, it’s episodic — a lifelong problem. You know that.’
I looked back at her, bristling at the word problem. And what about the ones who didn’t recover, who never returned from the tea party? Which fraction of the pie chart did they fit into?
‘Think of it as like driving a car.’ Aimi rolled a white pen that some medical rep must have given her — I couldn’t catch the brand name — back and forth on the edge of her desk. ‘If you have a crash, the medication is your seatbelt.’ She pushed the pen off her desk. It landed on the red section of the tapestry rug.
‘I don’t drive.’ I picked up the pen and handed it back to her.
‘Whether you’re the driver, or a passenger —’
‘Christos and I have been talking about getting pregnant, and I’m worried about the risk to a baby.’
Aimi smiled patiently, and then rattled off some risk and benefit stats.
‘Yes, I know all that, but there’ve been relatively few studies done, so we don’t really know. I couldn’t live with myself if …’ I bit my bottom lip.
‘We’ll review your medication later, sooner if you were to fall pregnant. For now, the benefits outweigh the risks.’ She was speaking slightly faster, a fissure of frustration in her composure. She clicked the button on her pen. ‘Can you rate your mood out of ten, where zero is as bad as it gets and ten is the best you’ve ever felt?’
Always a tricky question. Four, five at the most — not good, not bad. Work; my bonsai; sleeping a lot; afternoon tea with Christos’s mother, Sophia; routine sex with Christos; his firefighting stories. I blamed the flat line of banality on the medication, but it was probably just life, the same for everybody.
Aimi tapped a foot, ever so slightly, waiting while I thought about my answer.
Not too low (or she’d increase my antidepressant dose), not too high (or she’d sedate me). ‘Six.’
I looked up at the old train-station clock — possibly original — on the wall while Aimi printed my prescriptions.
On the way out, she handed me a brochure about psychotropic medication in pregnancy and lactation, with a woman smiling and cuddling a baby on the front. I dropped it into a bin on the street.
I PUFFED past the community garden and waved to the woman from the cleaning service carrying a pile of white towels into the townhouse on the corner. Christos had said a young professional couple lived there, but I hadn’t seen them yet.
I leaned on our green iron gate, catching my breath. The girl from next door was sitting on her front step, in her school dress and sweater, playing on her phone. I had seen her a few times — she was always rushing inside — but we’d never spoken. Our semi-detached townhouses were mirror images except mine was finished with red brickwork while hers was porridge-coloured render and missing a security-screen door.
She looked up, shading her eyes. Sunlight threaded gold through her auburn ponytail. ‘I’m just waiting for my mum.’
I nodded, underestimated the extra fat on my hips, and knocked into the rubbish bin inside the gate. Waddling up the steps, I remembered how Pop used to describe women with my physique: ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.
The kitchen was sparkling clean but smelled of cigarette smoke. A plate of almond biscuits sat on the bench. Sophia had been here. I plonked my handbag on the table and turned on the air conditioner.
Upstairs in the bedroom, I peeled off my gloves, changed into shorts and T-shirt, and opened the blind. The girl from next door was still sitting on her step. She must have been hot.
I pulled my gloves on again, went back out front, and called, ‘You can come over here and wait for your mum if you like.’
She considered her black Mary Janes before pocketing her phone and standing up. She ambled across, giant bag bending her forward like a wilting tulip.
Up closer, I could see a smattering of acne on her forehead, which she’d tried to cover with an orange-based concealer, now melting. She was a sliver shorter than I. Fourteen, maybe fifteen? ‘Hi, I’m Sidney.’
‘Like the city?’
‘No. With an i.’
She smiled as though she’d finally gotten a joke. ‘I’m Aubrey. A–U–B–R–E–Y. Both our parents were lazy and dumb and, like, just picked names off a map, but spelled them wrong.’
The meds had made my mind mush and it took a moment to work out what she meant. I laughed; I was the punchline she’d been waiting for.
Aubrey blushed and looked at her feet again. ‘Plus they’re both boys’ names. They must have wanted boys.’ She scuffed a toe. ‘Mum’s late home from work and I can’t find my key.’
‘Probably stuck in traffic. She’ll be here soon.’
Aubrey looked up. Big amber eyes. Eyes that would sometimes be resin brown, sometimes snake yellow, and sometimes almost green. Her right brow flickered; she was probably thinking the same thing I was — that you don’t often meet somebody with the same weird eye colour. Alien colour, was how a shop assistant had once described mine. Chartreuse, Mr Haigh, my Year 10 English teacher, had said. They must have come from my dad — my mother, Faye, had Pop’s Danish blue eyes.
Not happy eyes. A whiff of BO and green apple — shampoo? — trailed Aubrey as she entered the house.
In the kitchen, I poured her a glass of water and told her to put her bag down. There was a black pompom-spider bag-tag attached to one of the handles. I offered Sophia’s biscuits.
‘No thanks.’
I found a bag of ‘lite’ popcorn in the pantry.
‘Cool. My mum never buys processed food.’
‘I’ve got some organic carrots in the fridge if you’d prefer.’
She shook her head. ‘These are cute,’ she said, looking at my collection of miniature pottery houses — replicas of Tasmanian buildings — on the faux-weathered-timber shelf that Christos had constructed with more plastic than wood. ‘They look like gingerbread.’
‘That one’s Customs House in Hobart.’
‘Did you get them in Tassie?’
‘No. Op shops and eBay.’
‘Been there?’
‘Tasmania? No. I’ve always wanted to, but my husband says it’s too cold.’
‘Why don’t you go without him?’
I shook the popcorn into a bowl. ‘Maybe one day.’
There was an awkward silence;
I wasn’t used to talking to young people. I tried to think of what I’d liked doing when I was Aubrey’s age. ‘What are you reading?’
She looked at me blankly.
‘Which book?’
‘I don’t like reading.’
‘How can you not like reading?’
‘Most people get lost in a book, but I just can’t.’
I carried the popcorn into the living room.
‘Any brothers or sisters named after other places?’ Aubrey said as we sat on the sofa.
‘No. I’m an only child.’
‘Same,’ she said through a mouthful of popcorn. ‘Why don’t you take your gloves off?’
‘Why are you wearing a sweater in this heat?’
‘I’m not hot.’
I frowned. ‘My hands are weird.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re deformed.’
‘Were you born like that?’
‘No. Burned them when I was young.’
‘Bad?’
‘Pretty badly. Full thickness, third degree.’
Aubrey stopped shoving popcorn into her mouth, and openly scrutinised my left hand, the sewed-over glove corner. ‘The little finger?’
‘Amputated.’
She sucked in her breath — salacious horror. ‘Can I see?’
‘No.’ I handed her the TV remote from the coffee table.
An obese contestant in black shorts and singlet — Lindy, a stay-at-home mum from Queensland — stepped on The Biggest Loser’s giant scales. The screen behind her bleeped and showed Lindy had lost 3.2 kilos! She punched the air and was cheered by her fellow contestants and two attractive trainers. Josh — a crane operator from Victoria — whipped off his singlet and stepped up next. Oh, no — wide eyes, open mouths covered in shock — Josh had gained 1.3 kilos.
‘Bet your mum doesn’t approve of this,’ I said.
‘We only watch ABC or SBS at our house.’
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘This is stupid. Most of the weight loss would be water. And muscle weighs more than fat, so he’s being penalised for losing fat and gaining muscle.’
‘Are you, like, a nutritionist?’
I shook my head.
‘Wish I could go on there, but I bet you’ve gotta be eighteen.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I’ll be fourteen in three months.’
‘Why would you want to go on there?’
She shrugged and pushed aside the bowl of popcorn.
I looked at her properly. She had a strong, healthy physique, puberty softening the edges.
‘Mum says I need to do more exercise and eat less or I’ll end up like my dad.’
I bit my lip, thinking that I’d like to go over and slap Aubrey’s mother when she got home. I’d seen her hurrying to and from next door — a tall, strawberry-blonde stick in skinny work suits or colourful gym gear.
I wanted to brush back the strands of hair that had escaped Aubrey’s ponytail and tell her she was beautiful, but I knew she wouldn’t hear. ‘I’m the one who needs to go on The Biggest Loser.’ It was a stupid thing to say. Saved by the bell — my phone in my bag. I didn’t get to the kitchen in time, but it rang again immediately.
Christos. Breathless. ‘Are you at work?’
‘No. Left early for my appointment with the new shrink.’
‘Thank God.’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘Some bloke’s driven a truck up the footpath in Collins Street, run over a heap of pedestrians. Crashed outside your work. City’s in lockdown.’
‘What?’
‘Coppers dunno if there’s anything else going on, so just stay in the house, all right?’ Sirens and people shouting in the background. ‘Gotta go. Be home as soon as I can. Love you, Sid.’
Another call came through as I walked back into the lounge room. Sophia. ‘Sid, my darling, you home safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘I look at the news on telly, oh my God. I try to ring Christo but not get through.’
‘He’s fine, I just spoke to him. Why don’t you come around here?’
‘I go to the bowls club with Tina tonight.’
I heard her light a cigarette. ‘OK. See you tomorrow, then?’
‘Yes, darling.’
Aubrey frowned and bit her bottom lip.
‘Something’s happened in the city.’ I picked up the remote and flicked channels until I found some news.
A studio newsreader in a grey blazer and gold tie said, ‘A man driving a red-and-white prime-mover truck ran down several pedestrians, killing three people and injuring thirty, before crashing outside the Anpat-Enlaw building.’
Footage rolled on the screen behind the newsreader: a truck outside Parliament House, followed by a police chase through the central business district.
‘Among the four people killed were a man in his twenties, a woman in her forties, and a child. Ten people have been taken to hospital with life-threatening injuries, including a six-month-old baby.’
‘Oh my God, that’s my work. I was just there before …’ I gaped at the TV, unable to quite take it all in.
Visuals — CCTV from a Collins Street shop, terrified pedestrians running inside as the truck sped past, pedestrians and debris on the street — took over the screen and the newsreader continued as a voice over. ‘The driver died at the scene. He was seen earlier releasing the trailer from his truck outside St Patrick’s Cathedral, and filmed shortly before the attack driving erratically around Parliament House. The Homicide Squad, Major Collision Investigation Unit, and …’
‘Shit,’ Aubrey said.
A frozen image, close up, of a baby’s broken bottle lying in the gutter filled the frame before cutting back to the newsreader in the studio. ‘To recap,’ the newsreader said, ‘at least four people are confirmed dead and a baby is critical in hospital after a police pursuit in the city through busy Collins Street. Melburnians are advised to avoid the central business district while police conduct an investigation into the incident. Terrorism has not been ruled out …’
I turned down the sound and asked as calmly as I could, ‘Where does your mum work, Aubrey?’
She was staring at the screen — the baby’s broken bottle in the gutter again, a wider shot this time, with the police-taped ghost town of a city framing it. ‘Carlton.’
‘Why don’t you give her a call?’
She nodded and took out her phone. There were fuzzy spiders with anime eyes on the cover.
I paced the room as I called Dee at LOC, my hands shaking. Everybody on our floor was accounted for and safe, but nobody was allowed to leave or enter the building.
‘Did you get onto your mum?’ I sat back on the sofa.
‘Went straight to voicemail.’
‘She’ll call back in a minute.’
There had been at least ten updates, revealing nothing new, of the Collins Street news by the time Christos thumped through the front door. Aubrey jumped up as if she’d been doing something wrong. I let Christos hug me as he mumbled of horror. He smelled sweaty; his breath was dehydrated. He asked who my friend was.
‘I’m Aubrey, from next door,’ Aubrey answered for herself. She glanced at me as the big firefighter shook her hand and introduced himself.
‘Aubrey’s mum’s running late, so she’s been waiting here.’
‘What kind of car does your mum drive, Aubrey?’ Christos asked.
‘A Skyline.’
‘Silver?’ Christos was looking at me instead of Aubrey. ‘I think I just saw her pull up.’
‘Thanks for having me.’ Aubrey shouldered her bag and headed towards the door.
‘Any time.’ I followed, flicked on the porch light, and watched the green-apple girl amble — shoulders slumped, eyes downcast �
�� home.
Christos was behind me, rolling a cigarette.
‘Was it a terrorist attack?’
‘Nah. Some,’ he hesitated, ‘mentally ill bloke shouldn’t have been discharged from hospital.’
‘You OK?’
He nodded and said he was going to make a stir-fry for dinner.
CHRISTOS AND I are at a barbecue. He points to a man leaning against the fence. The man is wearing a baseball cap and talking to Gareth Maher from back home. The man is middle-aged and thin; there’s not much swagger in his walk as he crosses the yard towards me, removing the cap. Dean Cola! I ask where he’s been and he tells me he’s had cancer, has been through chemo but is OK now. He is married with two children. Then we are slow-dancing. I slide my arms around his waist and my hands, unscarred, into his back pockets. An aura the colour of Fruit Tingle lollies — chalky gold with a fairy-dusting of pastels — powders around him. We kiss. I am aware that I’m dreaming and this is wrong, but regret and longing gape in me like a wound. So wrong. I hold him closer, closer, aching to fill the empty space.
Christos was moving behind me. I lay as still as I could, breathing quietly, feigning sleep. My nose was itchy. Unbearably itchy. I twitched it, but it didn’t help. Slowly, carefully, I slid my hand up from under the sheet to scratch it. Not carefully enough. An arm the size of a small tree trunk fell across my chest; big fingers fumbled under my nightie for my nipple. I twisted, and scrunched my shoulders forward, edging his hand away. I could bear his cock inside me, but having my body touched (by anybody) was almost intolerable — it gave me a feeling under my skin like cold worms in dirt. Over the years, I had stopped feeling guilty for being unable to love Christos physically like I should, and he didn’t seem to mind. He’d be making his pufferfish face against my back. I gritted my teeth and my hands found each other under the pillow. The right hand was less damaged; it could feel the left, and held it tight. Moonlight, or streetlight, leaked around the blind, illuminating the edges of the ceiling fan as it beat time with the slapping of flesh. Dean Cola, the fan seemed to say. Dean Cola, a flash of light on the blade; Dean Cola, light on the blade; Dean Cola, light.
When Christos was snoring evenly, I slipped out of bed. A dizzy spell — a withdrawal symptom of decreasing my meds. I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or two until the room stopped spinning.
All That I Remember About Dean Cola Page 2