Spring Clean for the Peach Queen

by Sasha Wasley

  She released me and glanced at Angus as though she expected me to hug him, too. I chickened out, not meeting his eyes.

  ‘Catch you later,’ I said, mostly to him.

  ‘Bye,’ he returned, seeing and raising my discomfort.

  In the city, there was always something open on Christmas Day, even if it was just a corner deli. In Bonnievale, every business was closed. Even the co-op. My sudden panicked urge to buy everyone Christmas presents on a total budget of twenty bucks was pipped at the post. It was a bit of a relief, because the presents would have sucked and I would have had literally nothing left in my purse.

  Hell, I really needed to get a job.

  I arrived at my parents’ place just before ten. It was unusually tidy: the chaotic desk my parents had always used for the Rabbit’s Foot paperwork was gone from the front room, the carpet where it had stood slightly darker than the rest of the floor. I was reminded of my grandmother’s front room – neutral and extremely clean. The rest of the house matched. Elizabeth, still in her pyjamas on the couch, was the only untidy thing in the living room. A big mug of coffee rested on her comfortable thighs and an open box of chocolates sat next to her feet on the coffee table.

  ‘Is that breakfast?’ I said.

  ‘You know it. It’s Christmas!’ She tossed me a gold-wrapped truffle.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Lottie.’ Dad enveloped me in his signature big, firm hug with a kiss planted on the top of my head. He pulled back and examined my face, his eyebrows pulling together. ‘What’s this?’ He touched the fading bruise on my cheek.

  ‘Oh, it’s okay. I just took a tumble.’

  Mum appeared, tablecloth in hand, her face expressionless. ‘Hello, Lottie. Merry Christmas.’

  Left with no other choice, I approached her for a Christmas greeting. She rested a hand on my arm as we placed light, careful kisses on one another’s cheeks like distant relatives. She turned away immediately and flapped the green cloth out across the dining table. Elizabeth met my eyes and tossed me another chocolate.

  ‘We’ve already done the prezzies,’ she said casually, then mouthed ‘sorry’ at me.

  I shot her a carefree smile, audition face on. ‘I’m broke, anyway.’

  ‘I got you something.’

  Elizabeth rolled over and snatched a gift bag off the coffee table. Inside was a little sample kit of designer perfumes. I didn’t dare tell her I’d thrown out several bottles of exactly the same fragrances just a few weeks back.

  ‘You remembered all my favourite brands,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Lizzy.’

  I hugged her because it was the perfect gift for the previous incarnation of Lottie, and that touched me. Dad handed me a coffee and I sat down with Elizabeth to gaze at Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé on a Christmas special. My thoughts wandered to Angus’s windchime, his face as I thanked him. As much as I’d wanted those old-Lottie things to be burned and gone, they’d survived two bonfires, morphing into strange new objects. The fact that Angus had returned to collect them, drilled holes into them, and turned them into something beautiful, made me feel very odd. Good-odd. It was the perfect gift for the new incarnation of Lottie. And Mrs Brooker’s handmade doilies were, as well. It was amazing that she remembered how much I had admired them.

  ‘Hey, Lizzy,’ I said to my sister.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’ve worked with old people, right?’

  ‘In geriatrics? Yep.’

  ‘Would someone with dementia forget, for example, that she bought a present for a close family member, but be able to remember someone’s remark from a few weeks ago?’

  ‘Jesus, that came out of left field. Yeah, maybe. The one thing that sticks out with dementia patients is how inconsistent the disease is. There was one woman I remember; she’d be sharp as a tack one second, explaining in fine detail why the potatoes her grandmother used to make were so much better than the hospice dinner potatoes. And fifteen minutes later, she was swearing blind she hadn’t even been served dinner yet.’

  ‘Is that all it does? Makes people forget things and get mixed up?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘People with dementia die early.’

  My throat got tight. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, Lottie, I’m sure.’ She studied me. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Why do they die?’ I pressed her. ‘It’s a mental disease, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a degenerative brain disease, so it affects other types of brain function, too – not just thinking. Movement, swallowing food, sleep patterns. Dementia patients don’t often last long. They’re prone to infections, pneumonia, blood clots – even dehydration and malnutrition.’

  ‘How long after they get it have they got to live?’

  ‘Well, it varies, but in my experience, a few years after diagnosis. Up to ten, I reckon.’

  ‘Here, Lottie.’ Dad placed a big gift box on my lap.

  ‘Oh! Thank you.’ I lifted the cover. It was full of cans, packets and snacks.

  ‘I know you’re not too flush with funds at the moment,’ he said. ‘Thought these might come in handy. I paid your bill at the vet, too.’

  ‘Dad! You shouldn’t have done that. I was working on it.’

  ‘I could see you wanted to pay it off so I figured that was a good Chrissy present for you.’

  I glanced at Mum where she was making a couscous salad to go with the duck breasts. She didn’t look up. Dad gave me a wry smile as though to say, She’s still not ready. I shoved the box aside and jumped up to hug him hard.

  ‘You’re the best. The absolute best.’ He squeezed me back with a chuckle. ‘I can put this food in the Brookers’ pantry as rent. They’ve been amazing. The caravan bunk collapsed, so they’re letting me stay in the spare room.’

  ‘Pris said you helped Caroline clear out the spare room,’ Dad said.

  My sister laughed. ‘Since when does Lottie clean?’

  ‘I’m a dynamo with the Kondo method,’ I said. ‘I cleared out my room here, too.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Elizabeth said.

  She looked suddenly awkward and Dad collected the wrapping debris. I grew suspicious. As soon as I’d finished my coffee, I went down the hall, ostensibly to use the toilet. I opened my bedroom door and peeked inside.

  Oh.

  It was no longer my bedroom. The bed had been replaced by two desks, one with a laptop and the other with a stack of papers. A filing cabinet had moved in. My pink curtains with gold tasselled tiebacks were gone, and in their place hung pale-grey venetian blinds. I opened the wardrobe. The shelves were stacked with paperwork and stationery. They’d converted my bedroom into an office. Mum had moved me out, permanently.

  She had decluttered my room and clearly nothing about me had given her a spark of joy.

  I returned to the living room and watched Alicia Keys and Chris Brown perform. Grandma, who lived an hour away in Wallabah, turned up just before midday, smelling of Avon. She commented that I looked very casual, didn’t I, and chided Elizabeth for still being in her sleepwear. Elizabeth went to get changed and Grandma perched on a kitchen stool in salmon pedal pushers and a silver-studded blouse. Dad poured her a glass of sweet wine.

  ‘Thank you, Richard.’ Grandma observed my mother lifting a tray out of the oven. ‘No turkey, Penelope?’

  ‘I thought we’d do something different.’

  ‘You should have told me,’ said Grandma. ‘I could have made a turkey. You at least have a ham, though, don’t you?’

  Mum basted the duck pieces, a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. ‘No ham. It’s seafood cocktails, then duck breast with some salads, and a pavlova for dessert.’

  Grandma was aghast, just as she was every time Mum tried to introduce something different to our Christmas Day fare. ‘No cooked dinner, Penny? It’s not really Christmas without a traditional dinner.’

  ‘The duck breast is cooked.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Grandma heaved a sigh. ‘Well, you’d think I’d be us
ed to slapdash Christmases after all these years. When I was a girl, we got dressed up nicely for Christmas Day – frocks, or at least a skirt, with our hair done up. And no matter how hot it was out, there was always, always a real Christmas dinner.’

  Dad, partway through refilling Grandma’s wineglass, cast Mum a quick look. ‘The duck smells fantastic. I reckon you’ll love it, Jean,’ he added to my grandmother.

  ‘Oh, I have no doubt it will be delicious. It’s just not quite Christmas dinner, is it?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s fun to break a tradition,’ I ventured.

  The look Grandma gave me told me she knew all about what had happened in my recent past – and that I had thus forsaken any right to give my opinion on what constituted a family Christmas. There was gang-up potential here, with two of my older female relatives pissed off at me. I slunk away and adjusted the cutlery and napkins on the table.

  Grandma had downed almost three glasses of Moscato by the time lunch was served. It made her slightly less grumpy, but also more outspoken. We sat down together, cracked the bon-bons and donned our colourful paper hats, then read aloud and groaned at the jokes. We ate my mother’s meal. She’d obviously put in a lot of effort and it was delicious.

  ‘Yum,’ said Elizabeth, helping herself to more of the couscous and chickpea blend.

  ‘Restaurant quality meal, Mum,’ I said, putting some duck on my fork with her root vegetable salad.

  She glanced up, a smile starting on her lips before she remembered she was angry at me and turned the smile into a nod.

  ‘Yes, delicious,’ Grandma agreed. ‘The sauce on the duck is very nice.’ She sighed. ‘I do miss a cooked dinner, though.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Mum,’ my mother said, cracking at last.

  Grandma bristled. ‘I didn’t say I don’t like it, Penny – quite the opposite.’

  ‘Can I serve you anything, Grandma?’ I tried to defuse the situation. ‘Spinach and pine nut salad? It’s really good.’

  ‘No, thank you, Lottie. I don’t like nuts in salads.’ She contemplated me for a few moments. ‘When are you back off to the city?’

  ‘I’m staying local at the moment. At Brooker’s.’

  ‘The old farm?’ Grandma had been visiting Bonnievale long enough to know of Brooker’s. ‘Are you friendly with them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But when are you going home?’

  ‘I’ve left the city,’ I said. ‘Permanently.’ I felt Mum glance my way.

  ‘You’ve moved back to Bonnievale?’ Grandma lowered her fork. ‘What on earth for? What about your acting?’

  I didn’t know the answer. I hesitated and the moment dragged on until Grandma gave an exasperated huff.

  ‘Did you destroy your career with that scandal over the actor?’

  ‘Mum.’ My mother hissed the word.

  ‘Or was it the photos?’ Grandma sipped her wine dismissively. ‘I didn’t think they were that bad, personally. People fuss too much about nudity. At least Lottie’s photos were tastefully done.’

  Mum’s knife squeaked against her plate.

  ‘Well?’ Grandma waited. ‘What was it?’

  ‘I’m changing direction.’ I kept my voice as low and calm as possible.

  Grandma snorted. ‘Changing direction? By coming back to live in Bonnievale?’ She shook her head and ushered a chickpea to the side of her plate with her knife, adding it to a little stockpile before bringing her sharp gaze back to my face. ‘You look different. You haven’t had your hair done recently, have you? And no makeup. You’re a bit brown, too – is that a bruise, or dirt? Are you going au naturel these days, Lottie?’

  ‘I guess.’

  She clicked her tongue. ‘Not a good idea. Let me tell you something I wish my grandmother had told me when I was your age.’ She leaned forward slightly and looked me in the eye. ‘Moisturise. Even your décolletage. It gets very craggy down there.’

  Elizabeth gave a mirthful noise and Grandma shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it – it’s good advice.’ She resumed eating. ‘Changing direction. And living at the Brookers’ place! Why aren’t you living here?’

  Oh, God. Mum wouldn’t forgive me if I blurted out the truth to Grandma. I shoved a forkful of food in my mouth to buy myself some thinking time.

  ‘Lottie wanted time to herself,’ my mother said.

  I swallowed my mouthful, injustice rearing up. ‘Did I?’

  Mum kept her eyes on her plate. ‘You preferred that to facing the consequences of what you did.’

  ‘Come on, Penn, Lottie,’ my father tried.

  ‘I wanted to work through it, but you were so bloody angry at me, it became impossible,’ I said.

  Mum’s whole face had tightened. ‘You chose to leave.’

  I put down my fork. ‘Dad said I should leave because you could hardly stand to be in the same room with me! And it’s, what? Only four weeks later? And you’ve already got rid of my bedroom. It’s gone. It’s an office. Lizzy hasn’t lived here for years but she’s still got her bedroom, and yet mine is gone. I’m not welcome here any more – but you’re trying to make out I’m the one who took off!’

  ‘Guys,’ Elizabeth murmured. ‘It’s Christmas, yeah?’

  Grandma weighed in. ‘You threw Lottie out of home?’ she asked Mum. ‘Why? Because of the nude photos?’

  ‘They weren’t nude,’ I said. ‘Not fully.’

  ‘So they were only half trashy?’ Mum’s voice was full of sarcasm. ‘You only sold half of your body? You only made yourself half an object for men to purchase and masturbate over?’

  ‘Oh, good Lord.’ Grandma slapped her napkin on the table. ‘We’re trying to eat, Penelope.’

  My father had stopped eating, too. He stared at his plate, his face tense. Mum looked at him for a long moment.

  ‘Let’s stop, please,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s just have a nice lunch.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ Grandma grumbled.

  Elizabeth grimaced at me nervously. I pushed food around on my plate, simmering with resentment. Yeah, okay, my mother was angry at me – but to make out I was the one who’d chosen to leave? That I ran away from the conflict? It was ludicrous.

  ‘Some parents respect their kids’ choices no matter what,’ I burst out, unable to keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Oh, so you’re comparing this to coming out as gay or deciding not to have children, are you, Lottie?’ Mum’s cheeks had gone pink. ‘You posed for a pornographic photo shoot.’

  ‘It wasn’t pornography!’ I cried. ‘Jesus Christ, Mum! There’s a difference between porn and glamour shots. What about Rembrandt’s nudes? Da Vinci? Are they porn?’

  ‘The photos were risqué,’ Grandma opined. ‘Certainly not pornography, Penelope.’

  ‘Shut up, Mum.’ Grandma’s eyes opened wide but my mother barged on. ‘If we’re talking semantics, Lottie, let me explain something to you – something you might have learned for yourself if you’d paid attention in any of the textual analysis or dramatic literature classes at the academy, instead of putting all your effort into the ones on stage makeup and musical theatre.’ She took a quick breath and I realised she was about to get erudite. ‘Yes, the nude has been an object of art for hundreds of years. They can be classy or tasteful or risqué or erotic – or even pornography. But the painters and buyers of nude art were – are – usually men. And the nudes are usually women.’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘It is a power relationship, Lottie. We still live in a patriarchy. The power relationship is so deeply embedded in our culture that it sits beneath most women’s consciousness. It makes them do to themselves what men do to them. They create and observe their own femininity just the way men do. This ideology is so deeply ingrained in the way we see ourselves and each other that we don’t even know it’s there.’

  ‘You can stop with the philosophy lesson,’ I snapped. ‘I did the photo shoot with my eyes open. I understand about objectification – it’s not like I’ve never heard of that. I wasn’t c
oerced into it – I made the decision of my own free will. The fact is, it was a choice you don’t like, and now you’ve practically disowned me.’

  ‘It’s not just a choice I don’t like. That you made yourself a simpering sexual object in that way is something I oppose with every fibre of my being, Lottie. It’s as bad as if you were to join a neo-Nazi group or a gay-bashing gang.’

  I gaped. ‘Seriously? Shit, Mum.’ The more articulate she got, the less coherent I got. ‘How can you even compare—’

  ‘I know feminism isn’t as trendy as racial or gay equality,’ she said. ‘But it’s the most important fight I ever fought and I’m devastated you can’t respect that.’

  Her voice broke on the last word and I sank instantly into shame. The anger didn’t go anywhere, but mortification came to hold its hand. I’d cut my mother – not just cut but hacked right through her tough skin and hit the bone. And there was no way I could undo it. I got up and went to sit in the front room.

  A few minutes later, Elizabeth joined me. She sat next to me on the couch and stretched an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against her soft body.

  ‘This too shall pass,’ she whispered.

  My tears spilled. ‘Why does she hate everything I do? Every decision I ever made was scrutinised, held up against her agenda, and then condemned. I’m just a blind victim of the patriarchy to her, not a living, breathing human who makes conscious choices.’

  Elizabeth kept me close.

  ‘Am I stupid, Lizzy?’

  ‘What? No.’

  ‘No, I mean it. Am I intelligent enough to grasp the stuff she’s talking about? Ideology and all that?’

  ‘Of course you are, dummy.’

  ‘Then why does she insist on treating me like I don’t get it? Like I just needed to do the right courses at college and I would be armed to make all the right choices? I do get it. I’m just different from her. My priorities are different.’

  ‘Maybe she’s panicking.’

  ‘What?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Scared of losing you.’

  I spluttered in outrage. ‘If this is Mum scared of losing me, I’d hate to see her trying to push me away.’