Small Joys of Real Life

by Allee Richards

  ‘YOU’RE WEARING MY dress!’ Sarah is exuberant, not pissed off, obviously drunk. The party is in a sparsely furnished warehouse. There are thin fluoro tubes tracing the perimeter of the ceiling but they don’t appear to be emitting actual light as it’s almost too dark to see in here. Angular people saunter through the space drinking posh beers. Introductions are made via references to other people. ‘You know Eva McMillan. She knows …’ People nod in recognition. They look at my belly, but don’t congratulate me. Sarah’s dress is creeping up the backs of my legs and I’ve never been more self-conscious about being pregnant. I end up in conversation with a handsome man I’ve met once before. His name is Max and I don’t remember much about him, but I dimly recall having formed a bad impression of him. He asks me what I’ve been working on lately, what I’ve been in.

  ‘I’m taking a break,’ I say, then add awkwardly, ‘For a bit.’

  ‘You were in that series set in New Zealand, weren’t you? You must know Gary Andrews.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I don’t know Gary Andrews, but Max continues to tell me about him. I nod, not listening. Sarah has left me for the other side of the room and I can hear her voice reverberating around the warehouse. ‘Oh, shut UP!’ She punches some man in the arm with her free hand, her other hand clasping a girl’s. I take my phone from my pocket. ‘I’m listening,’ I tell Max, before I put my head down and ignore him. I text Annie asking her to come here. I return my gaze to Max, but repeatedly check my phone as I wait for her to reply.

  ‘Anyway, do you think you’ll act again?’ he asks me.

  ‘Oh, maybe. Hey, when did your company change their logo design?’ I ask, pointing to the logo projected on the wall.

  ‘Oh, that was me!’ He starts to tell me in detail about the work that went into it.

  I don’t think anybody here would judge me, or even notice, if I drank a beer, but I resist the urge. If I’m going to drink, I at least want to be standing near someone who will protest so I can look them in the eye while I do it anyway. The canapés are lavish and nobody but me is eating. I do laps of the space, having seconds. Each time I pass Sarah she gives me a squeeze and a smile. Eventually, I pass her and she doesn’t react. Her eyes are glassy and wine is splashed on her top in two places. People are talking around her but I can tell she’s not hearing them.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I say. I don’t want Sarah to make problems for herself at work.

  ‘Do you want a bump of coke?’ She grabs my arm, her eyes open wide with possibility.

  A few of her colleagues do a double take, then laugh. I see in their looks the familiarity of their amusement – they’ve seen Sarah like this before.

  Sarah talks at them, loudly. ‘Eva is usually really good. She’s not eating eggs or ham.’ She hiccups.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I repeat.

  ‘I’m going to take Charlie home. She’s so cute!’

  ‘She left,’ I lie. It might be true, though, as I can’t see the girl she was flirting with earlier.

  I drag her out. She doesn’t protest, but she also doesn’t move her legs. I keep having to push her slightly. She trips for a few steps and then is still again.

  When we get to Brunswick Street, I steer her towards the tram stop.

  ‘Are we going to Annie’s house?’ she asks.

  ‘Actually, yes,’ I say. ‘That is where we’re going.’

  Annie hasn’t texted me back, which is unlike her. (Though before I stopped drinking she used to not reply if it seemed like Sarah and I were getting loose together). Out the front of her house I call her and she answers. I drive the three of us back to Thornbury in Annie’s car. We stop once on the way for Sarah to vomit, which she is at least able to warn us about. We spend the night on the floor of the bathroom. I tell Annie about the money and about Mum.

  ‘How did she get the money?’ Annie asks me.

  ‘She’s had it since he died.’

  ‘So, it wasn’t like in a trust that only you can access?’

  Realising I don’t know the answer to this makes me see how oblivious I am to money. Just like Mum was.

  Annie and I exchange sad smiles across the bathroom floor. I rub my abdomen and shuffle my butt bones that are growing more and more tender on the hard tiles. Occasionally Sarah chimes in, her voice echoing around the toilet bowl.

  ‘Fuck your mum, it’s your money.’

  It stinks in here.

  Annie sleeps in my bed and in the morning we drive Sarah to the airport. She’s flying to the Sunny Coast for Christmas. Large black sunglasses cover half her face, but you can still see her scowl. She lies on the back seat with an icepack on her head, too nauseous to sit up straight. When we get to the airport, she doesn’t even thank us for the lift.

  ‘Look at these people,’ she says. ‘Going to the Gold Coast for Christmas holidays. What fuckwits.’

  ‘Bye,’ we call as she plods into the terminal.

  She flaps her hand out behind her dismissively, like she’s shooing away a fly, some annoyance. I notice she’s wearing my t-shirt.

  ANNIE AND I pick up James and the three of us go to the pool. They do laps. I loll on the side, rest my head on my arms, listening to the water filtering around below me. It reminds me of the baby’s heartbeat. A few times I think it might have kicked, but I’m not sure if I’m just feeling the water moving around my stomach. I breathe and try to stay calm. I can feel the anger at Mum seething through my body alongside my heartburn. I envisage her living here and realise how convenient it will be to have her nearby to babysit. Not just convenient: necessary. I don’t have a job. Even if I had one, I’d have to pay for child care. I need her to do this and she is doing it. I just wish she was doing it without my money.

  After our swim, Annie and James seem reluctant to drop me home. They offer to cook me dinner later.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Mum has also offered to make dinner. She rang, then, when I didn’t answer, texted me.

  I’m sorry you’re upset. Let me cook you dinner. We’ll figure something out, it will be ok.

  It’s ok. I just want to go to sleep.

  I go to bed with a bowl of muesli and a banana. I open my computer and search for meditation guides, ones that promise to bring on sleep, to help you drift away quietly. They sound like they’re meant to help you die. I listen to the recordings all the way through. Soft voices slowly list body parts – like there’s a full stop after every word – and ask me to focus on them. My toes are swollen, my back hurts, my lungs are crushed and my legs feel thick and heavy.

  After two failed attempts at meditation, I take my phone, unblock Fergus’s number and text him.

  Hey.

  How are you?

  I lie on my back, my eyes closed. Already, I feel calmer. Like maybe now I could meditate and it might work. It’s less than a minute before I get a reply.

  Is this real?

  Hi again.

  Hi. How are you?

  I can’t sleep.

  Maybe because it’s six o’clock.

  I can usually sleep at any time.

  Nowadays.

  But not today.

  Is something wrong?

  Probably that I’m doing this.

  I’m not sure if anything is wrong.

  Sorry. I know that makes no sense.

  The screen shows me he is writing a response. A long response, it seems, as I wait but nothing comes through.

  Also

  I butt in before he can send his long text.

  I’m really horny and all alone.

  The screen goes blank. He’s no longer writing whatever it was.

  Really?

  Really. Really. Horny.

  That’s so hot.

  For you maybe. I’m all alone.

  Want me to come over?

  No. Just tell me what you would you do if you could be here

  with me.

  My phone lights up with a call. Fergus’s name on the screen. I answer the call, b
ut I don’t say anything. I just hold the phone to my ear and breathe.

  ‘Take off all your clothes.’

  ‘I’m already naked.’

  ‘I’d spread your legs wide apart and shove my face in your pussy. Lap you up.’

  ‘I’m very wet, there’s a lot to lap up.’

  ‘Good. I’d tickle your clit with my tongue until you come.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me come, you should know that. Don’t you know that?’

  ‘I’d lick you until you were wetter, wetter, wetter, then I’d slide my fingers in you and make them wet with you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’d place them on your clit and rub you until you come.’

  ‘Keep fingering me while you do that.’

  ‘And I’d feel you coming on my hand.’

  I rub furiously on myself and when I come I moan excessively loudly. I can hear him on the other end of the phone: rhythmic breathing, gathering in speed.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ I ask.

  ‘You.’ His response is breathy. Like someone talking while running. ‘I’m thinking about coming on your pregnant belly.’

  My eyes widen and I stare at the ceiling, expressing shock to myself. I’m holding my phone with two hands, listening closely to silence.

  ‘Are you there?’ he asks eventually.

  ‘Do you want to come on my pregnant belly?’

  Almost the second I ask, I hear his whimper. It’s long and it’s loud, but it still sounds pathetic. After, there’s the sound of both of us breathing, heavy and slow. Breathing until eventually we’re in time with each other. I fall asleep immediately after I hang up. I sleep for half of the next day.

  ANNIE ENDS UP STAYING IN Melbourne for Christmas instead of flying to Queensland or going with James to his parents’ house. When I ask why, she’s rabbity and vague. I don’t push her as I guess she’s staying for me, not wanting to leave me knocking around the house on my own, knowing how tense things are between me and Mum. I forgive Mum quickly, though, in the way you do forgive your parents. I’ll be annoyed at her forever, while also recognising how much I owe her. Also, the fact remains: I need her. For a few days I try shifting the anger from her to my father. In a roundabout way I can always make anything his fault. But it’s a sad and pointless anger towards the dead. It’s directionless and only ends up making me furious at no one, or at myself.

  Mum and I go out for croissants and tea to clear the air before Ken arrives.

  ‘The thing is, Eva, what do you think is going to happen when I die?’

  ‘Don’t talk about dying.’ I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot lately, even before I was suspicious she was sneaking off for doctor’s appointments. Having a baby pushes both me and Mum into older roles: we’re not just child and parent now; we’re parent and grandparent. Her inevitable demise seems much more real than it did before I was pregnant.

  ‘That’s what being a parent is, Eva. Your life does not end with you anymore. It continues on after and you have to think about that.’

  What she’s saying is that the money is still mine, technically. It will be mine after it is hers. She’s right and I feel guilty, but also indignant.

  Everything feels normal enough. We laugh about something a politician said on the news. She shows me a video of a comedian doing a parody. She also shows me photos of the apartment she’s thinking of getting. I think I feel happy, until I hug her goodbye at the motor inn and walk home. In bed I roll over, unable to get to sleep. She could’ve asked me first, I think.

  ON CHRISTMAS DAY, Annie and I cook lunch together at my place. We roast a chicken, dowsed in butter and rested atop half a loaf of bread. We play Christmas albums and wear old t-shirts that end up splattered with fatty oils. When it’s almost time for Mum and Ken to arrive we change into dresses. Annie bought mine for me for Christmas – a proper maternity dress, with a mound sewn into the bodice – along with a book of essays by women writing about pregnancy and child rearing. We wear jewellery and put on make-up even though we’re not leaving the house. I feel like we’re little girls playing dress-ups and performing a pantomime for our parents.

  Mum and I have always celebrated Christmas, but it never felt authentic. I know this is partly because my reference points growing up were American – festive knitted sweaters; snow; food and drink that sounded exotic but wasn’t, like eggnog. But even locally, our celebrations felt like a charade. Mum never pretended my gifts were coming from Santa. She says she did when I was a baby, but stopped when I was around five. I’ve no memory of this, so as far as I’m concerned she never did it. Mum said later it was after Dad left that she stopped. It was no longer some fun game she and my dad were playing, it was just a lie. I think also it was because we were poor back then. ‘The kids who get the most presents,’ she would say, ‘are most likely the meanest ones.’ And even before I became vegetarian it seemed pointless to cook a roast for two people.

  Annie and I spread a red bedsheet over the dining table and put Christmas crackers beside each plate. Everyone has two glasses, one for water and one for wine, though I have sparkling apple juice instead of wine.

  The lunch is easy, low-key. We talk about Mum’s move. Ken says he is able to work remotely, meaning he can visit for weeks at a time. Mum is looking for a part-time job. They will both ease into retirement. I ask Ken about his children. I’ve met them before but struggle to remember what they do. It turns out there’s a tennis coach and a real estate agent, there’s a grandchild. Mum and Ken ask Annie about her career. Her boss has just told her that she’s pregnant and will go on maternity leave in the middle of next year. Annie may be asked to step into the role. It will be a big step up, and a pay increase. She’ll ask for flexible hours, though. There are nods at the table as we agree that work–life balance is important. We discuss names for the baby. After about thirty seconds any seriousness is gone and we’re being deliberately terrible, competing for the worst name.

  ‘Gretchen.’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Karen.’

  Once the chicken is finished, Ken and I pick at the sourdough mattress on the bottom of the roasting dish, soggy with butter and chicken drippings.

  ‘This is delicious,’ Ken says.

  ‘This is the best Christmas dinner we’ve had in a long time.’ My mother pats her partner on the back and smiles at me. Her happiness infuriates me, which makes me feel like an arsehole.

  ‘Don’t get used to it,’ I say.

  ‘I guess you won’t have time to whip up something so decadent next year,’ Ken says.

  I try to envisage next Christmas. Usually, it would be my turn to travel north for the holidays, but Mum will be living here. I can’t imagine Ken wanting to miss a second Christmas with his family. But also, my baby will still be so small. I probably won’t want to travel with Mum if she goes. I guess I’ll be a vegetarian again? I try to imagine any Christmas, two, three or five years from now. I can’t possibly know when, if ever, it’ll be worthwhile to make so much food again.

  I THINK ABOUT YOUR FAMILY. This would’ve been their first Christmas since you died. I wonder how they commemorated you. A place set for you at the table. A gift with your name on it under the tree. Maybe none of that. Possibly someone cooked, then all the food went cold. Everyone pushing pork around their plates in silence. No New Year’s resolutions.

  Everything is a countdown for me now, as people like to remind me. Fifteen weeks to go. Last Christmas without a baby. Last summer. Last days I can wake and think of myself first. Better get sleep while I can.

  Your family’s grief moves in the other direction. First Christmas alone, first New Year. Whenever your birthday is, that will be a first too. I’ve been waiting for this. Checking on your Facebook page and Travis’s. I figure there will extra posts when that happens. Each time I check and it’s not your birthday, I feel a little relieved, but also worried. What if I never find out? Then I feel relieved again – maybe I don’t ever want to
know.

  All the rest of your family’s birthdays – your parents and your brothers – those will be firsts too. A sad collection of events will pile up, like the years, crash mats erected around a memory; it will hurt less each time they think of it.

  GOOD RIDDANCE TO a shit year. I figure we’d all agree with that.

  ON NEW YEAR’S EVE ANNIE is adamant that either she spends the night in with me or I come out with her and James. They’ve been invited to dinner at the home of one of James’s colleagues. She reassures me it’ll be a quiet night, only a dozen or so people.

  ‘Another of his colleagues, Simon, is cute,’ she adds. ‘And single.’

  ‘If he’s interested in dating a pregnant woman, I’m not interested in him.’

  She nods, a grim smile. I insist she goes without me.

  ‘Okay, fine. But let me make sure you have a nice night alone, anyway.’

  I swallow my irritation at her suggestion my life is not nice.

  We spend the afternoon together making raspberry jelly. We blend frozen raspberries with sugar and soak gelatine sheets ready to set it in the fridge. A pregnant woman’s cocktail.

  I feel a flickering behind the wall of my abdomen, one I’ve felt a few times now, and my hand goes to my stomach.

  ‘Is the baby kicking?’ Annie asks.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I do think so. It’s nothing like I thought it would be, but it must be that because what else could it be? I don’t know how to explain this, so I just say no.

  When Annie leaves late in the afternoon, I pick up the book she gave me for Christmas. I read one essay and start the second then put it down. Sore tits, pummelled bladders. A mention of a vaginal canal being cut and all I can think of is Mum at her sewing table, nipping just the edge of a sheet of fabric and then tearing swiftly and the entire thing coming apart.