Small Joys of Real Life

by Allee Richards

I’m sitting in front of Travis and he knows now and I have nothing to say. Like when you’re starving for hours and hours and then you’re presented with a meal and are full after only two bites.

  ‘I guess I did know.’ He stops fiddling. ‘I knew it was a possibility. He was so excited after he slept with you.’

  Tears are screaming behind my eyes. Every fibre of me tries to push them away. ‘I was excited too.’ My voice chokes and Travis looks up. He stares at me, crying across from him, and he doesn’t offer condolences, but I think I see him soften.

  ‘We talked about it once.’

  I think Travis is talking about me and Pat and am disappointed when I realise what he means.

  ‘Once, years ago, I was feeling really weird. I’d had a lot of drugs and I was still coming down, although it was days later. I was having this out-of-body experience; like, dissociative. It’s the only time I’ve ever thought about doing it myself. I can’t describe what it was like.

  ‘Anyway, I rang Pat. He said, “What I always think is: if you kill yourself, then you’ll never be able to watch Breaking Bad again.”’

  I laugh. It is utterly inappropriate, and I can see that Travis is offended, but I can’t stop laughing. The reference to Breaking Bad made me think of Sarah. She told me once her measure for knowing if a guy is too hetero for her to date is if he likes Breaking Bad. My affection for Sarah rushes through me like relief, but I can’t dwell on that because of the look on Travis’s face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t expect that.’

  ‘He said it then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His words: What I always think. He said always. I never asked him about it.’

  I watch Travis and feel caught out. My own stupidity and self-absorption reflected back at me. I think about when Pat said, ‘The solution to climate change isn’t to stop having children.’ I attached such importance to those words. I took them to mean that he didn’t fear a horrendous future on earth. When it was probably just a throwaway line. Something that meant nothing that I’ve let ring in my ears since he died. Even if Pat had been thinking about suicide for a long time, I doubt there was any meaning in the Breaking Bad comment. I want to tell Travis this but, also, I understand the feeling. Of clinging to words like talismans – how it can drive you mad and how, in some fucked up way, that is comforting.

  We agree that Travis will tell Pat’s parents and let me know how they take the news. It will come as a big shock, and they will probably need time to come to terms with it before meeting me. We consider the possibility that they won’t want to meet me. But, without even knowing them, I find this hard to believe and I sense Travis does too.

  I watch him as he stands from the booth, drunk and sad. He looks too fragile to walk home.

  ‘You’re allowed to be angry at me.’ I’m looking up at him, not having stood up myself yet.

  ‘I know.’ He nods. ‘But there’s probably a few things more important than being angry right now.’

  He offers to wait with me for my tram. I insist I’m fine. I’m actually more worried about him getting home safely, but since I’ve said I can get home by myself I don’t feel like I can offer to accompany him. I stumble on my words. It’s either ironic that the most mundane part of our interaction has become the most awkward, or it’s fitting since we’ve settled into our mess.

  I watch him cross the street to the southbound tram stop. I wave at him when he turns around and he raises his hand. The same wave he gave me in almost the exact same spot months back, when I first told him I was pregnant. The tram rolls down the street from the north and Travis is hidden and then, with the tram, he is gone.

  I DON’T GO home after, but walk straight to Clarke Street. It’s ten thirty and initially I’m wondering how I will make my entrance, not wanting to ring the doorbell this late on a weeknight. I remember that Sarah doesn’t have a job and I wonder what she’s been doing these past few days. A moment ago, I wouldn’t have thought it possible for me to feel any sadder but suddenly I do, imagining Sarah as listless as I’ve been lately.

  Her bedroom window faces the street and I can see light seeping out between the curtains. I open the front gate slowly, making it creak louder than normal, then I sneak across the garden to stand beneath her window. There’s the muffled noise of canned laughter and then nothing; she’s snapped her laptop shut, listening. I rap gently on the glass. ‘Sarah? It’s me – Eva.’

  The curtains fling open and there she is. Alarmed and then smiling. She puts her palms flat against the glass and slides the window up. She leans her body out and gives me a hug.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She kisses the side of my face.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s late.’

  ‘Who cares? Come in.’

  She lifts her window even higher and beckons for me to climb through, which is impossible with my belly. I walk around to the front door and she meets me there. She takes my hand in hers and leads me on tiptoe through the entrance hall to her room. This strikes me as uncharacteristically respectful. When she lived with me, she had no problem clomping around and slamming doors at any hour. Maybe her new housemates said something.

  In her room we wrap our arms around each other and sway from side to side, hugging like people who’re celebrating, or who haven’t seen each other in years. This feels like both of these things.

  ‘I’ve been desperate to call you.’ She takes me by the hands and leads me to her bed, where we both sit cross-legged. ‘Annie told me to leave you be.’

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  I tell Sarah about my drink with Travis.

  She shakes her head, covers her face with her hands. ‘I don’t even know if what I said was right.’

  ‘I feel better for having done it.’ I’m unsure if this is true. I certainly feel better right now, but that may just be because I’m no longer in that bar, no longer sitting across from Travis. I describe to her the image I have of Pat lying on his back, his hands laced over his chest. ‘The solution to climate change isn’t to stop having children.’

  ‘It just felt like a sign or something.’

  ‘You realise that doesn’t mean he was anti-abortion, Eva?’

  ‘I know. It’s just that he seemed so sure of himself. So certain. Content.’ The word lands flat. Hangs in the air between us. ‘But I realised tonight it was just an offhand thing he said. It probably meant nothing.’

  ‘No, I think you’re right.’ I’m surprised to see that Sarah is nodding at me. ‘He was a really good person. So much saner than Travis.’

  I shake my head. I don’t want to laugh about Travis. I don’t want to think an unkind thought about him ever again.

  ‘I think it’s a good thing you’re having his baby, Eva.’

  We curl up together and watch Friends. Sarah falls asleep quickly – she told me she has hardly slept since Monday – but I don’t. He was so excited after he slept with you. If I’d been told that months ago, I would’ve wallpapered it over my skull. It feels useless to me now, though. I’m not sure if this is moving on, acceptance. Or if I’m still too stricken from witnessing Travis, so utterly unenthused, to properly process anything he said.

  I can’t get settled and when I need to shift position I wake Sarah. I apologise. ‘I can go home.’

  ‘Don’t go.’ She turns to face me and goes back to sleep, her arm flung lazily across my stomach.

  TRAVIS TELLS PAT’S PARENTS ABOUT me.

  ‘You guys should meet,’ he says when he rings. ‘But they need time.’

  I note the wording: he doesn’t say they want to meet me, but that we should meet.

  ‘Did they ask anything about me?’

  ‘Once the shock wore off they did. But they’re still pretty stunned. This will take some time.’

  Travis’s words haunt me after we hang up: This will take some time. It’s like I can suddenly see every year, every month, every week, every day that I have to live through piled in front of me. Can’
t go over it, can’t go under it. I feel relieved that he knows now and that Pat’s parents know too, but it’s not an uncomplicated relief, like taking a heavy pack off after a day of hiking. I feel lighter, but also tender, blistered.

  I distract myself with final preparations. Annie refers to them as the ‘finishing touches’, which makes it sound like my life is about to end. I find a rocking chair from a second-hand furniture store, which we fit with a new cushion. I clean the apartment. I cook and cook and cook. Afternoons are spent on the phone to Mum as I reduce tomatoes and layer lasagne sheets. The cooking is my excuse for why I’m distracted during our calls. I’ll have to tell her soon about Pat, but I can’t bring myself to do it yet. She’s arriving one week after the due date. When she booked her flights she said to me, ‘If you want me there, I promise I will come, but I’m going to tell you now, I don’t think I can cope witnessing my own baby in so much pain.’ I wasn’t sure how touched or terrified to be.

  It strikes me that if Pat’s parents want to meet the baby, then they’re going to have to meet Mum too. I tell Annie how hesitant I am to tell Mum about Pat and I’m thankful she doesn’t ask me to explain my reluctance.

  ‘She’ll probably just feel so desperately sad for you, she’ll try to help.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  She shrugs. ‘It’s what I did.’

  I don’t have enough room in my own freezer for all the meals I’m preparing, so Annie and Sarah both offer room in their freezers. They’ve gifted me a car seat for the baby. I know Annie paid for most of it. I offer to reimburse her some of the cost, but she refuses.

  ‘I got a stupid amount of cash with that award,’ she says.

  The girls help me with the birth plan, a process I find infuriatingly pointless. Choose from a list of options, but also know that everything can change and ultimately the choice is not yours. Sarah begins reading from a list suggested by the hospital. ‘Who, if anybody, would you like present besides your partner?’ It’s over after the first question – we can’t take this seriously.

  ‘Will you want to have a bath or shower while you’re in labour?’

  ‘I’ve no idea – ask me when I’m in labour.’

  ‘What about the lighting?’

  ‘I don’t care about lighting.’

  ‘Dimmed,’ Sarah decides, noting it down.

  ‘What if the doctors can’t see what they’re doing?’

  ‘Well, I guess they’ll turn the lights on.’ She laughs at me as I shake my head. ‘Delayed cord clamping?’

  ‘What is that?’

  She turns to the very back of What to Expect.

  ‘I’ll just do whatever you think,’ I tell her.

  Other points are more important to me, but I don’t agonise over the answers. Drugs? Yes, please.

  ‘Nobody comes around with a medal if you don’t have them,’ Sarah says as she writes down my answer.

  ‘Placenta?’ Both my friends look at me, expectant.

  ‘Bin it.’

  Annie nods at Sarah, who ticks a box on the list.

  My baby hasn’t turned yet. I have weekly appointments at the hospital now, which I begin to dread, knowing myself that it hasn’t happened. The first time a midwife mentions the possibility of a caesarean I collapse a little in my heart. I’m not like other women, I want to assure her. Not like those women with unrealistic expectations of themselves or weird hierarchies of different births. It’s just my particular circumstance and that I’ve attached such symbolism to the labour. I realise, of course, a moment after the thought, that thinking you’re different or unique is one way in which we are all the same.

  We go on the tour of the birthing suite, which includes classes. In one we learn how the baby comes out and in the other we learn what to do with it when it does. We wrap dolls in blankets as if they were burritos. Even when they’re born the babies are still referred to as food. I leave the hospital overwhelmed and nervous.

  I manage to relax, or maybe I’m just exhausted enough to think I’m relaxed, for an hour or so in the evenings. The girls and I eat takeaway souvlakis and fish and chips on my couch. I’m so tired from cooking all day that I order takeaway almost every night. Then I go to bed a nervous wreck. I cry cathartic sobs before I sleep. I’m not even sure why I’m crying. Fear of meeting Pat’s parents. Anxiety over not having told Mum about them. I run my hands over my large stomach and say aloud: ‘It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.’

  THERE’S A BIG DISCUSSION, OF which I am not a part, about where we will go to meet Pat’s family. Initially Travis tells me he and I will go to them, which means driving to Warrnambool. We agree on a time, but then a few days later Pat’s mother contacts Travis, who in turn contacts me, to tell me she and her husband have decided to come to Thornbury.

  ‘She doesn’t want you to have to travel so far. It will be too uncomfortable for you.’

  I’m not sure if she means the physical discomfort of being in the car for hours or the emotional discomfort of going to Pat’s family home. Either way, I’m grateful. ‘That’s sweet of her.’

  My voice wavers, thick with tears, which Travis ignores. I offer to have them at my flat. He says he will run it by them. He texts me later in the evening.

  Maybe let’s just meet at a cafe. They’re pretty overwhelmed about this whole thing and I think they just want to have a chat. Eventually, they will want to get to know you better, but that might be a bit much to begin with.

  WHEN THE DAY arrives, Travis comes by to pick me up. I’m wearing a linen sack dress that, while it is loose, somehow emphasises my giant stomach more than something tight would. But I don’t feel comfortable wearing a tight dress to meet them. It will seem that I’m trying to make a point. I blow-wave my hair and apply pale pink blush and lipstick for the first time in I don’t even know how long. I examine myself in the mirror and wonder suddenly if I look immature. I’m saved from an outfit change by Travis knocking on the door.

  ‘You look nice.’ He doesn’t hug me. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  I grab a handbag with almost nothing in it – holding my phone and wallet in my hands seems too flippant for such a serious situation – and follow him out the door.

  ‘They’re really nice people,’ he says. ‘Once the shock wears off, they’ll be great. I know it.’

  ‘Baby steps.’ My voice sounds small, maybe because of my nerves but possibly because I’m out of breath. Travis is walking too fast for me and I don’t want to ask him to slow down. He looks nervous too.

  I’ve seen a photo of Pat’s mum on Facebook. She’s standing with Pat outside a church. It looks like they’re at a wedding. She’s wearing a blue chiffon dress and a navy jacket. She has dark blonde hair and looks only slightly shorter than Pat, although she’s probably wearing heels. She’s staring at the camera. A closed-lip smile. She looks delighted – smug, even. Pat is looking at her intently; he isn’t ready for the photo.

  When Travis and I arrive at the cafe I look around and am certain we must be here first. When Travis announces they’re the couple sitting up against the wall I am so stunned I stay rooted in place as he goes over to them. The woman who stands to hug Travis looks far older than the happy woman who stood by her son’s side in the photo. Her hair is completely grey and frayed. Her face is sucked dry, covered in lots of tiny lines. When Travis hugs her I’m worried she might collapse beneath him. She’s waif-like, a moment from fading away. Pat’s father looks more solid. Also grey, but a soft, mousy tint. I can tell from his complexion that he had red hair, like Pat’s. He looks less brittle than his wife, but he’s certainly not animated. He’s blank when Travis shakes his hand, not scowling, but not smiling either.

  ‘This is Eva.’ Travis turns and holds his arm out, gesturing to me.

  There are no hugs or handshakes. Pat’s father looks stern and interested, as though this is very serious, not emotional.

  ‘You’re from television.’ Pat’s mother is staring at me, petrified and bleak.
>
  ‘Yeah.’ I force a smile. ‘I’m Eva.’

  ‘Eva, this is Carol and Jim,’ says Travis. ‘Carol, I told you Eva was an actor.’

  ‘I thought you meant she did amateur theatre or something.’ Carol’s voice is quiet, expressionless, her mouth downturned. I’m tempted to say that I don’t act anymore, but then I don’t want them to ask what I am doing. I wish we were at my flat – I don’t want to go through another excruciating scene in front of waitstaff – but I’m also glad we’re not. I couldn’t have coped with them seeing my life, judging how small my home is or how worn my furniture.

  Travis and I sit across from Pat’s parents at the table.

  Carol starts looking around for a waiter. ‘What would you like to order?’

  ‘I’ll just have a water. Sparkling.’ I add the last word too forcefully, awkwardly.

  Pat’s mother is shifting in her seat, trying to get the attention of a waiter. I guess her impatience is situational. That once we’ve ordered then perhaps she’ll start asking me questions. Once the order is taken, however, a silence lands. Pat’s mother is staring at me, while his father is looking between me and his wife. I look back at them both. At least nobody is crying.

  ‘You’re very beautiful,’ Carol says at last.

  ‘I don’t feel like it right now.’ Again, I’m worried I sound too forceful, that I’ll shut her down when I only want to say that I’m uncomfortable.

  ‘Pregnancy is the pits.’

  I feel the tiniest bit of relief, a teardrop in this uncomfortable ocean – partly because of Carol’s playful comment and partly because, I realise, she is the first woman to admit this to me. Most other older women have just been excited and gleeful about this physical prison. I smile at her, hoping for some camaraderie now, but she is still blank.

  It’s Jim who starts asking questions about the baby and, for once, I’m thankful for all the bland conversational fodder that pregnancy provides. Questions with yes or no answers. Dates and numbers. At one point he refers to one of Carol’s pregnancies.