by AJ Collins
‘They adopted you?’
‘Not quite. They sponsored me. I was put with a good family there. They gave money for my education, for living, until I am old enough to come to Australia, for myself.’
‘And that’s what made you want to study law? To help other people?’
She laughs. ‘I was naïve. The law is not for helping. It is for manipulation.’
‘So, you chose to serve people here instead?’
She shakes her head and laughs again. ‘What is this notion of “serving” you have? I am not Mother Teresa. Nourishment and friendly words. Often it is all the help people need. And they are happy to pay for it.’
I go back to my coffee because my soul is shrinking a little – me and my pathetic problems.
Her voice softens. ‘And you? What is this pain you carry with such conviction?’
‘Conviction?’
‘Perhaps I have the wrong word? Let’s see ... connection ... correction. No, conviction is right. You are a martyr.’
‘I am not!’
‘Yes.’
She says it so simply and with such conviction I believe her. Maybe I am what she says. Has my pain become who I am?
‘Who hurt you?’ she asks.
‘No-one.’ It’s an instinctive response. I chew my lip for a moment. Make a decision. She’s not going to stop until I give her something. ‘Someone ... who shouldn’t have.’
‘Shouldn’t have? Nobody should hurt you, Lauren.’
‘I mean, somebody I trusted.’
‘Ah trust. There’s an old saying, something like “It is those you are closest to who will hurt you the most.” Why are you protecting him?’
‘I’m not.’
She tilts her head, her cynicism so easy to read.
I lower my head and mumble. ‘I don’t think he meant to hurt me. I think he just couldn’t control himself.’
‘Lauren. Look at me.’ She tilts my face up. ‘What this man is thinking is one thing. What this man is doing is another. We cannot always control our thoughts. We can control our actions. Do you understand?’
What this man did. I’m tempted to correct her tenses, but I don’t. I nod. Though I’m not sure I’m convinced. There were things I could have done differently. Maybe I shouldn’t have got so close.
‘What this man did. It was not your fault. Okay?’
God, she’s scary. I nod again. Then I bite my lip, chewing on a question that’s been gnawing at me. We’ve gone there now. I may as well ask. ‘Freda?’
‘Yes?’
‘Should I forgive him?’
Freda falls silent. Have I thrown her? She lifts her head, takes a long slow breath, then sighs before finally looking me in the eye. ‘Who is this forgiveness for?’
I don’t understand her question. For Samuel of course. Isn’t it?
‘You will think about this, yes?’
That’s it?
She squeezes my hand. ‘Good. Now for your friend. I know some people who can perhaps help.’
‘Thank you.’
Freda reaches over and puts her hand over mine. ‘Trust me, Lauren. Like me, you will survive this.’
That night I dream of babies. Hundreds of them, crying in filthy cots. So many souls unloved. I miss Harry. I miss my mum. I wonder what life would be like if she never got sick.
~
It’s déjà vu, back in the Starlight Room. Nerves and all. Paul is a great pianist and seems a nice guy, but his rhythm is different. So is the resonance of his notes, the whole sense of his playing. I’m stiff and awkward, constantly smoothing my dress and adjusting the angle of my microphone. What would Harry say? ‘You can’t please everyone. Just be yourself.’ But who am I? That’s the question.
I try slowing my breath, using my diaphragm for support. I visualise my body relaxing, my neck muscles, my shoulders, my arms – a soft, warm cloud of love descending on me ... Nope. I focus on my voice, keeping my larynx low, my jaw loose. I concentrate on the lyrics, it’s just me and the song. Let everything else disappear. Nada. Will I ever get this?
Thank god the first bracket is over. Paul buys me a vodka and soda, and we take our break.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks.
‘Good. You?’
‘Yeah, okay. You’ve got a great voice. Do you mind me asking? You seem a little tense.’
‘Oh, shit. Is it that obvious?’
‘No, no, you’ve got a great voice—’
‘Well, I haven’t performed that much. I thought Harry would have told you.’
He makes a face, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Do I suck?
‘You just need to loosen up a bit. That’s all. Relax.’
‘Ha.’
‘What?’
‘Harry tells me that all the time. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t seem to let go. And the gaps between the songs – I can’t hide behind the music there, and I have no idea what to say.’
‘Patter. It’s called patter. You’ll get it. It comes with time. Just say something interesting about the next song, chat about something funny that happened to you today, ask if people are enjoying their meal, that kind of thing.’
‘It sounds so easy.’
‘Bit more experience, you’ll get there.’
He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes something out and fiddles under the table with it. He looks around to make sure no-one is watching, then pops a tablet in his mouth. I must look shocked because he says, ‘Panadol. Got a headache.’
I keep staring. The guy’s full of it. Why would he hide Panadol?
‘What? You want one? Here, give me your hand.’
He pulls my arm underneath the table, reaches into his jacket pocket, then places a small plastic packet in my hand. The tablet is pink. I try to lift my hand to look more closely, but he drags my arm down.
‘Careful.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just something to loosen you up.’
‘Am I that tight?’
I flush at my own innuendo. Paul smiles but refrains from going there. ‘You’re okay. It’ll just warm you up. Make you feel good.’
I hesitate. Alcohol is my strongest drug. I’ve never even smoked dope. Why would I take something harder?
‘Relax. It’s just a Molly. It won’t hurt you.’
‘Molly?’ I flip the packet over in my hand. The tablet’s got a smiley face on one side.
‘E. Look, you don’t have to take it. You can give it back. They’re not cheap.’
I close my hand around it. ‘How do you know it’s safe?’
‘I have a reliable source.’
I laugh. A reliable drug dealer? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Still, people do these all the time, don’t they? I’m nervous, but it could be fun. ‘How long does it take?’
‘Depends. Everyone’s different. Could be fifteen minutes, sometimes an hour.’
It’s time to go back on. Paul heads up to the piano. The tablet is still in my hand, the packet becoming sticky with the heat and sweat of my palm. Yes or No?
What’s the big deal? Paul looks fine. He says he feels great. It would be so good to step on stage and not feel tense, unworthy. I want confidence. I want to own that stage. I open the packet, shake the tablet into my hand and look at it. Harmless. Small. Pink. Do it. Just do it. I lift my hand. The E is in my mouth. I take a sip of my drink, swallow, but the pill is still there. It won’t go down. What am I doing?
I cough it back into my hand, scrape it back into its packet and tuck it in my purse. My life is too out of control as it is. I settle for sculling my vodka. And several more, during the night.
15. Amelioration
Snap’s sitting on the edge of his hospital bed complaining that I’ve brought him the wrong jacket. Apparently, I can’t tell the difference between corduroy and velour.
‘What’s it matter when you’re wearing PJs underneath?’ I ask.
‘Mmmatters ... tooo meee.’
Even though he’s slurring, his
tone still has a snotty arrogance to it. It’s good to know the stroke hasn’t affected his attitude, but I’m sure he’d be saying a hell of a lot more than ‘mmmatters’ if he had a better grip on his facial muscles.
‘Freeeda’s gumming this aft ... nooon,’ he says.
‘Coming.’
‘Gumming.’
‘C ... C ... coming.’
‘C ... coming.’
He’s getting much easier to decipher, though it’s hard not to look away when his twisted mouth is trying to produce words. It’s as if he’s doing something awkward or embarrassing that should be done in private. And I’ve caught myself talking to him as if he’s a child – slowing my words or speaking louder than necessary. He doesn’t react, so I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or not. If it were me, I’d want to slap someone.
‘Freda is coming in this afternoon?’
Snap nods and points to my iPad on his bedside drawer. I’ve lent it to him because his doctor suggested some apps for cognitive improvement and speech building. I put it on the bed next to him, and he taps out a message with his right hand: Thanks. Legal stuff complicated.
‘You’re welcome, but let’s talk, not type. While I’m in here anyway.’
He looks as if he’s about to lose it at me. He knows. I know. He doesn’t need reminding. His therapist tells him every day: the more he practises his speech – and limb use – the quicker he’ll recover. The first months are crucial. I’m torn between giving tough love and being a shoulder to cry on. Snap thumps his chest and grunts.
‘Hey!’ I grab his arm and tough love wins. ‘Don’t do that. I know it sucks, but this is how it is. For now. Your body is doing the best it can. Show it some love.’
I give him a hug, but he’s still not happy. I don’t blame him. Apart from the speech thing, the prospect of having to rely on other people must suck. Especially for normal stuff you should be able to do yourself, like opening a bottle of water, or pulling up your undies. And people let you down. Even the ones who are supposed to care, like his grandmother.
I thought she might show up after our talk. Maybe she’s embarrassed at not having been there for him when he was growing up? Afraid he’ll reject her. She shouldn’t be. Snap’s not like that. He only blusters because he thinks she never cared. That she’s like his dad. How do I get Snap and Shirley to connect? They need each other.
I’m glad I decided not to tell him about visiting her though. Even if it’s kind of lying by omission – it’s for his own good – just like Harry lied to me. Actually, just like Snap went behind my back, contacting Harry in the beginning. Now that I think about it, we’re all as bad as each other. Still, it doesn’t feel good to keep secrets, and it may not end well, but I’m taking Freda’s advice and learning to trust my instincts.
Just to be sure I’m not misjudging the woman, I test the waters. ‘I don’t suppose any of your family has been in touch?’
Snap shakes his head.
‘No-one?’
‘Fug them.’
‘C, c, Fu ... ck them.’
He laughs. ‘C, c, couldn’t give a fug. Ffffffu ... ck.’
That answers that. What a loser his gran is. She has an amazing grandson here. Yeah. People. They let you down.
I bend to help him with some slippers I’ve picked up at Kmart – he’s never owned a pair in his life, he tells me – and we head off at old man’s pace towards the cafeteria. He leans on a cane with his right hand, his left arm dangling – though he does have some use of it: I’ve seen him exercise it in his daily therapy sessions. This morning’s session must have tired him out. I’ve been tempted to point out how lucky he is that it’s his left side affected, seeing as he’s right-handed, but I suspect ‘lucky’ isn’t in his vocabulary at the moment.
I help him sit, then head to the counter.
‘Va ... nilla sly,’ he calls.
I turn back. ‘Vanilla slice?’
He nods.
Soft. Okay – easy to chew with a wobbly mouth, I can understand that, but what’s with his sudden obsession with sweet stuff? Biscuits, chocolates, lollies just aren’t his style, yet he’s been hoeing into them like a hog searching for truffles. Depression? A side effect of his stroke? I guess some changes are inevitable. Whatever. If it gives him solace, it’s all good. I’ll join him.
I return with our order on a tray, and I haven’t even finished transferring the cups to the table when Snap picks up his slice and tries to bite it. It’s like watching a toddler trying to navigate his first meal. Custard squidges between his fingers, and he dribbles from the slack side of his mouth. Caught up in a moment of revulsion, I’m suddenly ashamed. I put the tray aside and reach for the sugar dispenser, adding too much to my cup.
‘Disgussing?’ he asks.
I glance at my own slice and consider shoving it at my face to make a messy show of solidarity. It might make us laugh. But then I wonder if he’d think I was sending the message he looks like a pig. I’d kill for a degree in psychology right now. ‘No. You look like you’re enjoying it.’ I point to my own face. ‘You’ve got some custard here on your left cheek.’
He wipes the opposite side to where I’m pointing, and I redirect him, wondering if his brain has reversed his perception or whether he can’t process what I’m showing him. No, I’ve done that myself before. ‘Your other left.’
‘Would you like me to cut it up for you?’ I ask. Is that going too far?
He drops the slice and looks at it for a moment, then nods. I ask the woman behind the café counter for a knife. She hands over a plastic one. I cut up my own slice while I’m at it. It’s the least I can do to help him feel normal.
‘So, another week or so, and they give you a Get Out of Jail Free card?’
Snap brightens. ‘Nnnot sooon nuff.’
‘The nurse said we can get council assistance. Someone to call in once a day, take you to rehab, help with cooking, cleaning, showering. All that stuff.’
The noise he makes is almost a growl. ‘Don’t need loook ... ing after,’ he says.
‘You want me to move back in? Maybe I should. Harry won’t mind. I can check on his apartment every other day.’
He shakes his head.
‘Don’t be a dick then. Accept the help. Hell, I’d kill for someone to cook and clean.’
He looks morose.
‘You know I’ll come by most days too, see if you need anything personal.’
‘Don’t neeed yooou either.’
God, I imagine this must be what it’s like planning an elderly relative’s move to a retirement centre. That thought makes me twinge, because of Mum. But here’s Snap, and going by his face, this is more like his last rites. He pushes his plate away.
‘Don’t be like that. I’m trying to help you.’ His eyes are shiny with tears, and it breaks my heart. ‘I’m sorry. But we have to talk about these things. It’s not forever – it’ll get better in time. Especially because you’re young. You’ve got your whole ...’ I stop before I get the platitude out.
He shrugs.
‘Can I organise some of your friends to visit? Keep you company?’
‘No.’
‘Alright then.’
I leave it for now. I’ll ask again when he’s in a better mood. At some point we’ll have to talk about signing some sort of documentation so I can do banking and stuff for him – for the ‘just in case’ he refuses to talk about. Maybe Freda can give us some guidance.
‘Any hot male nurses in your rehab sessions?’
At last, I get a smile.
16. Inauspicious
The jangling noise jolts both me and Mr Pink. He chirrups and thumps to the floor. I flounder, wondering where the hell I am until I realise I didn’t make it to bed last night – I’m sprawled on the couch. The television is on. The jangling is still going. It can’t be the phone. It doesn’t sound like that. I dig around and find my mobile on the floor. Crap. It’s an alarm. My audition is this afternoon. I’ve got an hour to get my act to
gether.
I jump in the shower with my forehead throbbing as though a bass player has crashed a party in my skull and is refusing to be told it’s closing time. I did it to myself. I don’t deny it. Another gig with Paul and too much vodka. Maybe I shouldn’t have said no to the E. ‘Miniature passports to a temporary heaven,’ Paul said. ‘No hangover.’ Maybe I should have listened to him.
Harry’s going to kill me. Well, at least I actually made the call and got an audition slot. Thank god I didn’t leave learning the song until the last minute. I’ll just go over it in the car a few times on the way there. My stomach grumbles. How long is it since I’ve eaten? I try to sing some scales while I’m in the steam of the shower. Argh, my throat is sore. I cough and phlegm rattles in my chest. Great timing.
~
I’m puffing by the time I reach the theatre. The heavy glass door swishes closed behind me, and the sound of the city disappears. The foyer is all marble floors, columns, chandeliers and high ceilings.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
A girl wearing a Les Mis t-shirt over her jeans leads me through a side door. It opens to a corridor of chipped walls and aged linoleum. About fifteen hopefuls are sitting in chairs that line each side of the hallway.
‘Take a seat,’ t-shirt girl says cheerfully. She hands me a clipboard with a form and pen. ‘Fill this out. Wait for your name to be called. Shouldn’t be long.’
I guess long is a matter of interpretation. An hour might not be lengthy in the real world, but in my hungover world it’s an age. It’s also the difference between getting to my afternoon shift at the 7-Eleven and getting the sack.
I try to swallow away the achy thickness in my throat, hoping the lozenge I’m sucking will work a miracle. I glance at the other applicants. A couple are chatting like good friends. Another is looking at the ceiling, humming scales. Others are staring at the wall, lost in thought or relaxed in daydreams. They look so confident.
A new arrival sits next to me. She looks fortyish, her generous body stuffed into a tight-fitting dress, and she doesn’t seem to give a fig. Her nose is crooked, but her smile is big, warm and coated in hot pink lipstick.