Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
L ater, after I’d freshened up in the bathroom and returned to the nurses’ station, I saw the nurse that I’d first met at reception again. She made a suggestion that I get Mother some fresh clothes and maybe something from home that would give her a sense of comfort. I had no idea what that would be, but not only would it be a good distraction, it would also be a chance to see where Mother lived.
I was able to talk to Mother a little while later, and when I told her what I was going to do, she smiled at me like I was an angel and asked me to bring her some fresh underwear.
I nodded. It was the least I could do.
Besides organize her funeral, I guess.
Mother asked me to get her bag for her from the bedside table, and from it she plucked out her key. When she handed it over, she clutched my hand, pulling me toward her. “I love you, Daisy. I’ve always loved you.”
My heart was like a brick, heavy and solid and devoid of emotion as she looked into my eyes, her mouth ajar, waiting for my response .
She wanted me to say I loved her, but I couldn’t do it.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Love was not something I believed in. And after that mess with Roman, I had no intention of ever saying it again. Nor did I have any intention of discussing it with Mother.
After an awkward pause, she lowered her eyes and released my hand. “My address is Ethel Street, Sanctuary Point. Speak to Agnes. She’ll show you where I live.”
I said goodbye with a promise to return tomorrow.
Once again, the taxi ride across Sydney was timed to be in the middle of peak traffic. It took an hour just to get out of Sydney. It took a further ninety minutes to get to Mother’s mobile home park at Sanctuary Point on the south coast. The sun had nearly set, casting a weird sepia color over the foliage.
Dragging my suitcase behind me, I entered the door to reception and was greeted by a homely couple who could give Ma and Pa Kettle a run for their money. They were sympathetic and welcoming, and thankfully, Agnes was not very chatty as she walked me to Mother’s caravan. Maybe she’d lived through many of her guests dying and didn’t want all the depressing details.
She paused outside a trailer that was about half the size of the Vacation Dreamz bus that’d been my home for nearly three years.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Agnes said. “I’ll be at reception if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
I opened the door and hefted my suitcase inside. It was dark and dingy and smelled like wet socks, and I fought an almighty urge to run away and never return. I searched the wall for a light switch, and when it flashed on, I felt like I’d stepped back in time.
The trailer was exactly as I remembered it. A little more weathered, a little grubbier, and definitely more cluttered, yet still the same.
I turned toward the room that had been my bedroom. The curtains were different, changed from a pink floral to sunflower yellow. A plain blue sheet covered the tiny bed, and on top of that was a mountain of clothes. It was impossible to tell if it was washing or clothes that Mother had just neglected to put away.
The drapes were open, allowing me to view a woman and two children as they held hands and walked toward the shower block. Just the thought of showering over there had me striding toward my suitcase, clutching the handle, and lugging it back outside.
No fucking way I was spending even one night in Mother’s trailer.
I raced up the street like there was a demon behind me. At reception, I left my case outside and at the counter, I tapped the bell.
Pa Kettle appeared, wiping his lips with a napkin.
“Hi. Sorry to be a pain, but can you direct me to the nearest hotel?”
“Oh sure. Southern Beach Motor Inn is just up the road.” He waved his arm in the direction I should head.
“So, it’s walking distance?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Thanks.”
Outside again, I strangled the handle of my case and strode so fast up the bitumen my tits pounded from side to side like giant, dueling exercise balls. At the end of the driveway, I turned onto a road that had streetlights stretching as far as I could see.
Five minutes later, sweat was oozing from my armpits. Ten minutes later, I was cursing Pa Kettle and his ‘ Oh sure’ like he was the devil. Fifteen minutes later, I was contemplating taking my chances with one of the many homes that lined the street and seeing if they’d let me stay for the night. Thirty minutes later, I wanted to die.
If there were no available rooms in that motel, I’d kill someone for their bed. I needed a shower, food, and about thirty hours sleep. Even then I wasn’t sure I’d feel normal.
Then again. What the fuck was normal?
I was so far from anything normal; I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Like an oasis to my nightmare, the motel appeared out of nowhere, and I just about wept at the flickering rooms available sign.
The reception at Southern Beach Motor Inn was manned by a pimply-faced teenager who was chewing a giant wad of purple gum. But when he said that there was indeed a room available, I still wanted to kiss him. Lucky for him, there was clear Perspex between us.
I hauled myself along the covered walkway, turned the key to room seven, and strode inside. It was small but clean and it was all I needed.
Confirming the door was locked and all the curtains were shut, I grabbed the information book, hoping to find a pizza-delivery service nearby.
It was my lucky night. I ordered a large supreme pizza, garlic bread, two cans of ginger beer, and a tub of double-chocolate ice cream. The lady on the phone confirmed my order would be there in twenty minutes.
I used the break to strip off and jump into the shower.
Feeling refreshed, I dressed and stared at the clock, counting down the minutes till my meal arrived.
They were right on time.
The pizza was nothing like the pizzas I’d had in Italy. The Italians made pizzas that were light on topping, usually limiting it to three or four ingredients. This pizza was loaded with meat and vegetables and lots and lots of cheese.
I missed Italy already. I fought my next thought like it was a boa constrictor around my head, but the bloody thing still squeezed out of me . . . I missed Roman. I missed him so much I could barely do anything without it reminding me of him. I wanted to dive into my brain and scrape every image of Roman out, like a memory reset.
But it could never be. Visions of him and his perfect smile and perfect hair and perfect ass were there, in my brain. He was the last vision I saw when I went to bed at night, and he was right back in my mind when I inhaled my first morning breath.
What am I going to do?
I’d eaten half the pizza before I settled back on the pillow, undid the top button of my shorts, and rang Zali.
“Hey. You’re alive.”
It was so nice to hear her voice. “Yeah, sorry I didn’t ring this morning. I went straight to the hospital.”
“Is the bitch still kicking?”
I huffed. “Yep.”
“Damn.”
For the next twenty minutes, as I drank the ginger beer and finished off the pizza, I told her all about my visit with Mother.
“She’s a piece of work. I can’t believe she admitted the orgy. I thought for sure she would have denied it.”
“I know. But her reaction was weird. And I’m pretty sure there’s something worse than that, that she doesn’t want me finding out.”
“Worse? What could be worse?”
“I don’t know.” I snapped the empty pizza box shut. “Maybe she had sex with a priest or something.”
“Or a priest and his wife. ”
“And their kids.” We were on a roll and laughed together.
“And grandma.”
“Ewwww. Now you’re going too far.”
“Oh, grandma is too far? Okay, got it.”
I nibbled at the garlic bread. “At least she told me some truth. I thought she’d give me nothing but bullshit.”
“So, now’s the time to get as much out of her as you can.”
“That’s the plan.”
We were silent for a moment before she said, “You thinking about Roman?”
I sighed. “Yeah. I feel so bad for abandoning him like that.”
“I know, babe. Maybe you should ring him?”
“Yeah, maybe. Let me get through this shit with Mother first.” I paused, taking a swig of the ginger beer. “The nurse told me to make her funeral arrangements.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. It hit home when she said that.”
“Hey, at least you won’t need to book a big church. It’s not like there’ll be many people sending her off.”
“That’s true. Don’t you think it’s weird though?”
“No. She used people.” Zali and I had lost many hours discussing the crap Mother had done. “Friends don’t hang around when people do that.”
“That’s true. But what about family? She’s never mentioned any relatives. Ever.” I sighed. “Anyway, I’m about ready to crash. I’ll ring you tomorrow with an update.”
“You better. Sweet dreams.”
Sweet dreams.
Roman had said that to me when he’d tucked me into bed at the Swiss chalet.
Oh, Roman. Why did you have to be so perfect?
After I’d brushed my teeth, trying to rid my tongue of the overpowering garlic taste, I pulled on my pajamas and crawled into bed .
Closing my eyes, Roman drifted into my brain like a jasmine-scented breeze.
I pictured the night he’d made me that delicious soup. He’d been so kind and caring.
I could still smell him—sweet and manly, and totally lickable.
And his eyes. They took me to another world. A world that was free of all the bad in my life.
I was blessed to have met him. That should be enough.
But it wasn’t. I wanted more. Oh, so much more.
Rolling images of Roman flitted through my mind as I drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, I returned to the motel reception and booked my room for a week. I’d worry about something more permanent after that. I walked across the road to a coffee shop and ordered a double-shot cappuccino, and although I was still full from last night, I took the coffee-and-cake deal and bought a muffin too.
It was just after nine o’clock when I stepped into Mother’s trailer again. When I pulled the curtains apart, the blazing sun did zero to improve on the depressing interior.
My intention to get in and out as quickly as possible was obliterated the second I opened what I’d thought would be Mother’s underwear drawer.
It was filled with all sorts of stuff, but on the very top was a photo of two young girls. They were on a bench seat in front of a nondescript brick wall. Their arms were around each other’s shoulders, and they were smiling like it was Christmas.
Neither of the girls were me. Their white hair proved that. I’d had red hair for as long as I could remember. These two would be about seven or eight years old. I flipped the photo over and my heart stopped. One word was handwritten on the back: sorry .
I’d never seen the photo before and the fact that it was at the top of her things made it even more curious. It was like it was the last thing she’d looked at before she was taken to the hospital.
I placed the photo on the bed and had every intention of taking it with me when I went to see her. After returning to that top drawer, I picked my way through bits and pieces—Mother’s eclectic collection of bohemian jewelry; half-used bottles of low-priced perfume; a tiny notebook that contained a load of names and phone numbers that meant nothing to me. There were bills that gave zero indication of whether or not they’d been paid; a few keys that had no tag or label detailing what they were for; and several pairs of sunglasses that were both cheap and outlandish, suiting Mother’s dress style perfectly.
I put all the junky jewelry, miniature pewter statues, and various other items that meant nothing to me on the bed as I went. At the back of the drawer was a small wooden box, and even as I tugged it free, I tried to tell myself that I wasn’t snooping, even though I totally was.
Sitting on her bed, I flipped up the lid and my heart lurched. It was filled with photos. The first one was of a tiny baby wrapped in a white, knitted blanket. The ginger hair was a good indication it was me. I couldn’t recall ever seeing the photo before.
It was cute. I was cute. I’d never thought of myself as cute.
I flipped it over but the back was blank.
The next photo was of Mother holding me in her arms. She looked stunning in a white dress and being backlit by sunshine, her legs were visible through the fabric. I was in a baby-pink jumpsuit and my arms were out like I was waiting for a ball to be thrown to me. The photo was beautiful and innocent and pure, and the curled-over edges implied it’d been held many times.
I put the photo on top of the first one.
As I went through the box, lifting out photo after photo, I pondered why Mother had them all hidden. Why didn’t she ever display them?
Was she embarrassed by me?
Why weren’t any of these in frames, or a treasured album?
There were many pictures of men I didn’t recognize, but also quite a few of the man I’d known as my father. They showed a side to him I didn’t recognize. He looked young, healthy, and happy. Clearly, they’d been taken long before he became the bitter and cranky man I knew.
A folded page of newspaper caught my eye, and I tugged it from the photo stack and peeled it open. The date on the top corner confirmed it was twenty-five years old. It was page three of The Sydney Morning Herald. I scanned the headlines . . . Interest rates set to rise. Bank robbery gone wrong. Young woman has surprise baby in shower. Fire at heritage-listed school confirmed to be arson.
None of the headings jumped out at me. Reading the article about the woman who had the baby in the shower, I learned that the eighteen-year-old had had no idea she was pregnant. Was this article about Mother? But doing the math on the dates at the top of the page confirmed that it couldn’t be. Maybe Mother knew the woman. I set the newspaper aside with a plan to ask her why she’d kept it.
I went back to the photos, and flicking from one to the next, I barely recognized anyone. I didn’t find one photo that showed Mother with anyone who looked like they could be her parents.
But something did become very apparent .
There were more photos of Mother with strange men than there were with me.
It made yesterday’s declaration of love as thin as that sheet of newspaper. Anyone could say I love you . Showing it was what made it real.
Before my mind plummeted to Roman’s catastrophic declaration of love, I packed the remaining photos back into the wooden box, keeping the photo of the two little girls separate. I shoved both into my backpack, and reluctantly grabbed a few pairs of Mother’s underwear and a change of clothes for her.
Regarding giving her something of comfort, as the nurse had suggested, I couldn’t find a single thing that I thought would fit that description.
Nor did I give a shit.
Leaving the trailer as it was, I called for a cab.