Chapter Nineteen
I had to run. Sports bra. Tights. Sneakers. Run. I needed to go far and hard and I needed not to think.
I hit Ebony’s name in my favourites list and put in my ear buds and her phone was ringing before I’d even made it onto the street.
‘Mair.’ Her voice was lively, as familiar and reassuring as a kitten hopping onto my lap. Her voice was also full of food. ‘Haw-wah you?’
‘Good. What are you eating?’ Talk. Fill my brain with something. Anything. Anything that wasn’t Abel Sutherland.
‘Weet-Bix.’
Excellent. Here was a problem. A good diversion for my thoughts. ‘Weet-Bix? It’s like three p.m.’ I had no idea what time it was. Time had warped, bent over itself. Challenged all previous rules of the space-time continuum.
‘It’s five actually. Dinner time.’
‘Why are you eating Weet-Bix?’
‘No food.’ I could literally hear the dripping of milk into the bowl. And someone fighting with someone else in the background. And the Kangaroo Beach theme song. Essentially, standard soundtrack of Ebony Life.
‘No food?’ I panicked. Had something happened with my scheduled transfers?
Was my account empty? Had the transfer bounced?
I couldn’t ask explicitly because we didn’t talk about the fact that I supplemented her Centrelink income.
I labelled it ‘Payback for Thermomix’ (a kitchen appliance that she’d bought second hand a few years ago for twenty dollars and I’d borrowed from her and never returned).
I was counting on the fact that she didn’t check her bank account very often.
And if she did, she probably wouldn’t notice the regularity of the transfers relating to the Thermomix.
‘Well. There’s food. In the shops,’ she continued. ‘Just not in our fridge. And anyway, the kids don’t eat anything else except Weet-Bix, so I figure I’m simplifying it for everyone.’
‘Ebony.’
‘Less dishes. Less waste. Less cows killed.’ I heard the slop of another large mouthful. ‘How are you?’
‘Don’t you know about iron? The kids need iron.’
‘Sure, sure. I get iron in a bottle. Tip it in the Weet-Bix. Job done.’
‘Ebony, honey. I really think—’
‘Molly! Get off him!’
I listened to the whine in the background. Molly saying it was Paddy’s fault and Paddy screaming that Liam wasn’t sharing the blanket. It was comforting and grounding to hear their chaos. Even if I was concerned about the lack of nutritional demands being met in their family.
I kept running while a full crowd-control event happened on the other end of the phone.
I wondered where Abel was and what he was doing.
Would he go and do something death-defying to set his mind straight again?
Climb the Organ Pipes or something? Or maybe this was a regular Friday afternoon for him.
Maybe he’d just head home and cook himself the shark that he’d slayed the previous weekend before calling one of his many female acquaintances for a night of hot sex.
He’d probably have a giant bed. With giant sheets.
And his women would be supermodels in their day jobs and retrievalists on the side—
‘Mary.’
‘Sorry.’ Concentrate!
‘Where are you? You’re running, I suppose?’
‘Yes.’ Running from my brain. From my useless brain that kept going down obscene paths.
‘How was your little thingy? Your camping trip?’
‘Fine.’ That was the last thing I wanted to talk about.
‘Did you make out with anyone?’ This was a standard Ebony question. She was of the same type as Lilly: every life activity was an opportunity for sex. It was concerning how, on this occasion, the question was actually disastrously close to reality.
‘Of course not. Have you guys been okay? Did you try to call?’
‘We’re fine,’ she said dismissively. ‘Paddy. Off!’
Another peacemaking round ensued. Poor Ebony.
‘Sorry, what?’ she asked and I realised after a moment it was directed at me.
‘You’ve been okay?’
‘Yes!’ She sounded exasperated.
‘And Mum?’
‘I think so. I don’t know really.’ Dishes clunked, kids squabbled. ‘Mum is Mum. She’s doing a lot of watercolour painting, apparently. So that’s good, I suppose.’
‘Right.’
I wished I was like Ebony and could take Mum’s latest passion at face value, rejoice in her enjoyment of something. But for me, it only signified a crash to follow. This was typical. Relaxed Ebony. Anxious me.
‘Anyway. I can’t wait for my trip. And the kids are going mental, they’re so excited. But I better go. Molly is threatening to eat Paddy’s— Molly! NO!’
The line went dead. I wondered what Molly was about to eat. I couldn’t say the phone call had been particularly relaxing, but at least it had provided something for my brain to focus on, to worry about. Like the state of their nutrition. And how much screen time those kids had.
And what was I going to do about Ebony’s goddamn trip that was less than two months away? At this point, all four of them would be staying with me in my awful little ‘Granny Flat’.
I groaned.
Calling Mum was next on my list, and despite the usual anxiety phoning her provoked, I was grateful for another distraction.
‘Mary, sweetheart!’
Ebony was right. Mum was in watercolour exuberance.
Similar to the pottery high she’d had last year, which was followed by a particularly brutal fall.
Mum had never been interested in seeing a psychiatrist to make any diagnosis, but I suspected she had some form of bipolar.
Perhaps that’s why I found it hard to enjoy these times when she was thriving, because I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something almost manic going on.
‘How was your trip?’
I filled her in on a few details, like the weather and the group.
I never trusted myself to really open up to Mum.
Our dynamic had been like that as long as I could remember.
If I were to open myself up, I would only risk the experience of her not really being able to hear me, see me, help me.
And on the very rare occasions that had happened, I was left feeling lost and alone.
So instead I always held myself tightly, communicating with facts and events rather than sharing anything on a personal or emotional level.
‘Do you know, Mary,’ she said after listening to a brief rundown of my trip, ‘it’s good you called. I’ve actually got a very lovely person here who you should say hello to.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ I said robotically as my insides curdled.
I knew exactly where this was headed. I knew exactly what her cutesy, affectionate tone meant and who the ‘very lovely person’ would be.
Mum getting involved with someone during an elevated period was directly proportional to the magnitude of the low that would follow. It was never good news.
I heard the phone line change as I was put on speaker.
‘Mary, say hi to Greg.’
‘Hi, Greg.’
My anger welled up inside me, and I felt as powerless as I had when I was seven years old and being introduced to her first disaster of a boyfriend after my father.
I hated them. Before I even knew them, I hated all of them.
Because they were all the same: not overtly abusive – they never hit, they didn’t yell, so Mum would deny how damaging they were and keep going back to the same sort time after time.
But they were slimy, weak men, who fell for Mum’s exuberance in her good times and recognised her vulnerability just beneath the surface.
They’d insidiously control her, diminish her.
And after a whirlwind few months, where I’d try not to listen to the disgusting sounds of sex through the thin walls of our house, she’d be tossed aside and left dirty and worthless.
It was as though she was seeking her own abuse.
She was abused by men when she was dry and alcohol when she was single.
‘Greg and I met at a painting class.’
‘Mum, I’ve actually got to go, sorry.’ I couldn’t listen to any more. The revulsion was enough to make me nauseous.
‘Oh.’
I could hear the disappointment in my mother’s voice, but I didn’t have the capacity to engage. I’d been there too many times, and the feelings of despair it ignited were too deep, too searing.
‘Well. I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up next time.’
I heard the loudspeaker change as she said something to Greg. I could picture her. She’d have her makeup on and a pretty dress. A sparkle in her eye that should have looked beautiful, probably did look beautiful, but to me just felt scary, wild, dangerous.
‘We’ll talk soon, then.’
‘Mary.’ Mum’s voice was close now, and had an unexpectedly softer edge.
As though, for a moment, a clear part of her brain was speaking.
It made me slow my running to a walk so I could properly listen.
Very occasionally, I got these glimpses of my mother, my real mother, and I almost held my breath in anticipation.
‘Your flowers,’ she said. ‘They’re coming out. ’
‘Really?’ I slowed almost to a stop. I could see the garden of my childhood home clearly in my mind. It would be a jumble now, after months of me not tending to it. But somehow the bulbs always broke through, casting bright colours in the coldest months.
‘Yeah. I’ll send you a photo, okay?’
I could hear the smile in her voice and I felt a rush of longing for a mother who knew me and saw me.
And then she was gone.
I was way behind schedule. But organising content and structuring learning was my strong point, so I spent the evening working on my study plan then began making actual progress.
I found great comfort in clarifying my thoughts on the summaries I wrote, simple dot points outlining pathophysiology, epidemiology, clinical presentation, investigation and treatments.
By ten p.m., I had found a flow – ear buds in with music on, computer on my lap – and I was starting to think maybe it was all going to be okay.
Maybe I’d get in my study groove and smash this exam.
Maybe I’d find ways around the distractions of Vivian’s Doobie Cave.
Maybe Mum would stop drinking and dating douche bags and I could move back home, have enough time and money to grow a properly good flower garden, and we’d all live happily ever after.
I don’t know why I was looking at my phone at that moment. I wouldn’t have heard the message alert tone with the music playing through my headphones but I saw the screen light up and a name appear that had never been there before.
Abel.
He’d saved his name in my phone. My whole body responded.
If I was really as disciplined as he’d said I was, I would have carried on with my study, not slipped up on the first distraction that presented itself. But alas, I was a mere human.
Abel: It’s so true. I can’t help fixating on that very fact.
I frowned. The message made no sense. Maybe he hadn’t meant to text me. Maybe he was texting someone else at ten p.m. and I’d just caught something mid-conversation.
I swiped my phone to the message thread. That’s when I saw the message before it and my heart dropped right out of my body. A message from me. At four thirty that afternoon. That I had not written.
Me: Abel, it’s me. Sexiest creature you’ll ever meet. Love Mary.
I stared at it. He’d written that while I had been straddling him. The thought was enough to take the air out of my lungs, make me hot all over again in an instant. What even was that?
Teasing. Of course it was.
When I could finally lift my dumbfounded jaw from my keyboard, I realised I was smiling. Damn my smiling heart.
I read his response again. And even the second time, even knowing exactly how outrageous and not worth taking seriously it was, it had the same effect on my organs, sending them briefly hollow and weightless.
My fingers hovered over the screen. I couldn’t reply. Study. I needed to get back to the study. Focus.
But – Disciplined Mary? She’d vacated the premises. Again.
Before I could give further consideration to the consequences of engaging in the interaction, my finger was flying across the screen.
Mary: You really are hell bent on being a big fucking distraction aren’t you?
I watched those stupid dots dancing like they were hypnotic.
Abel: : )
Abel: Just wanting to know how you’re holding up with the wind chimes?
Abel: Offer still stands.
I rolled my eyes and snorted. He was unbelievable.
Me: It’s going really well here. The wind chimes and dream catchers are growing on me.
As if to punctuate my point, a dream catcher that had been hanging on the window fell and landed on top of the bar fridge. I wondered if that was good luck or bad luck, then surmised that, based on patterns of my life so far, it was almost certainly going to be bad luck.
Abel: I don’t believe you.
Me: Fine. Don’t believe me.
Abel: I won’t.
I shook my head. Wearying. Extremely wearying.
I went back to my work on myxoedema coma. Blah, blah, blah, monitor end-tidal CO2. Blah, blah, consider atropine. Blah, may need vasopressors.
Abel: How’s the study going?
Me: IT WAS GOING A LOT BETTER FIVE MINUTES AGO.
Abel: Ouch. No need to get all pissy.
Abel: Though I do find it pretty cute when you get worked up.
I cursed my stupid mouth for finding that remotely worth smiling at.
Me: I’m turning my phone off now, Abel. Goodnight.
Abel: Goodnight, sugarplum. Best of luck with the bongs.
Abel: And if you change your mind …
I snorted.
This man was going to be my undoing if I wasn’t careful.