Chapter 23 #4
My body was not a conversation I was willing to entertain having with Cleo on the way to the wedding, nor something I liked to think about at all.
I avoided scales, and mirrors, and clothes that no longer fitted.
It could not be what Cleo thought, because I did not care how I looked – I was not obsessed, or focused, or even interested in that.
Maybe there were more foods I disliked than liked, but I had always been that way.
Fussy, sensitive, stubborn, Elsie would say.
Born to prove the parenting books wrong when they pronounced: ‘If your child is hungry, they will eat.’ There was no secret disdain for the bodies of those who could care for themselves properly, nor pride in their contrast to mine.
I had not been home for nearly a year at that point, but I knew that when I saw Elsie she would shower my shrinking body in only praise.
Somewhere along the line it becomes acceptable for girls to become picky eaters, to restrict and restrict and restrict, as long as the results are visible.
Healthy is code for thin, no matter how we get there.
The weather in Melbourne was frigid, and the heating in the car did not seem to want to do its job fast enough. Traffic was slow and we had to take an alternative route because there were roadworks on the highway further ahead.
‘Who gets married at twenty-one anyway? I bet Amanda’s pregnant,’ I scoffed, as Cleo freaked out over the map on her phone readjusting. The mobile reception was patchy on this particular stretch.
‘I think they wanted to have it this year because Amanda’s grandmother is sick,’ she replied.
It took an hour longer than it should have to get there, but when we pulled up out the front of our sandstone cottage, I could not hide my begrudging approval. Hedges lined the pathway like Lego locked into place, and vines overburdened with pink flowers hung from trellises that framed the door.
‘This is really nice,’ I said quietly, admitting something against my will.
‘You like it?’ Cleo seemed genuinely thrilled by the prospect.
‘Let’s never leave,’ I replied.
We took the room with two queen beds, because Amanda’s workmate would be sharing the cottage with us, and she was coming alone. I envied her the big room with the king bed and ensuite, and the privacy.
The wedding started at 2 p.m., so we had a little time to waste, but Cleo got straight into the shower.
She was a ‘get the hard stuff out of the way first so you can relax’ kind of person, which balanced well with my ‘leave everything to the last minute and use the adrenaline spike of time-pressure anxiety to get things done’ approach. I lay on my bed until she was done.
‘You’re right to jump in now,’ she said, appearing in her towel at the doorway.
‘I’ll get in soon, it doesn’t take me long to get ready,’ I replied. ‘How about I make us some drinks?’
Cleo made a noise of light agreeance, and I jumped at my chance to pour us some gin and tonics in the kitchen.
The cottage had heavy crystal glasses and premade ice, reaffirming this was the right choice.
Having never drunk gin as a teenager, it held the allure of something more sophisticated than it actually was.
Cleo had created a ritual of making us G you can’t have both.’
The rain continues to fall and I stay silent through willpower and pig-headedness alone.
At some stage, I do not hear over the rain, Mum obviously decides to leave.
Somebody else will be doing something else wrong, and I wish them well in navigating the ramifications of that with Elsie.
In the meantime, I take myself back to bed.
When we stepped out into the cottage courtyard for our pre-wedding photoshoot, the cold air shocked me rigid.
‘I wonder if Amanda’s dress will be warm enough,’ I said.
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Cleo replied, as though I was concerned for the bride’s welfare and not making another judgement about her choices for the day.
We got our best angles, our new profile pictures, our proof-of-friendship selfies. And then I got another gin.
‘Maybe we should have a snack before we head over,’ Cleo suggested, so clever to veil her own disapproval in concern.
‘I am not hungry, Cleo. I don’t need to be eating all day like you,’ I replied.
There was no concealing my irritation. Cleo was quiet until we reached the sprawling lawn where white chairs were laid out in rows for the ceremony.
The aisle was marked down the centre with expansive floral arrangements in mismatched buckets and containers on either side.
Very high-low, shabby-chic. Cleo came alive at the chance to talk to anyone but me.
I came alive at the sight of champagne flutes on silver trays.
A string quartet was playing Taylor Swift instrumentals.
The cold air had settled in my bones, though if anyone but me was bothered they certainly were not mentioning it, not on this special day.
Everyone shivered and chattered without complaint as a sign of commitment to this couple’s love.
I chose our seats, me on the edge so I only had to sit next to Cleo, and ‘Wildest Dreams’ began.
People stood and turned, but I faced forward, watching Daniel, who was waiting with his brothers and the celebrant under an ancient fig tree.
His eyes were full of tears, his smile wide, his brothers practically levitating with pride.
When Amanda came into my line of sight, snide comments about her big hair and poufy dress came to mind, but could not take hold; my heart was not in it.
She was euphoric, they both were, and all I could think about was how many people were there.
People who loved them. They all looked so happy.
My throat grew hard and stayed that way until the ceremony was over.
I have regressed to a state of needing to be horizontal.
At least my mattress here is not lumpy like the one I had sourced from Marketplace in Melbourne.
Sometimes I feel as though my bed is my whole world, the only planet I wish to inhabit, while other times it acts like a cryogenic chamber where I can be frozen while the world moves by outside.
Perhaps five minutes pass, or perhaps two hours, until Olivia is knocking on my door, wine in hand, face tense.
‘Lunch is ready,’ she says.
‘Great. And how’s Mum going, if you could rate her volatility on a scale from one to ten?’
‘Look, about a seven, but if you can keep your cool, I reckon food and wine could get her down to a five by this afternoon.’
‘I’m not the instigator; Grandma seems to acquire life force from stressing her out. She must gain a decade of life every time she makes Mum cry.’
‘Grandma’s just old and set in her ways. She means well.’
‘Just because she likes you best doesn’t mean she means well. She means very poorly.’
‘Yeah, maybe. Anyway, lunch is ready and it’ll be worse for you if you don’t come up. Just eat your food, have some wine, and imagine you’re on a tropical island or something. It will be fine.’
‘You know most families don’t require alcohol and dissociative techniques to endure time together, right?’
Olivia laughs at this and disappears from the doorway.
I pull myself out of bed, both anxious and aware of how ridiculous I am being about having lunch with my family.
My body is reacting as though I am being hunted for sport.
It is fine; nothing will happen and then the day will end and I will sink back into my swamp of re-emerging memories and newfound context, and get back to work wading my way through.