Art Ache (12 page)

BOOFHEAD

It’s Cynthia.

ME

Cynthia?

Cynthia! The incredibly hot lighting designer? The one with the great face, great job, great friends, cool car, and an endless supply of hot men?

BOOFHEAD

Yeah.

ME

Oh.

Marjory sticks her head out and gestures for me to come in.

BOOFHEAD

So, can we change the day or not?

ME

I’ve got to go.

BOOFHEAD

Can we change it?

ME

Sure.

He’s already hung up. I get up from the teak seat and make my way, zombie-like, through Marjory’s glass door.

MARJORY

Hi. Sorry, I’m running a little late. How are you?

ME

He’s got a girlfriend.

I start to cry. Not delicate little Jane Austen tears trickling down my cheeks but great big, ugly, puffy-eyed, woman betrayed tears. I’m convulsing and can hardly speak. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m supposed to have a quick session with Marjory, who’ll tell me I’m doing well, pick Jack up from childcare, play in the back yard, make dinner, have a bath, put him to bed with some quality, educational, Mem Fox-approved, expressive bedtime reading, and then stay up and learn eight pages about the Satin Bower Bird.

Witchypoo has booked me to play a ranger in an educational video about Bower Birds. That’s fine, the money’s okay, I’m grateful for the work, but in true Witchypoo fashion, she didn’t check if they had a budget for an autocue before she committed me to the job. That’s the computerised screen that sits near the lens of the camera with the script written on it. Needless to say, they don’t. I therefore need to learn eight pages about the Satin Bower Bird off by heart by tomorrow morning. I thought I’d cram it all in tonight, but I hadn’t counted on my ex-husband dropping a clanger that would completely discombobulate me.

Boofhead has a girlfriend. Of course she’s gorgeous, of course she’s successful and of course she has a rack to die for. Surprisingly, she’s isn’t younger than me; she’s actually older. One must be thankful for small mercies. I don’t know why this hurts my feelings so much, but it does. Of course it does. I’ve been dumped. I’ve been left behind. I’ve been rejected and now to add insult to injury, I’ve suffered a fate worse than rejection. I’ve been replaced. It’s one thing to know that you don’t do it for someone anymore, but it’s another to know someone else does.

I’ve got to get it together. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

MARJORY

Let it out. Let it out.

Blubbering. I am blubbering.

ME

I don’t do it for him . . .

MARJORY

I know.

ME

But she does . . . he was my husband . . . I thought that meant something. I thought that . . . I thought it was a permanent arrangement.

MARJORY

You know better than that. You wanted it to be over.

ME

Did I?

MARJORY

On a deep emotional level, yes.

ME

But on an everyday level, no. I miss him.

MARJORY

You think you do.

ME

I do.

MARJORY

You miss the idea of him.

ME

I miss him. It’s a mistake, the whole thing. I should never have given him that stupid ultimatum. I can’t believe you made me do that!

I’m screeching now. Screeching and blubbering. Not a good combination.

MARJORY

I didn’t make you do anything.

ME

You told me to give him an ultimatum.

MARJORY

As an option. Ultimately, it’s up to your own free will.

ME

I don’t have a free will. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

MARJORY

Grief comes in waves. Three weeks, six weeks, nine weeks and then three months. You’re right on target.

ME

It’s not grief, it’s regret.

MARJORY

Do you mean that?

ME

Yes!

MARJORY

I don’t think you do. Even if you disagree with the concept of the ultimatum, you can’t ignore the result. He didn’t want to be with you.

ME

Maybe he just had his ego bruised because I confronted him. Men hate being told what to do.

MARJORY

Maybe you’re rationalising.

ME

Maybe I’m being honest.

Marjory takes a breath and hands me a box of tissues. She’s used to clients breaking down in her office.

MARJORY

Tell me about her.

I can barely bring myself to speak. If I tell someone about her then she becomes really real. It’s really, super-duper happening.

ME

She’s um . . . she’s . . .

And more tears, great big splashing tears, come galoshing down my cheeks.

MARJORY

Take your time.

ME:

She’s . . . she’s . . .

And now I’m sobbing.

ME

. . . just like me!

MARJORY

Just like you are now? Or just like you used to be?

Of course she’s hit the metaphorical nail right on its metaphorical head. I answer her astute question through a barrage of sobs.

ME

Just . . . like . . . I . . . used . . . to . . . be!

MARJORY

Describe her.

More sobs. Marjory repeats her instruction.

MARJORY

Tell me about her.

Then I take a deep, centring breath.

ME

She’s bright, funny, pretty . . .

Collect your thoughts, Persephone.

ME

Kind of light and carefree. She looks fit. Like she has energy. I’m not fit. I used to be. She’s . . . independent, confident.

MARJORY

And this makes you feel . . .

ME

Like shit!

MARJORY

Could you unpack that statement for me? What do you mean by that?

How the hell do I know? Like shit. Like dog shit, horse shit, human shit, chicken shit. Any type of shit you can think of.

Then it hits me.

ME

Betrayed. It makes me feel betrayed.

MARJORY

By whom?

ME

Him!

MARJORY

In what way?

ME

Well, he’s getting those things from her instead of helping me find them inside me. Or rekindling them in our relationship.

MARJORY

That’s not his job. The “helping you find it inside yourself” part. The relationship part, yes, but that part, no.

ME

But I helped him.

MARJORY

That was your choice.

ME

That was my interpretation of marriage!

MARJORY

Those qualities you mentioned, the ones she has that you used to have, where did they go?

ME

I don’t know. We got consumed by our careers. Then we had Jack. Tom kept telling me I’d changed. Of course I’d changed. I became a mother . . .

MARJORY

And how did that change things? How are you different now?

ME

I’m . . . tired . . . I’m . . .

MARJORY

Let it out. Let it go. It’s time.

And I let it rip. I cry for Columbine. I fill me up a big old pig’s trough. I cry like a woman who has been betrayed, abandoned and replaced. And Marjory watches. I hate this woman for telling me to give my ex-husband an ultimatum. I hate her for being perceptive about him. I hate her for knowing what was going on for him emotionally when I couldn’t see it. I hate her for being so hard on me, for not letting me off the hook and I tell her. I tell her how much I hate her, how much I hate Witchypoo, Boofhead, Sonya, the hammy actor with the great rack, and Cynthia, the incredibly hot lighting designer who does it for my husband. I tell her I want to be the victim here. I want someone to tell me I’ve been hard done by. But what good would that do? The reality is—it’s over. I have to accept it.

Then I tell her that I like her for forcing me to put my life jacket on. For teaching me to swim. I like her for being her. For being calm, rational, soothing. I like her artificially blonde hair. I like the slight whiff of cigarette smoke on her clothes. I have an image of her sitting on her back step, dragging on a durry before she greets her clients. And she doesn’t bat an eyelid. She just continues with her calm, calm voice.

MARJORY

Let it out. Let it go.

That’s about all she says, but that’s enough.

Then I tell her how much I hate myself. For not being who he wanted me to be, for not being who I wanted me to be. For allowing him to reject me, for allowing me to reject myself. All the tears, all the pain, all the pent up . . . what is it? Loss, I guess. Yes, that’s the word. All the loss. All the hurt, all the anger and sadness and fear and disappointment. It all comes out, streaming down my mascara-stained cheeks and splashing onto her aloe-scented tissues. The tears have moved beyond choking and gagging tears and now they’re sobs, strangling each other as they come out my throat. Snot mingling with tears, tears mingling with mascara. I’ve turned into my mother and I don’t care.

I sigh. A calm, reassuring sigh. I feel exhausted. Exhausted but also strangely refreshed. Calm even.

MARJORY

I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave it there, Persephone. We’ve actually gone over time, but I thought it was important to go with it. You really hit on some big things today.

ME

That’s fine. I feel good. Thanks.

MARJORY

You need to find your SELF again.

And that’s how she says it, like it’s written in capitals, my SELF.

MARJORY

She’s in there somewhere but she’s been hiding in the dark. We need to bring her into the light. What time suits for next week?

ME

Time? Shit! I’m late.

It’s four fifty-one and I have to make it to the childcare centre before five.

ME

Same time. Same time is fine. Gotta go! Thanks, Marjory.

MARJORY

I didn’t do anything. You did it all.

I race to the car and tear across two suburbs to the childcare centre. It’s just after five by the time I screech into the car park. I’m paranoid about being late. There’s a new woman at the centre who is practically ringing Family Services if you arrive even a minute after pick up time.

She’s already standing there with a supercilious look on her face. Where’s Kel? I much prefer it when he’s here. He gets it. He gets me.

HER

We were starting to worry.

ME

Sorry. Held up at work.

HER

Is everything okay?

Oh, shit. My mascara, snot, and tear-stained face. I must look a sight.

ME

Fine. I’m fine. Allergies. Fine. Hello, sweetheart.

JACK

You’re late.

ME

I know. I’m sorry.

JACK

I was the last kid here.

ME

I’m sorry, sweetheart.

JACK

It was cool. I had the puzzle table all to myself.

The supercilious childcare worker takes me aside.

HER

It must be hard. If there’s anything we can do, please let us know. He’s a lovely boy.

ME

I know.

HER

Really lovely.

ME

I know that. Look, it’s fine. We’re fine. Really.

HER

Being a single mother can’t be easy.

That term, it’s an ugly one. Well, I’ve always found it ugly. Not the concept, just the term. It’s like “de facto”. Sounds vulgar, tawdry, common or crude. “Single mother.” Yuk.

ME

I like to think of myself as a mother. Just a mother. Single or not.

HER

I didn’t mean/

ME

/I know. Come on, sweetheart, let’s get going.

That was assertive! Well done, Persephone. Your SELF is starting to stir.

I can’t bear that suddenly people are pitying me. I’ve gone from being a mother to a single mother. It’s like a disclaimer. I’ve never understood why we label single mothers when we don’t do that for married mothers. It’s such an assumption that married mothers are somehow more supported than single mothers. From my experience, the only thing that changed when my husband left was my marital status and my tax-free threshold. It wasn’t as if my workload suddenly increased because he left. I was doing it all anyway, as I’m sure many married mothers do. So why the distinction? I make a decision not to identify with the term. I am a mother, pure and simple. Not a single mother, not a married mother, not a five foot four mother, not a size six shoe mother—I’m a mother. Way to go, Persephone. Your SELF is talking, even if your face is covered in smudged mascara and snot.