just_a_girl (2 page)

I pray the Lord is proud of me because it’s my first time in nine years without antidepressants, and I know I can do it, I’m doing a self-help workshop with Pastor Bevan at Riverlay, and it’s the right time to attempt it because I don’t have any stress right now, you know, it’s school holidays and my clients are a bit on the quiet side, and it’s a new year and all, can’t believe we’ve arrived here already, 2008, and I’m trying to stay focused and keep up with how my mind works and use the Power of Now, so I’m asking the Lord for the strength to get through this and find my way back, because while the drugs have evened me out, a lot of the past feels a bit foggy and I’m worried that my memories are slipping away from me, like wet little fish through my fingers, but I have faith that this is a new beginning for me and for my daughter, a chance to wash away those fears, and I need to get up to check on Layla because she creeps around and comes and goes, and I’m noticing that with no meds I get more anxious about her whereabouts and what she’s doing, but I’m watching, always watching, and I’m starting to feel angry and upset at being out of the loop.

So to cheer me up this arvo I treated myself at Bathing Beauties, I prayed it would help me start to relax and, you know, I’ve never really liked massages, the hands of a stranger on me, but there’s a lovely courtyard with many varieties of tea, and I started with a soak in the Roman Room in their enormous spa pool with jets, but it was full of very fat American tourists and I could barely squeeze into a corner, and they are so loud in a group and say the most obvious things, and to tell the truth I don’t really like getting my hair wet, and so I got in and out really quickly, and the massage was for feet only so I thought I could manage that, and I was in a robe and hot towels were placed over me and my feet were propped up in one of those electric foot spas, and at first I was a little disappointed, because I have one of those at home, you know, and I thought,
Is this what I’m paying a hundred bucks for?,
but it was to get them nice and soft, and then Amber asked if I wanted a ‘sensory journey’ and offered various smells to choose from, and I love citrus so I chose lemon myrtle, the smell of our backyard after rain, and after all the exfoliating I got a bit of a shock, I had an eyepatch on so I couldn’t see, and suddenly she pushed my foot hard into a bowl of what felt like boiling oil and it was like being eaten alive, but I later found out it was paraffin wax, making a candle out of my foot shape, and then it became warm and womb-like, wet doesn’t even define it, and I found myself in a rare place of true immersion, a place I didn’t want to be sucked out of and I began to think that’s what it might have been like, all curled up before I was born, immersed in a well-oiled environment where every need I had was met, and I felt so peaceful and hoped maybe that’s what it’s like to die too, in that space of light before you go to Heaven, when you’re drawn back into a lovely succulent ooze.

On my first real date with Davo we could actually see each other in the light. He told me to leave my sunglasses on. We got with each other for yonks. Balancing on his skateboard at Springwood station. Unable to separate our hot explorations of tongues and teeth and fingers. Trains screamed past on the half-hour. I wanted to devour him alive. I spent the next week at school permanently attached to his rough lips. Or in my head at least.
I think I’m in love,
he’d said. He said he wanted me to rape him. He said he lost his virginity. By being raped by a girl. And he loved it. I don’t think he really gets it. Do girls rape guys?

He’s so slack he never called. I texted him the following week.
I remember, the pale one with sunglasses,
he texted back.

As if I’m at the end of some long line. As if I’m being a queue-jumper.

Once on the train I snuck up behind him. I could hear his mate teasing him over and over.
You’re under my
command. You’re gonna meet that chick. The one who made funny noises when you did funny things to her. I saw you two at the station. Ah! Ah! Ah! You know the one. Layla, man.

Davo catches the 7.15am train to Penrith. When he gets up on time. Same school but no uniform. I can’t believe he’s in year 12. On our first train date it was front carriage. Bad hair day. I was sweaty in my tunic. The one that doesn’t breathe when it’s wet. His green eyes the same as my cat Pudnud’s. She’s dead now. Dark curly hair and great shoes. Skateboard dreams. He leant over and swirled his tongue into my world. Our kiss went from Glenbrook to Emu Plains.

When Davo sits next to me in the playground I grab his knee. Slowly stalk my fingers up his leg. We never look at each other. The patrolling teacher doesn’t notice us wedged low behind the soccer goal. Polyester grooves.

On my 14th birthday we wag school and get a train then ferry. It’s a long way to the zoo. When we reach the gate Davo’s lost his wallet. He’s always losing his wallet. He leaves little piles of gold coins everywhere he goes. Like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumbs. But it’s okay. It’s my birthday. I’m loaded.

Taronga Zoo is so quiet in the late morning. Hundreds of caged birds, monkeys, lions, elephants. Hot air, thick as a sausage, sizzles around me. In my bag I have a blueberry muffin, can of JD and Coke, and my iPod. Davo says he’s going to the toilet. But I see him head to the souvenir shop. He must have found his wallet.

I wonder if he’s getting me a birthday present. What I’ve always wanted from a guy is a love letter. Not an email but actual words down on paper. A romantic sentence
that’s just about him and me. But Davo’s not a love letter kind of guy.

The dark curls and swagger come back into view. A juicy, delicious kiss smelling of chocolate.
Hey, where’s mine?
Davo quickly hands me a tiny box. He doesn’t watch as I open it. A silver ring with an engraved cat’s head. A bit big.
To catwoman,
the gift tag says. I keep it on my middle finger.

It’s a stinker so we wander into darkness. The platypus exhibit. But in the coolness of the fake night we can’t see one.
I don’t think they’re fooled by the light,
I say. But he’s not interested in the animals. I can only hear him breathing. As I’m pushed against the clammy wall. Davo’s fingers are large.
You’ve got a tongue like velvet,
he laughs. He puts his palm over my mouth. I squirm against the wall. Submit to his special form of shock treatment.

When I open my eyes I try to hide. The platypus hasn’t surfaced yet. But the primary school kids on excursion have found a more interesting exhibit.

My best friend Sarah drags me to her hip-hop class. I hate the music but fuckadoodle I’m so unfit. I am too pale and tight to do hip-hop. Dancers usually have curves. A big booty to shake. Sarah glides into it easily. Everything she does is sporty. She’s been like that since grade 1. She doesn’t need to think about coordination. If we go ten pin bowling she’s so fluid. The ball just seems to melt out of her. While I need one of those children’s guards. To keep my ball actually in the right lane. She can do the Fosbury flop and dive off a 10-metre board. She goes whitewater
rafting in Penrith. If she spills out she just gets back in the boat. She doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. Sometimes I wonder what we have in common.

Sarah’s sister Jess has just had a baby girl. When she was pregnant she lost a shitload of weight. Sarah said she threw up for nine months. Every day. She stopped drinking alcohol and started eating healthier. Funny how they’ll do it for their little sprogs. But after the babies they go back for their doughnuts. Sarah and I like to laugh at all the women in Penrith Kmart. Some are so fat I can’t even tell whether they’re pregnant. But Sarah knows the difference, and points them out. You can tell by the shape of their tummies. And whether they wobble a lot when they walk.

Anyway. At dance class Sarah puts me in the front row. Everyone else is really experienced. Popping and locking their bodies. Smoothing the steps at a million miles an hour. I can’t copy anyone in front of me. A retard in the mirror. Trying to look back at Sarah’s moves. Her face is fierce in concentration. Next week I’ll try and just get my feet right. I know why Sarah wants me to come along. So she’ll have someone to look really good against. She likes to see me out of my element.

What I like most about Sarah is her acid tongue. She sees things I don’t and she’s a crack-up. She’s much funnier when she gets drunk. But she actually gets quite aggro. I saw a doco. It said that drinking brings out your testosterone. Makes you more like a guy. Violent and confident.

Like those girls who killed that taxi driver. Apparently they were from the mountains but I didn’t know them. They robbed and bashed the guy and he died. They left
the scene and went on the run. What were they on and where did they get it?

It’s Sarah’s 14th birthday party. Her mum is actually letting her have one. And her sister Jess is breastfeeding at the table. I try not to look but she has a special singlet on. She shows me how it unclips at the front. Another Britney has entered the world god help us. The baby opens her mouth wide and Jess pulls her fast. Before she sucks like a vacuum hose. When she’s latched on it looks like she’s kissing. Like when guys and girls have a good pash. Her jaw works away hard. Davo can’t keep his eyes off Jess. And she smiles at him as if she’s an earth goddess. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But if I got my boobs out it would be the same. All the boys in the room would look at me too.

We’re eating potato chips and sneaking shots of tequila. And all I can hear is
slurp slurp grunt.
The baby looks like an alien. Head too big for its body. It turns away from Jess’s tummy every now and then. All floppy-eyed and drunk with milk. Jess pats her awake and moves her to the other side. Her white boob has crisscrosses of purple and red. Lines that look like little train tracks. They go deep into the skin and up under her arms. I wonder what they feel like and if they will be there forever.

Jess wraps Britney in a white cloth. First one little arm across her body. Then the other. It’s so tight she looks like she’s in a straitjacket. But she doesn’t wake up. Jess goes upstairs to put her in the
snugglebed.
That’s what she calls it. She comes down with the baby monitor. Britney snuffles and moans.
It’s good, she can’t roll over yet.
Jess turns the
monitor up and downs three champagnes quickly. She says she can get the alcohol out of her system. Before the next feed.
So what the hell.

Jess goes outside to light a cigarette. Sarah says she’s started up again.
But mum’s paranoid about cot death. She keeps going in to check if Britney’s breathing.
Davo follows her out. I sit at the kitchen table watching them smoke. Jess is laughing but her eyes are dead. When she comes in her face looks all crumpled. She starts slow booty dancing with one of Davo’s mates. Sarah stops them just before they have a pash. Jess falls fast asleep on the couch. Like she’s in her own snugglebed.

I try to imagine my mum when I was born. All lanky and full of hope. My dad driving them home from the hospital. With a little bundle of me. But my mum’s such a neat freak. She likes everything in its place. She says I was always getting into everything. I just can’t see how I came out of her.

The Lord has been looking out for me as always because while I had lunch today I was watching
Dr Phil,
and they had a special on
How to deal with your toxic daughter,
the talking back, the secrecy, the wilfulness, and it threw up all these memories of when she was growing up and that perhaps I haven’t always been the best mum, and I can see our relationship has become strained and it’s even worse with Davo now on the scene, you know, I don’t allow him in her bedroom when I’m around but I know that he sneaks in there sometimes, and I pray that Jesus is keeping half an eye on him as I can’t check up on her every minute, and I wish I could make her see that we all have great plans for her, but she walks around with her head down, that fringe hiding her face.

And she really hasn’t changed that much since childcare, every day was a battle of wills to get her out the door, screams and tears and fists and I would feel so guilty I would sneak back after 15 minutes to see if she had settled in, but she would still look angry and alone clutching her teddy so no other kid could get it, and when I walked in at the end of the day she wouldn’t look at
me even though she was only two, punishing me for leaving her there, and afterwards I could never drag any love out of her, she was always a tough nut to crack, gets that from her father.

And it’s hard to admit to be honest and I’d never say it to anyone but sometimes I wish I hadn’t had her so young, you know, looking back I wasn’t ready and it kind of stopped me doing what I wanted to do, and then when you have kids you can’t keep following your dreams, you can’t travel, take off, start new adventures, go to gigs any more, and I’ve been thinking of starting a website called BadMum.com where guilty mothers can have a rant and say all the things about their kids out loud, that they usually have to hide inside, because it’s not acceptable to be this way, you have to be kind and patient and loving and generous, when sometimes let’s face it you want to run away and leave your kids behind.

I will always remember when she was ten months old and I was doing the dishes, I was always doing the dishes or the washing, it seemed like I was on a never-ending spin cycle, that’s the part of bringing up kids they forget to tell you, and I hadn’t got around to making the house Layla-proof, so Geoff was out getting gates and locks and plugs because she kept trying to come into the kitchen commando-style all wiggly on her tummy, and on this particular day she was lying at my feet crying and pulling at my jeans, she wouldn’t leave me alone, and I kept trying to show her a favourite toy or read a funny book but she was screaming with that raw edge, the sound kids make when they’re getting a new tooth through, and it burrows into your head like a dentist’s drill and I got to the point where I’d had enough, the calm voice and gentle songs weren’t working, and I yelled,
For God’s sake, Layla, shut up!
but it didn’t work at all and she lay on the floor and kept screaming and I faced away from her, washing dishes and thinking,
I don’t know what to do with her until Geoff gets home.

And I felt like giving up, putting her in the cot and lying down on my bed and hopefully going to sleep forever, because I never got the chance to catch up, never had a moment to myself to think about anything, and it was a continual grind grind grind when Geoff was home late and up early and after Layla went to bed at seven I would stagger to the kitchen with barely enough energy to put two bits of bread in the toaster and spread them with Vegemite, because Geoff never felt like cooking dinner at home even though he was a chef, and sometimes it was easier just to pour a glass of wine instead and lie on the couch waiting forever for my husband to turn up.

And there was another morning I’ll never forget, when I was trying to get the house tidy before she went for her first nap, so I could at least have a shower because that was the highlight of my day, to have hot water running over me and be able to smell that lemon soap, and then I heard this terrible scream, the kind of cry she didn’t usually do, and I ran around the corner and I couldn’t believe it when I saw that the laundry door was open, it’s never open, I always check it, and there she was curled in an awkward bundle lying still on the hard tiled floor looking up at me from the bottom of the step, as if she was accusing me, and I could see this large egg, a blue bruise developing on her forehead, a stamp for the world to see what a bad mum I really was.

I stood there and moaned for ages and she watched me with those big dark eyes and grunted every now and then as if to say,
What’s up?,
and I really needed the Lord in my life back then, because suddenly I wished she would dissolve in my arms and disappear completely because I knew then I could never do it, I couldn’t be the mum she wanted me to be, and it was like she knew this too because she never looked at me the same way again, she kept her distance, always trying to climb out of my arms when
I wanted a cuddle and crying in her cot for hours before sleep, turning her face away from the mush mush mush that I spent hours making, and keeping all her joy and giggles stored up for her dad the moment he walked in the door.

And even when I was breastfeeding she had these tiny nails like razor blades and her little fingers would pinch me really hard and I would say
No
and she would do it even harder, and when I had a shower I would look down at my breasts and they’d be torn apart from her tiny deep scratches, and I didn’t really enjoy breastfeeding, it was never peaceful for me, not like in those books put out by the Nursing Mothers’ Association where the women are always smiling, like the Madonna, and they say that it should come naturally but it’s not like that at all, and I remember trying to get her on the boob in the early days and there I was with my husband and the midwife looking on and trying to get her tiny mouth onto this huge nipple and she would scream and I’d have her under my arm in a footy hold with the midwife latching her on, or some strange woman in the hospital squeezing my nipple hard and milking me like a cow, while Geoff tried not to turn his head away, and this trial went on for the first three months, every three hours, morning and night, until we both collapsed with exhaustion and I got the bottles and formula out, feeling like a failure in the art of nurturing.

And I still wonder whether Layla’s been punishing me ever since because she looks at me in the same way with those dark unblinking eyes, and I feel like I’m being judged, for letting her fall, for letting her father go, for giving her the bottle too early, and I want to undress her and put her in the bath like I used to and wash her tummy and hold a face washer to stop the soap from getting in her eyes and say I’m sorry.