Mattress Actress (2 page)

I don’t think my parents were ever really in love. My father met my mother in about 1967. She was a great catch because her mother was the heiress to a very successful company. My mother’s branch on the family tree was the only one that fruited money.

My father was an educated man, and graduated from university with a couple of degrees and the right set of friends. He came from a meagre background and was raised single-handedly by his mother, who was a hard and cruel woman.

They did have some common traits; both were first generation Australians; both were athletic, and charismatic, with a penchant for leading rather than following. Together they fooled around, with no serious intention, as marriage was not an option due to differences in religion, ethnic background and social standing. My father, in fact, was engaged to another woman whom his mother approved of. Refusing to be cast aside and allow religion to dictate their lives my mother announced that she was pregnant. It’s here that my parent’s stories start to differ. My father always makes the joke: ‘Annika, you’re so patient it took you eighteen months to leave the comfort of the womb.’ My mother, of course, rejects the truth of this, but does acknowledge that she had an abortion prior to her marriage.

My father was one of four boys and he very much wanted my mother to provide him with a small tribe of sons. I can remember him telling me, when I was much older, how disappointed he was that his firstborn was a girl. I would later have the last laugh—out of all of the children he fathered I was the one who stood out. I was everything he wanted in a child: brains, looks, personality—only I had tits.

My father was a businessman on an international scale, which meant that as children my brothers and I were globetrotters. With every new job came a new country and a new language to be learnt, which I loved. From as far back as I can remember I have always loved learning; I counted pieces of knowledge like stamps that needed to be collected. My father loved to teach, so he was always happy to encourage my precociousness.

My mother never showed signs of stress. Not coping was not an option—she was the ultimate survivor. When we were young there were always biscuits on the table and a beautifully prepared dinner every night, pancakes or waffles for breakfast. My childhood was very much a Norman Rockwell painting: smiling well-dressed children and parents. My brothers and I were all incredibly well-behaved, courteous children, and the very thought of stepping out of line and displeasing our parents never entered our heads.

My family moved back to Australia when I was seven. By then I spoke three languages, had three brothers—Dieter and twins Geert and Haans—and a silver spoon firmly planted in my mouth. But the reality was that my family was struggling for money. Because of my mother’s background she felt that perception was everything so inevitably we moved in to a leafy, tree-lined suburb way outside our means. I’ve often asked myself why my parents had a nice house in the right suburb but couldn’t afford to give their kids uniforms or textbooks. The right suburb of course was all white. There were no unpronounceable names in roll call in my school, so my accent and background stood out like dogs’ balls. I quickly developed a very thick skin to my classmates’ taunts; in fact, I accepted that not only was I different, I was superior.

There was one person who took an interest in me, though. His name was Bob and he was the father of a child in my brother Dieter’s class. He was fifty and even though he was on the pension, he would regularly come to our house bearing gifts like jewellery and perfume. His wife had run off and left him with the kid. He would wait for me at the bus stop every morning before school, which was a twenty-minute walk away from his home. He would hold my hand and guide me onto the bus. He scared me. He frightened me to the point that I wouldn’t go out of the house on the weekends. Sometimes I would even hide under my bed in case he was outside at the window, which was often the case. I didn’t know what to tell my parents.

I began feigning illness because I didn’t want to see Bob waiting at the school fence. On one occasion, he called me at home to check on me. I was so afraid he would come over that I began banging my head against the telephone receiver and said that there was something wrong with the phone. Then I hid under my bed. Mum was over at the next-door neighbour’s and what was initially a fleeting suspicion soon became a frightening reality when Bob knocked on the door armed with painkillers. He invited himself in and put the tablets beside a glass of water.

Mum walked through the door to see a strange man in the house and demanded to know what was going on. Bob quickly left the house, and I told Mum the whole story while she just stared at me speechless. When I had finished she walked very purposely to the phone. Dad returned home particularly early that day, but he didn’t stay for dinner. Instead he paid Bob a visit. I was never told how the visit went but Bob never bothered me again.

To people with money, life is a constant competition with the Joneses, and if you can’t compete successfully you drop out, only to resurface in a new suburb where you compete in a new Jones weight class. In our case our new weight class was an entirely new state, climate and what felt like a new language in Rockhampton, Queensland, where my parents bought a combined take-away food and grocery store. By this stage my mother weighed eighteen stone and beads of sweat dripped off her while she worked like a slave. Working in the store was hot, tiresome, and very demanding. Mum had never worked before, not even house cleaning. We always had what Mum liked to call helpers.

I had responsibilities as well. Before the age of ten my daily chores began when I dragged my feet out of bed at four o’clock in the morning to ride my bike five kilometres to pick up the newspapers. Following this I opened the store, cleaned the grill, prepared the money for the till, swept the floors, wiped the kitchen tables and dusted the shelves. I then got the fat ready for cooking, put the chickens on the rotisserie and prepared bacon and egg burgers for the workers when they came in for breakfast at seven am. I would serve until just before nine am, when I would go to school. I returned home shortly after three pm, and helped clean the store from that day’s traffic, then helped prepare for the next day. My mother and I had never spent so much time together, and I certainly had never had to communicate so much with so many people.

It was decided that my brothers should stay out of the family business because they were too young. Dieter was seven and the twins were five years old. As far as my father was concerned, boys didn’t do women’s work. Dad had not always been so harsh. When times were good and Dad was present, he would treat me with love and kindness. I remember him taking me to the backyard and teaching me about the solar system for hours. I also have memories of us wrestling in his king-size bed. Before we moved to Australia he would take me to Radio City Music Hall in New York to see a ballet or an opera. When I saw him, I loved him, probably because I relished any time he could give me. Like many business men he was frequently absent; in my childish memory I only recall seeing him on weekends, as he would leave in the early hours and return long past bedtime. What little time I had with him in my early years was pleasant. However now we were all in each other's pockets familiarity began to breed contempt. Previously Dad’s brief visits gave him no time to get tired of me, while now I was starting to question and ultimately doubt my previous child-like perceptions that he was the Brady Bunch-like father I had built him up to be.

Occasionally my family did resemble something out of an American sitcom. Dad would sit with his arm limply draped over my mother’s shoulder. I’m sure Mum wanted to believe his affection was sincere. She seemed to believe in anything other than what was staring her straight in the eyes. Shirley MacLaine was at her New Age pinnacle at the time, and Mum used her example to closet herself in previous lives, chakras, aura, astrology—anything but reality.

Of course, Dad wasn’t entirely absent from the store, he would even serve customers, but the labour intensive work of cooking and cleaning was reserved for my mother and me. He quite blatantly defended his right to stay out of the kitchen by stating that domestic work is always reserved for women. These were not the times when a child could question their father. Perhaps I did express my disapproval in other ways, though, because his frustration and anger with me became palpable.

Conversations were eventually limited to orders: three bacon burgers, Annika, two chips, four cheese and salad rolls. This was the most conversation I had with my father on any given day, week or month.

I made most of my friends over the counter at the store, as it was the closest shop to both the primary and secondary schools. I seemed to be able to relate to people better if they were a little older than I was. I had spent a lot of time on my own and hadn’t been around enough young girls to be tarnished with the giggly, silly girl brush. Although it wasn’t only my head that was mature for my age—I needed training bras by the age of nine and had a bulging thirty-eight-inch bust by ten.

To say my parents weren’t affectionate would be an understatement, so I sought affection however it was being offered. Boys naturally gravitated to me and I of course enjoyed and learnt to crave their attention. Positive attention was in short supply in our household, and compliments came four times a year on report card days. I had been continuing my netball and was selected to represent the schoolgirl state team when I was eleven. This meant a lot of weekends away. Although I was nearly bursting with the news, I couldn’t tell my parents because I knew they wouldn’t let me go. They would want me to stay and work in the shop. So I just left. When I returned on Sunday my parents demanded to know where I had been all day. I had disappeared for the entire weekend and they hadn’t even noticed.

School came easily for me. I saw how others suffered to grasp maths and science rules, but I just seemed to understand them. This was a curse and a gift, in that I was often bored, which led to too much time to act out.

I tried marijuana for the first time when I was in year seven. I was twelve but looked fourteen. Dope was a great release for a while. As long as I was awake, I was stoned. This went on for about six months but my grades were still great, my sports achievements were many and, most importantly, I never missed a shift at the shop. To this day I am grateful to my parents for instilling in me an almost obsessive work ethic.

The attention of men was like an addiction for me. I had little positive attention from my family, but I could always rely on an endless stream of attention from male school friends or customers from the shop. This was almost exclusively reserved to come-ons or physical compliments, which made me feel noticed and relevant. Over time my interest in men seemed to dissipate as did my addiction to validation. I began to really fit in, I attempted to mimic the other girls in my peer group—the way they talked, walked and dressed. I desperately tried to lose my accent and stopped responding to my parents in their language. My efforts paid off and my friendships developed to the point that I felt liked and accepted, not necessarily for my uniqueness, but for being kind, good natured and fun to be around no matter what my appearance. My friends gave me the time, acceptance and attention I was craving.

It was blistering hot and humid and I could not sleep in my sweat-soaked bed, so I sat on the window sill trying to conjure up a breeze by sheer wishful thinking. From my bedroom, I could see that the car’s interior light was on in our carport. I thought one of the doors had been left open by one of my brothers. Keen for a reprieve from the confines of my bedroom, I made my way downstairs, past my parents watching TV, to check the car. I checked all of the car’s doors and they were all closed yet the light was still on. I realised that the central switch must have been in the on position. As I climbed in to switch it off, a man jumped up behind me, groped me with one hand, and claimed to be holding a knife in his other hand. Although I couldn’t see a knife I wasn’t about to question him. I could smell alcohol on his breath. He told me to take my nightie off. I didn’t have any pants on but I didn’t want to argue. I had never been naked in front of anyone before, and I really wasn’t ready to be, but I knew that if I was to survive this I had to do as I was told.

We were now face to face. I knew this man, or so I thought. He was the elder brother of a friend from youth group, his sister was in my class. I had served him in our shop almost daily. I took my nightie off, slowly. He started trying to kiss me with his tongue, and my body stiffened in repulsion. I was petrified.

He began wrestling with his belt buckle while one hand remained on my breasts. He couldn’t undress one handed as well as manoeuvre me into a position where he could have sex with me, so he got into the car with me. I was naked, vulnerable, and every survival instinct was itching within me. I inched my way to the other door, knowing it was futile as only minutes ago I had taken pride in locking it. I knew what was expected of me but didn’t want to do it.

Like a dream, my father came up behind the man and hit him with a baseball bat. I had been saved! But I was sorry it was my father who had saved me. I thought, Oh shit, now I have to thank him. Isn’t that horrible? I was nearly raped and all I could think of was that I might have to touch my father. I wasn’t grateful. He told me to get out of the car. I told myself to act grateful and put my arms around him. I gave him the most sincere hug I could muster. Obviously it wasn’t sincere enough, as he went absolutely cold. I knew then that he had seen what he had wanted to see – and that my mother would take his side.

Despite this, I was taken to a hospital room and surrounded by four or more people all wearing white. I felt exposed, humiliated, confused and cold like I had never experienced before. They were asking me questions like: What did his penis look like? And how big were his fingers, did he insert them? I gave them no answers. I wasn’t trying to be difficult, I just couldn’t speak, and maybe I didn’t know the answers.

I closed my eyes on the examination table and woke up in a dark police station confronted by two fat men. There were no niceties in this room, and particularly no sense of compassion. These men expected an explanation as to why I was out in the car that evening. It took all my strength, my pride and courage to speak, let alone relive my night. While I told the police my story, they sat opposite me with folded arms, arched eyebrows and pursed lips.

They didn’t write anything down. Finally, when I finished my tale, they looked at one another with a look that only they seemed to understand. They went into a diatribe about wasting their time, and ‘prick teasing older men with your little skimpy nightie’.

I let their barrage of insults wash over me, and tried to remain unaffected. I wasn’t even there. I had escaped deep within my own mind.

The following morning, I presented for work not at my usual four thirty am but instead at five thirty. Mum was preparing bacon and egg toasted sandwiches. Without raising her head, she said to me, ‘I know it wasn’t rape.’

‘Really, and how do you know that?’ I asked with all the venom I could muster.

‘Because I spoke to my astrologer this morning and your moon is rising into Venus this week.’ That made me a Lolita, prepared to offer myself up to any passing man regardless of age or description. I never hated her more than at that moment.

One week after ‘the incident’, as I like to call it, I began to bleed. I knew where Mum put the pads, so I looked after myself and went back to work. No fanfare or shouts of adulation, no welcome to the world of womanly sisterhood. Just more shame.

Days, weeks or perhaps even months passed for me in silence. I just had no desire to talk or to be talked to. I cooked in silence, I cleaned in silence and I even took food orders without asking them what they wanted. I stopped putting my hand up in class, and when asked if I knew the answer I just stared back emotionless.

I was twelve years old when I was finally kicked out of home, or—as I referred to it—my parents’ house. Since ‘the incident’ I was on permanent grounding; with the exception of school I was not allowed to leave the house, even for school sport. I was given additional chores that extended beyond the confines of the shop. Now I was responsible for the cleanliness of the family home as well. I made the beds, did the washing, cleaned the dishes and kept the floors clean. I can’t explain what made me decide that day was the day I would find my voice but something inside me snapped.

I was sweeping the floor while my brothers were playing games on our computer with Dad. They were eating croissants with no plate or napkin to contain the flakes of pastry from dirtying the floor that I had just cleaned. The image is still etched in my brain, like I am outside of myself watching the events unfold. Here they were, these three little fat princes, scoffing their collective faces with French pastries, with no care for their sweeping pariah sister. I was incensed! I gave them the broom and told them to clean up their own mess, to which they responded by dusting all the flakes off their laps and on to the floor. Dad immediately took to his feet, his neck turned bright red and his spine seemed straighter that I had ever seen it previously.

‘Don’t speak to your brothers like that,’ he said quietly.

On the inside I immediately recoiled, regretting my verbal outburst, but something inside me decided that this was a Waterloo moment. So, full of false bravado, I stood tall and told him that I wasn’t going to clean the floor again. His eyes opened wider and seemed to bulge out.

‘Get your arse right back here and you clean up the mess now.’

I don’t know why I chose this moment to test out my father’s reaction to a swear word in his presence, but perhaps temporary insanity is a real defence because I had to have been insane to think I could get away with it.

‘This is bullshit,’ I said, immediately dropping the broom and running towards the exit. My father moved towards me, but I was too fast.

As I was running down the stairs I heard him yell, ‘Don’t come back!’

I stayed with my friend Ben, who was twenty-two, for two weeks. I still went to school during the day. I wasn’t having sex with Ben. Funnily enough, he never asked for it. He was the only real gentleman I’d met. He treated me like a fragile, delicate flower. He was beautiful inside and out. Ben had a Chinese mother and a Swedish father. He was six foot two with broad shoulders. We would joke about him being ‘Asian from the neck up’ and everywhere else, pure Viking. He understood what it was like being different. I had often heard people call him half-n-half or Bitsa but mostly they called him Ching Chong.

At the time of moving in with Ben we were merely friends who would spend hours together watching movies and talking. We had never really done anything physical. I had known of him for about six months as a customer in the shop but due to his shyness I hadn’t even known his name. I got to know him better after being locked out of my girlfriend’s house one evening—he was her next-door neighbour. He invited me to come in and wait for my friend to get home. After about an hour we heard the door close next door but played deaf. And so began a beautiful romance.

Two months passed before I returned home to get some clothes. Mum wanted to know where I had been and why I’d ran away. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. When I went to my bedroom to get my clothes, Mum went into a frenzy, part anger and part hurt. I think it was an affront to her pride that I didn’t want to live with her, not to mention what the neighbours must be saying about me moving in with people other than my family. First she begged me to stay then she demanded I stay. So my prison sentence commenced again.

I had recently turned twelve when my second violent assault took place. Leon was his name and he was twenty-nine. He had lived three doors up from my parents’ house for many years and was a regular in our shop. I hadn’t seen him for a while because he had moved to the other side of town. One Saturday, I was shopping in the city when I ran into him. We were casually chatting, as acquaintances do, when he offered to give me a lift home. It was hot and would have taken an hour to walk, so I eagerly accepted.

He said he had to stop at home first and wanted to show me his new flat. I reluctantly agreed. Once inside his bog-standard traditional Queenslander home, he made me a coffee. I took a seat on the three-seater sofa, while he sat to my right on a single chair. While my hands were busy with the coffee cup on the wooden armrest, he jumped me and tied my hands to the couch’s armrest with a rope that seemed to come from nowhere. He jumped on my chest with his knees and put his dick in my mouth. I was choking. His torso was up against my nose and pushing into my face. He was over six feet tall and weighed about one hundred kilos. I had never seen a penis before and certainly had never had one in my mouth. He pumped my face and with every thrust I thought my nose would break. I was choking on this god-awful thing, but as quickly as it started it finished. He remained perched on my face for what seemed like an eternity. I was left with bruises on my chest, a bleeding nose and a mouthful of thick, salty fluid. He kept his dick in my mouth until I swallowed the fluid. It was horrible. He got off me, untied me and finished his coffee. Then he dropped me off at the shop.

This man had been a long-time neighbour of mine. I could never have imagined that he would have done this to me. One of the most disarming things about the incident was the way he acted afterwards: as if nothing had happened. To him it was a mutually pleasurable experience. He even told me to say hi to my parents for him. I felt completely betrayed.

I never told my parents of my experience—I couldn’t trust them to be loving, supportive and understanding. And after my last experience with the police, I knew they would be of little use. So I just kept it to myself. Over and over I would ask myself, why do I bring out the animal in men? I couldn’t see it but I must have been to blame, just like the police had said, or it wouldn’t have kept happening.

If that was what sex was all about I didn’t want any part of it. It was still summer time, but I sat in the shop all day, rugged up in jumper, jeans and leg warmers. I didn’t want to play with my friends, so once again I returned to being mute. I had lost all trust. I hated my body, men, my family, work, school, life and all that it seemed to offer.

My parents had reached the end of their tether with me. I refused to speak, to engage, to smile, to participate, but mostly to do anything in the shop bar serve customers with a permanent look of despair on my face. I was to be sent away to live with my maternal grandparents.