Spin Cycle

Ilsa Evans lives in a partially renovated house in the Dandenongs, east of Melbourne. She shares her home with her three children, two dogs, several fish, a multitude of sea-monkeys and a psychotic cat.

She is currently in the early stages of a PhD at Monash University on the long-term effects of domestic violence and writes fiction on the weekends.
Spin Cycle
is her first novel.

Totally dedicated to my mother
Charlotte Anna Evans
I am forever in your debt
(so please don't charge me interest)

A thousand thanks to a thousand people, and especially thanks to the following:

My three children, Michael, Jaime and Caitlin, for providing inspiration and for graciously putting up with take-aways (funny about that) whenever I was glued to the computer.

My sister, Tricia Woodroffe, for many, many patient readings and amazing support; my niece Sara Woodroffe and her meticulous copy notes; my mother and father, Charlotte and Maurice Evans, for more than I can say.

Also to Dr Maryanne Dever, who (so far) hasn't become too annoyed with my slight fictional detour; to Mary Ann Ballard, whose message on my answering machine in mid-2001 marked something of a
watershed in the birth of this novel; to Ilse Planinsek, Mimi Kris, Josie Kallio, Mandy De Steiger and Julie Tierney for their encouragement and sincere best wishes, and to Debbie McBride and everyone else who was forced to read a draft or share a bottle of champagne during the ‘creative process'.

Last, but by no means least, enormous thanks must go to my agent Fran Bryson for having faith when I was rapidly running out, and to my editor Cate Paterson for so patiently guiding a novice through the editorial process.

To these and many more people, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Alfonso the Wise

(King of Castile 1221–1284)

A source, a source
My kingdom for a source …

What my therapist actually asked me to pinpoint was the
root
of my dissatisfaction, not the source, but you try substituting the word ‘root' above and see where it gets you. So,
I
am searching for the source.

I have chosen the laundry for this endeavour, as I am fairly sure that I am the only person in the house aware of its exact location – which should minimise the chances of being interrupted. Initially I even took the precaution of turning on the washing machine and doing a load of laundry as extra cover. However, as this room is rather small, the only comfortable position for deep and meaningful thought is perched on top of the machine and, as anyone who has perched on top of an agitated washing machine will know, this action is not conducive to effective
lateral thinking. And I cannot afford to be distracted as I only have about two hours left in which to discover the source.

I can only blame myself for the fact that I am spending the first part of my precious day off sitting on top of an old washing machine with a half-empty cup of coffee, a pen, and a blank, rather damp piece of paper. It's all because I have an unfortunate fixation with the benefits of homework (a masochistic tendency definitely
not
inherited by my children), and so whenever my therapist concludes our regular Monday session, I usually sit there wringing my hands before blurting out an idiotic request for ‘something I could maybe do at home?'

I suppose that I believe my search for mental stability should not be limited to a one-hour (rather expensive) session once a week. On the other hand, my therapist is reluctant to hand out any unsupervised tasks as I think
she
prefers to see our relationship as a long-term one. I don't imagine that this is due to any particular fondness for me, but rather that she is wisely looking to the future and I represent a good part of her superannuation fund. So a week ago today I made my request (as usual) and she sighed (as usual) and said that she supposed I could spend a few hours trying to pinpoint the root/source of my dissatisfaction for us to discuss at our next meeting.

Which is to take place in just over two hours.

Maybe I can say that the dog ate it.

I try to marshal my thoughts by staring at the laundry window. I would vastly prefer to actually stare
out
of the laundry window because then not
only would I be able to see my very own leafy little slice of Australia from this vantage point, but also the scenic lower stretches of the nearby Ferntree Gully National Park. However, this feat would necessitate the occasional washing of the windows and compelling evidence suggests that I haven't done that in quite a while. From the look of it, perhaps never – I can't even see the outside flyscreen (and I'm sure there
is
one). Oh well, I suppose that at least if I can't see out, nobody can see in either.

I transfer my gaze to the pile of dirty laundry that is breeding wilfully in the corner – none of which is mine. Perhaps that is because I have mastered the complicated art of lifting the washing-machine lid and actually placing the soiled articles within. There is enough work in just this room to keep me occupied for a full day – if, that is, I had a full day which needed occupying. I sigh heavily. Now, if I were a bloke, the chances are I would be genetically immune to the housework blues. Perhaps
that
is the source? Which means that my troubles actually all started on a summer day, nearly forty years ago, when a certain doctor triumphantly (or at least I'd like to imagine so) held up a certain newborn baby and uttered the climactic words:

‘It's a girl!'

Bastard.

I suppose that even if he
had
substituted the word ‘boy', it would have changed little at that late stage (and he wouldn't have done much for his obstetric reputation). So maybe I really need to trace it back about nine months before that auspicious
occasion; however, that is one thought I prefer not to explore as it involves my mother, my father, and a certain amount of uncovered flesh.

I have always imagined that that is one hefty bonus test-tube babies would possess. They really
can
legitimately convince themselves that their parents are strangers in the intercourse department.

Now that I think about it, I am not all that sure that I would like to be a male. I'd have to stop shaving under my arms for a start, and then there are all those revolting masculine tasks like catching spiders and changing the oil in the car. Besides, I possess the natural ability to look after myself when I'm sick, examine
both
sides of an issue, and notice when a laundry window is dirty. None of which are your typical male attributes.

So what's the damn source?

For some minutes now I have become increasingly aware of an argument going on in the adjacent kitchen. Strangely enough it too seems to involve the question of gender, however not mine this time but, if my eavesdropping serves me right, the rather more ambiguous question of Bart Simpson's. Coincidentally, I can claim knowledge relevant to this issue as I was actually passing the TV when the doctor held the newborn Bart up by one ankle and made his announcement. Although how he could tell is rather thought-provoking as there were certainly no visible clues (
not
that I spend a lot of time studying cartoon characters for signs of genitalia). However, like a coward I decide to stay in relative peace for a while and hope that the situation will
resolve itself. A naive hope at best, and unworthy of a parent of nearly eighteen years' experience. Of course it increasingly becomes loud and clear that my intervention is necessary and I am forced to emerge from my sanctuary when violence seems imminent.

‘Mum! Mum, tell her that Bart Simpson is so a boy!
Tell
her!'

‘He's
not
a boy, there's a girl that talks his voice, so there!'

‘Of course he's a boy, he
is
! Mum, tell her he's a boy!'

‘A girl, a girl, Bart's a
girl
!'

Forget about discovering the source. What really worries me is that the five-year-old is the one who is calm, cool and probably correct (apart from her inability to pronounce ‘v'), while the thirteen-year-old is a quivering mess on the verge of tears. I really wish that he would put the milk down when he shakes like that.

‘Actually, you're
both
right. Put the milk down. CJ has a point because the actor who does Bart's voice for the show really
is
a female, but that's not important because, as Ben has pointed out, he's supposed to be a boy anyway. Benjamin, put the milk down, please. And I don't want to hear anymore about Bart Simpson, that's the end.'

‘
Told
you so.' Using her god-given talent for selective hearing, CJ tosses her blonde locks and exits with the supreme confidence of one who is rarely wrong. Unfortunately, she also likes to press an advantage and sings melodiously (to the tune of
‘Mary had a little lamb') as she leaves:

Bart Simpson is a little girl, little girl, little girl …
Bart Simpson is a little girl, lit-tle girl,

She followed Ben to school one day, school one day,
    school one day,

She followed Ben to school one day, scho-ol one
    da-ay …

So I am left in the kitchen with my son, a situation I usually tend to avoid as I feel like our conversations are often awkward and wooden nowadays. Benjamin is certainly the one who was neglected the most during my disastrous second marriage, but the separation doesn't seem to have helped either. He takes after his own father in looks: slim with dark hair, hazel eyes and an olive complexion, all of which probably sounds quite attractive until I also add the fact that he is lazy, immature, antisocial, moody and has feet the same size as Sasquatch on steroids.

And I love him.

And I am eaten up by guilt every time I look at him.

Now that I think of it, maybe
that
is the real problem. How can I expect to regain lost ground, or for him to confide in me, when I avoid being alone with him because he makes me feel guilty? I am somewhat stunned by this revelation. I look across to where he is gazing pensively out of the window (a feat made possible by the fact that I
do
clean this window occasionally), totally oblivious to my continued presence. I forget about the source for a
minute and just watch my son, wondering what's going through his mind at this particular moment. How well do I
really
know this boy? How does his mind work? What dark shadows lie over his heart? My own heart contracts with a rush of feeling. Suddenly, I am filled with an overwhelming desire to reach out and encourage him to confide in me so that we can work together for a bright, new future. I'm the adult – it's up to me.

‘Ben, tell me … what's the matter?'

I hold my breath in anticipation as he turns slowly from the window, emerging with obvious difficulty from his soul-searching. He fixes his eyes on mine but seems to be finding it difficult to articulate words. I smile at him in encouragement and, with a considerable amount of trepidation, reach out to take his hand. Visibly moved, he stares at our clasped hands for a moment before returning his gaze to mine, tears shimmering in his eyes. Oh, why hadn't I reached out sooner when it is suddenly so obvious that this was all that was required for him to open up, share his innermost thoughts, lean on –

‘I am never, ever, ever watching the
bloody
Simpsons again.'

I close my mouth and plaster a sympathetic look on my face as he shuffles out of the room, carton of milk still clutched to his chest. My own chest aches; I really should know better than to hold my breath in anticipation for over two minutes.

Sex is the source. It has to be. If I hadn't ever had sex, I wouldn't be spending half my life hiding in the laundry for a bit of peace (I originally thought the
movie
Home Alone
was a maternal fantasy film), or explaining inane issues like Bart Simpson's gender status. I would exist on a higher plane, discussing Plato and reading Germaine Greer. Surely I wouldn't have any problems with being celibate either, if I didn't know what I was missing?

Enter Samantha. Dressed today in casual school ensemble set off by Doc Martens and minuscule socks, her long, dark hair pinned back in an artfully arranged rat's nest. She is really rather pretty despite the hair, a feminine version of her brother but with more advanced social skills (
not
a difficult feat), and she certainly knows how to set her face and figure off far better than I did at her age. Samantha is seventeen going on twenty; and between her and CJ, no wonder poor Ben has problems.

‘Guten Morgen, Mommie dearest. I shan't be breakfasting today but would
sooo a-dore
a cup of tea if there's any available … Oh, and that reminds me – what would you say to me getting, like, a belly-button ring?'

Samantha likes to think she already exists on a higher plane, although I suspect that she would probably imagine Plato was synonymous with Italian crockery, and Germaine Greer would have to revamp her wardrobe dramatically before she featured
anywhere
on my daughter's reading list. She picked up ‘Mommie dearest' after seeing the Joan Crawford movie, and now uses it frequently. I'm not quite sure whether she means it as an irritating term of affection or just to be irritating full-stop. Either way it works. However, I'm not in the mood for her
affectations at the moment as I now regard her as the first product of my newly discovered source.

‘Good morning, serve yourself and definitely not.'

I return to the laundry to write the word SEX triumphantly on my previously blank slate. Although I don't really see that recognising the source is going to help matters. Maybe I could give the children away and be hypnotised to erase all memory. Tempting, but improbable. I would have to have plastic surgery to remove the stretch marks and silicon to restore the uplift, but even then my mother would probably spoil everything … unless I gave the children to her. No – not even they deserve that. Besides, children always find you again, usually at the most inappropriate moments.

But at least now I shall have something written down to show my therapist.

I sail back through the kitchen with the air of someone just having completed a difficult job in record time. Samantha has made her cup of tea and departed leaving a trail of damp sugar and a dead teabag on the bench. She has probably gone to search for the milk. I float through the lounge-room where thoughtful little CJ is concentrating on making a present for her brother. She holds up the drawing for me to admire and I comment helpfully on the shade of pink being used for Bart's dress. I continue on down the hall towards the bathroom, wisely ignoring the sounds of warfare coming from Ben's room and heartened by the realisation that the bathroom will now be free.

There is nothing quite like a hot shower to
improve the mood and fill one with renewed confidence. I have developed a method whereby I can achieve the maximum relaxation while showering and, even if this state of euphoria is fragile and doesn't remain long once I'm back in the familial fray, it's certainly nice while it lasts.

The first rule is to keep your eyes either closed or focused straight ahead – never, ever look down (unless you have a body like Elle Macpherson's, which I don't). The second rule is to stop worrying about trifles like (a) money, (b) family, (c) anything else potentially worrying; and the third and most important rule is to temporarily erase all memory of past, present or future husbands – in fact, forget about men in general (unless, of course, you happen to be showering with one).