The Family Tree (11 page)

Angie rolled her eyes and went back to concentrating on her meal. Kate popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and began chewing pensively. It
was
true that she didn't know what she wanted to write, but it was also true that inspiration was one thing she had never had to worry about. Ideas about plots and characters and story-lines had always appeared, even at the most unlikely of times. Like while waiting in the car for the kids, or during rather average sex, or while reading through other people's manuscripts. One of her most memorable had even come to her during the long and painful labour with Shelley. Something to do with a reproductive breakthrough that involved implanting the embryo just beneath the flat skin of a male stomach and then providing special medication that would enable the baby to grow steadily, until the male could no longer see his own toes, and then have the child burst forth. Sort of like that scene from the movie
Alien
, complete with all the screaming and wailing and rending of flesh.

However, now that she really thought about it, when was the last time she had dashed off to write down a really great idea? When was the last time she'd reached out to grasp a half-baked notion, and then gradually fleshed it out until it throbbed with the oh-so-sweet promise of a fully fledged story? Kate thought, but wasn't exactly sure, that it had been quite a while. And this realisation gave her a sense of righteousness over what she had done. It was a rescue mission, to peel away the layers built up over the years and uncover, once more, all those embryonic ideas that had been forced to lie dormant as her creative side had been smothered by everything else.

Kate smiled to herself, both at this concept and its inherent melodrama. Then she let herself be warmed by the fact that tomorrow morning she would begin writing. A series of words that would turn into sentences and then paragraphs and then chapters. An achievement that would then raise her up and propel her forwards. And it didn't matter that she hadn't had an idea for a while, because the desire to write was still as strong as ever. So given the right circumstances, and these
were
the right circumstances, then inspiration would occur naturally. It was just a matter of sitting back and letting it come.

K
ate stared at the cursor, which was blinking cheerfully two rows below her name while it waited for her to type something. Anything. She narrowed her eyes and quickly typed
Screw you, cursor
. The cursor paused as soon as she finished and, clearly not offended, immediately started blinking again from the edge of the full stop. Kate hit delete and erased her suggestion before it embedded itself like a virus. Then she put both elbows up onto the desk, lowered her chin into her cupped hands and went back to staring at the screen. It had been two and a half hours since she had called out goodbye to Angie and danced up the stairs to begin her career. Two and a half hours in which all she had accomplished was a rather unimaginative working title and the decision to use her first two initials rather than her full name.

The problem was that she had absolutely no idea what she wanted to write about. She ran through all the ideas that she could remember ever having had, even including the vengeful one with the embedded
embryo, but nothing seemed right. None of them demanded to be written, none of them filled her with any sense of passion. And the situation was made even worse by the fact she hadn't slept well at all. It was strange sleeping alone, and not altogether pleasant. And the bad dreams had come regardless.

At just past eleven, Kate went downstairs and fetched a couple of biscuits from the cupboard. She wandered into the lounge room while she ate them, absentmindedly fluffing up some pillows and straightening the magazines on the coffee table. She thought about vacuuming but the carpet didn't really need it and, besides, she recognised that as classic procrastination. The doorbell rang just as she was rather reluctantly walking upstairs again. A delivery man stood on the porch, holding a small, very colourful flower arrangement. He smiled at her.

‘Kate Painter?'

‘Yes, that's right.' Kate stared at him with surprise as she took the flowers.

‘Someone likes you,' said the man, still smiling. He held out an electronic pad with a style-pen and Kate signed awkwardly.

‘Thank you.'

‘Have a lovely day!'

Kate closed the door and then carried the flowers through to the kitchen, where she put them on the island bench. She slipped out the attached card and read it quickly.
To Mum. Good luck with the writing! Lots of love from Shelley, Emma, Caleb and Jacob
.

Kate stared at the flowers with amazement. It was a modest arrangement, a few orange gerberas and purple irises set amongst some vivid green fronds. But the size was immaterial, because it was the thought that was bringing tears to prick behind her eyes. So absolutely unexpected. Although it would have been even better if Sam's name had been there also.

After one last smile towards the flowers, Kate went into the lounge room to the telephone. First she tried ringing home, and then she tried each of the mobiles, but was unable to reach anyone. Instead she left messages of effusive thanks and then went back into the kitchen to gaze at the flowers once more.

The only problem with such a gesture, she eventually decided, was that they were like Angie's use of the word ‘masterpiece'. Carrying with them expectations that were cumbersome in themselves. However, this last thought broke her reverie and sent Kate back upstairs, determined to accomplish more than simply the word
Title
. She sat down at her desk, stared at the computer for a while and then picked up the copy of
So you want to write? Then enough with the excuses – just do it!
She flicked through the pages slowly until she got to where the author advised yoga as a method of channelling ideas. Kate threw the book onto the bed and watched as it fell open at the page containing the author's picture with his smug, yoga-induced smile. She turned her back, staring at the computer screen again and praying, without much hope, for inspiration.

Kate took a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. It seemed ironic that the problem had been the rapidity of time, yet now time seemed to be almost standing still. She gazed out of the window. Perhaps she should just give up for now, go for a drive or do
something
. A small blue hatchback drove slowly down the shared driveway and parked outside the neighbouring unit. The driver's side disgorged an elderly lady, her thin figure clad in a coat despite the warmth of the weather. Kate leant closer, trying to ascertain if this was actually their neighbour or a visitor, but the angle of the porch roof cut her vision and the lady disappeared from sight.

As she straightened again, Kate noticed another two elderly women walking down the driveway. They were dressed more comfortably, and one even wore a royal-blue visor perched on her head. As the women reached the porch, the visored one turned and waved to something or someone behind her. Shortly afterwards, yet another older lady came into view and then the three of them stood for a while, talking animatedly, before moving up onto the porch and out of view.

Kate sat back again and amused herself for a while by imagining all the different reasons that a group of elderly ladies would get together. Perhaps it was a bake-off, or a knitting circle, or something more sinister like a coven. Or maybe they simply got together once a week to
strip off and share a spa, where they played show and tell with their bunions. Most probably, though, it was just lunch. Which seemed like a good idea.

Kate went downstairs and fixed herself a ham omelette, with grated cheese sprinkled over the top. While it was cooking, she moved her flowers around, finding the best angle to catch the sunlight. Then she took her lunch into the lounge room and switched on the television before settling herself on the couch. She flicked through the channels with the remote control until she found a talk show where the male host seemed to be solving each of his guest's problems between fairly constant ad breaks. Kate ate slowly, as a man with a self-diagnosed sex addiction was followed by a mother and daughter who couldn't be in the same room without resorting to physical violence. As the daughter launched herself across the stage, and security rushed forward, Kate decided that even if one of the upcoming guests didn't have a problem like writer's block, she was justified in watching it as other people's issues counted as potential material. Grist for the mill, even if the mill was stuffed.

At about one o'clock, having decided that residual guilt might well be blocking the creative flow, Kate drove to the Lysterfield house. There were no cars there so she let herself in and then stood just inside the doorway, breathing in the familiar smells for a moment before getting to work. She started in the main bedroom, where Sam's clothes from yesterday lay across the carpet, and entrails of bedding trailed from the unmade bed.

The lounge room wasn't as bad, with only evidence of last night's occupation scattered around. Coffee mugs, a few magazines, some baby toys, Sam's reading glasses tucked between the couch cushions. Kate worked quickly. She wondered what her family were having for dinner that evening but, when she checked the refrigerator, could find no meat being defrosted. Afterwards she went outside to the shed and, with some difficulty, located the cardboard box containing her old
writing. She dusted it off perfunctorily and then carried it inside to the kitchen sink where she gave it a more thorough clean. Corners of the box curled upward, revealing a honeycomb of cardboard and dust. Just as she put the box down on the table, Jacob materialised in the doorway and made her start.

He stared at her blearily. ‘What're you doing?'

Kate took a deep breath to regulate her heartbeat. ‘Just fetching this box, that's all. What about you? I didn't see your car in the driveway.'

‘It's gettin' fixed. Blew the muffler.' Jacob shuffled over to the table and sat down. ‘Any chance of a coffee?'

‘Sure. No problem.'

From the laundry came the sounds of the washing machine hitting the spin cycle mode with a high-pitched whirr. Kate put the kettle on and then prepared two mugs of instant coffee while waiting for it to boil. Jacob yawned and laid his head down on his arms, watching his mother tiredly as, with one hand, he picked idly at one of the curling corners of the cardboard box. Thin but relatively hairy legs stuck out from his boxer shorts and his toenails badly needed trimming.

‘So how's the writing going?'

Kate glanced back up and nodded. ‘Good. Really good. And thank you
so
much for the flowers. I've left a message on your phone.'

‘The flowers?' Jacob stared at her for a moment before his face cleared. ‘Oh, yeah. That was Shelley's idea. D'you like them?'

‘I
love
them.' Kate switched off the kettle and poured boiling water into the mugs. She added a dash of milk, brought them over to the table and sat down.

Jacob pushed himself up and ran a hand through his hair, which then remained vertical, much like an unkempt mohawk. He pulled a mug towards himself and, closing his eyes briefly, took a deep sniff. ‘God, thanks Mum.'

‘My pleasure. Were you up late last night?'

‘Yeah, a bit.'

‘So . . .' Kate fiddled with the handle of her mug. ‘No jobs on the horizon then?'

He stared at his coffee. ‘Nah. Nothing.'

‘That's no good.' Kate mustered up a sympathetic smile. ‘But I'm sure something will be just around the corner. And how is everyone then?'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘Just . . . how are they?'

Jacob looked up and started to grin. ‘
I
see. You want to know if they missed you.'

‘Certainly not. I just wanted to know if they were all okay.'

‘Yeah, sure.' Jacob's grin remained in place for a moment and then he yawned again, giving a good display of the two back fillings he received when he was twelve.

‘Hand over your mouth,' snapped Kate automatically.

He closed his mouth abruptly. ‘Why? Is this a stick-up?'

‘Ha, ha.'

Jacob yawned once more, this time with his hand ostentatiously over his mouth, and then rose with a languid stretch. He picked up his mug. ‘I'm off to my room then. Thanks for this.'

After he had vanished, Kate stood up and emptied her coffee down the sink. Then she washed the mug out before picking up her box and heading out. On the way, she made a detour past Jacob's room and knocked softly. Taking a muffled response as an invitation to enter, Kate pushed the door open with the box and peered into the semi-gloom where the bright white of a computer monitor was the only illumination. ‘I'm off now.'

‘Oh, okay. See you later.'

‘Yep. Be good.' Kate hesitated. ‘And cut your toenails, they're disgusting.'

‘Yeah, thanks for that.'

‘Well then. Bye.'

‘Bye.'

Kate felt an oddly liquid mix of regret and resolve as she left the house, but this time it was untempered by the overwhelming relief she had felt the day before. Instead she had a strong feeling that this entire visit had amounted to no more than the procrastination she had been wary of earlier. Except, that is, for the cardboard box.

Accordingly, as soon as she got back to the unit, Kate sat down on the couch and placed the box on the coffee table before her. Then, with ‘Judge Judy' on the television in the background, she prised open the cardboard flaps and started to delve through the contents. It was like a somewhat self-indulgent time capsule. There were handwritten stories with multicoloured titles and, later, more mature works with greying pages splodged by correction fluid, their corners secured by rusting staples. Most with two-word titles like
Tangled Webs
and
Alien Deception
. There were sheets of half-fleshed ideas and some bleak poetry, dripping with an angst that now seemed merely trite. And then there were the creative writing essays, with assignment covers scrawled with advice from tutors:
Excellent use of synonyms here. You're on the right track, Kate. Keep it up!
Except, of course, she hadn't.