Unzipped (20 page)

The Saturday night after BJ gets back, we’re going to Trotters to celebrate. Carole Smart is coming. I ask BJ if it’s all right if Ruby comes along.

‘Do you think she’ll behave herself?’

‘We’ve moved on. Now that Ruby is with Mark, her head’s in North America.’

There’s so much BJ doesn’t know. Me too. ‘Tell me about Simone. She was good to you.’

And she’s not here.

‘Simone’s so laid back she makes Valium sleepy. After Melbourne and you and the girl from the pub and the phone call, she was what I needed.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Forty-two. That’s nearly twenty-five years of experience.’ BJ smiles. That dimple.

‘Fair enough. What’s happening with her now?’

‘She’s got motor neurone disease. She was diagnosed
last year. She’s moving to Helsinki. She wanted to experience those summers where it’s daylight all day and night. She had this thing about the sun.’

I try not to think about somebody else kissing the places I do. ‘What did she say?’

‘Just stuff—that there are plenty of dirty fish in the big blue sea, that you were probably working out some kinks, that you’d be there when I got back and could I hand her that oxy torch, no, not that one, the red one and stand back a bit.’

Just stuff is right.

BJ hasn’t driven for months and wants to feel some rubber on the road. We get to Carlton super quick, the needle of the tachometer hitting places it never hits when I’m driving.

‘We’re early. Let’s fuck in the back seat.’

‘God, you pregnant women are insatiable.’

‘Help me?’ My belly is too big to squeeze between the seats.

She drops the driver’s seat horizontal and I bend past it into the back seat. She replaces the seat and climbs in with me.

‘I’m too tired after that.’

Back-seat sex is a young person’s sport, like roller derby and sexting.

‘Lie on your side,’ BJ says, ‘and move back a bit.’

Her knee is between my legs, mostly so she can fit on the seat, but it’s making an impression. I grab her by her belt and pull her into me. We kiss. There’s a knock on the window. The door opens and we nearly tip out onto the footpath, my head hanging over the seat, out the door.

‘Unhand that woman, boy.’

‘For God’s sake, Ruby. You could have just met us there.’

‘And miss this?’

BJ is out of the car first. They catch up a little while I extract myself from the back seat and compose myself. BJ never has to worry about dishevelment.

‘Love the shirt, BJ.’

She’s wearing her
A bird in the hand is sexist but not a bad idea
T-shirt.

‘Thank you, I made it myself. I hear you’re with Mark.’

‘Yes. When he’s not in Chicago. He says this is his last trip.’

‘I’m sure it will be, Rube.’

Back in the upstairs toilet at Trotters, Ruby and I have left BJ and Carole to order our dessert. We’re talking through the closed door.

‘Hurry up.’

‘Rube, why would she want this?’ My hands are on the lump.

I flush, open the door. We swap.

‘You are not giving her credit.’ Ruby’s turn to talk through the door.

‘She’s too young. I don’t want her stuck with a baby at twenty-three.’

‘Why not? You are at thirty-six.’

‘It’s different for me, it’s mine. This baby is nothing to her.’

‘Why?’ Flushing. The door opens. ‘Because she’s not carrying it? That is so fucken dumb I want to punch you.’

She’s washing her hands, taking her frustration out on the soap, taps, paper towel. ‘Listen, Peta. I am not
carrying your baby, nor is Mark, and that means a helluva lot to us.’

‘You don’t know what this is like. She’s been back for a week, less, and I’m beside myself thinking she’s going to leave. That she’ll rejoin her life, uni, study, her job, and meet someone more suitable.’

‘Someone less of a dickhead, you mean? Don’t tell me I don’t know what it’s like. Mark used to be with you, he didn’t leave you, you left him. What if he meets another you in Chicago? I know what love is like, Pete. It’s ace and it sucks.’

‘What’s ace and sucks?’

BJ is at the door and, with us in it, the room is too small for her to enter. ‘Mum sent me up to find you. Come on, Pete, nobody likes being left on their own with their mother.’

‘Sorry, Beej.’

‘We’re having a discussion,’ Ruby says.

BJ is already down the stairs. I turn to Ruby: ‘You know Mark wants you. He’s going to change his job for you. He would never have done that for me.’

‘And she’s back here with you. She can’t take her eyes off you and she can’t keep her hands to herself. Didn’t you say Simone is forty-two? BJ has no problem with age gaps. It looks like she prefers it.’

After dinner, walking back to our cars, Carole Smart puts her hand on my arm.

‘Peta, I’m sorry I made that dinner party so difficult.’ She and I stop walking, the others continue.

‘We all made it difficult. It was too early. BJ and I put too much pressure on everyone. We just wanted to show how good we were.’

‘And you did, but I didn’t want to believe it.’

‘Because of Serena?’

‘Yes, I prejudged you. I’m sorry. I should have trusted Belinda. She’s not seventeen anymore, she knows what she wants. And you did leave Mark. You’re not Serena.’

‘Thank you, Carole.’

No, I’m not Serena. And BJ’s no misadventure. But I’ve made mistakes. And I’ll make others. I’m bound to.

Top Ten Things A Twenty-three-year-old Should Be Able To Do:

1. Study for exams without being interrupted by a crying baby or a stressed-out and overloaded firsttime mother.

2. Have a post-exams blow-out, an AFL-style mad-Monday bender, without having to come home halfway through to bring the wife milk, bread and disposable nappies.

3. Not have to share fridge-door space with ultrasound photos of her girlfriend’s unborn child.

4. Smoke, take ecstasy, etc. I was never big on drugtaking when I was twenty-three, but I could have been.

5. Feel invincible.

6.
Have sex with somebody fit and energetic. There are veins I never had—well, I guess I had them, but I can see them now: little blue road maps to nowhere, up my legs, across my thighs and breasts.

7. Go see the world.

8. Or in BJ’s case, more of it.

9. Not become bored.

10. Or broken by responsibility.

‘Let’s go for a walk. We can go to the park and watch the kids playing. Absorb some good parenting.’ BJ’s lacing her boots up.

‘God, do we have to?’

‘Yes. When we get back, I’ve got a couple of DVDs for us to watch.’

She’s brought my shoes. I can’t button my coat anymore, can’t button anything unless it’s maternity clothes. How has Hollywood made motherhood look glamorous? There is no glamour in the oversize yolk in the front of my so-called jeans and there is nothing sexy about being unable to tie your laces without heavy breathing.

As for heavy breathing, we’re managing, more than managing. It’s good, but it’s arduous. They say cigarettes are bad for your fitness. Ha! Try pregnancy.

It’s May and there is a winter bite. We walk slowly, BJ holding my hand. When we get there it’s wall-to-climbing
wall of kids of varying sizes and abilities.

We sit under a tree out of the wind. BJ is in front of me, leaning into my chest, and I’ve tucked my hands into the sleeves of her coat.

‘Just think,’ she says, ‘this time next year, that could be us.’

There’s a little boy in denim overalls. His mother is kneeling on the ground, arms ready as he steps towards her, awkward, like he’s walking on a flying carpet. His dad is a half step behind him. When he makes it to his mother, his grin is almost as big as the grins on his parents.

I can’t help smiling. ‘It’s pretty cute.’

‘It’s life, Pete.’ She reaches around, kisses me on the cheek. I feel myself colour. If there is a last bastion of heterosexuality it has be the park on a Sunday afternoon in Balwyn.

‘Look over there.’ I nod at the seesaw.

Two little girls, blonde curls bouncing, matching pink gumboots, Mum and Dad leaning against the sandpit fence. The girls are rattling the handles of the seesaw, like they’re trying to make it go. It’s as if they know there should be more to it. They don’t make seesaws like they used to.

‘Thought of a name?’

‘Not one.’

‘Okay. Have you booked the antenatal classes yet?’

‘Nope. I’m too scared. It’s out of my hands anyway. It’s nature—what will happen will happen.’

‘You are unbelievable. You, the Queen of Google, investigate the interest out of everything. Come on, Pete. Knowledge is power, remember?’

‘Ignorance is bliss, remember? Let’s go.’

BJ stands up, holds out her hand and helps me to my feet.

‘But Pete, we’ll miss stuff like what to bring to hospital, what drugs you can use. They show you how to breastfeed. All that stuff.’

I’m not the only one who’s been on Google.

‘All right, all right, I’ll book it.’

The walk home is uphill. Crampy legs, heartburn. BJ walks behind me and lifts up the lump. The relief is brilliant.

She has a selection of five movies, they are all babyrelated.
Raising Arizona, Parenthood, Nine Months, Look Who’s Talking
and
Baby Boom.

I choose
Baby Boom
with Diane Keaton as a career woman who inherits a baby.
No. No. No. I can’t have a baby because I have a 12.30 lunch meeting!
I laugh my head off. Laugh too much.

When the movie is finished, BJ smiles: ‘We’ll leave it at one. You’re tired, go to bed. I’ll stay up for a while and hit the books.’

Work is not the same when you are this pregnant. People ask you how you’re feeling all the time. JJ&T have never been this solicitous. I’m their novelty. They bring me cups of decaf coffee, glasses of water; they bring me leftovers from lunchtime conferences, careful to leave out any ham. Even the men are caring for me double-time. I’ve gone from haughty librarian to everybody’s pregnant teenager. Nobody wants me to carry anything. If I’m at my desk after five, somebody will say, ‘You still here?’ They’ll hand me my coat and my bag. It’s as if I’m having their baby.

Sunday, a week after the park, BJ has a plan.

‘Let’s visit Keith,’ she says.

‘Great idea. I booked the classes yesterday, Keith’s sure to ask. We’re down for the second weekend in June.’

‘Isn’t that close? To the due date, I mean.’

‘I’ve already copped an earful from the woman on the phone about that. She said, “Due to your procrastination you’ve missed a more appropriate time, you should have booked weeks ago”.’ My tone is a narky sing-song. ‘Well, I wasn’t ready weeks ago. Let’s call Keith and tell him we’re coming.’ I’m dialling his number.

‘Already have. I rang him when you were in the shower. Did you know his favourite flowers are freesias? Especially white ones. He used to give his wife freesias on her birthday. He’d pinch them from the front garden two houses up.’

I’m having a touch of the Margies. Don’t be talking to Keith without me, bitch. I slam the phone down and grab my keys.

‘Okay?’ She buckles her seatbelt.

I’m trying to put on mine but I’m yanking it and it keeps catching, yank, fuck, yank. BJ takes the belt, pulls it across me and buckles it.

‘Yep, fine.’ I back out of the driveway a little fast, nip the gutter across the road with the left rear wheel.

‘What did I do?’

‘Nothing. I’m stressed.’ The neighbourhood is flying past, letterbox, letterbox, letterbox.

‘Want me to drive? Please?’

I indicate, pull over. ‘Go ahead.’

We swap seats and I stop being an arsehole.

It’s incongruous that an ex-policeman, a detective sergeant, can be so good in the kitchen. His scones are better than Mum’s and that’s saying something.

‘Peta, are you set, have you got everything?’ Keith says.

BJ’s looking at me.

Keith is jamming and creaming his third scone; he’s just done BJ’s second. My stomach feels like it’s the size of an Oroton key-wallet—the baby is taking all the food room. I’m still on my first one. Small bites.

‘Don’t bother, Keith. She’s all right. Babe, would you like a glass of water?’

‘No, BJ, I’m fine, you don’t have to mother me.’ Smother me.

‘Have you two discussed the feeding and sleeping routine?’

BJ’s at the sink. ‘I’ve tried to discuss it, Keith. But it’s off limits.’

She gives me water. I don’t want it.

Keith stands up, plucks his house keys from the hook beside the phone. ‘Pete, I’ve been tidying up in case Catherine would like to stay. There’s a box of books in the shed, I thought you might like them. BJ, would you be able to get them for me? My knees have been giving me problems.’

I wait for BJ to leave the room. ‘Your knees are fine, Keith.’

‘I don’t want to say this in front of BJ. Why are you keeping her out of your pregnancy?’

‘I’m not.’ Always, always, always, go with denial first. Then take a breath, let it out, and say what’s on your mind. ‘I don’t want her looking after me. It’s unsexy. She’s twenty-three. She should be having fun.’

‘Are you afraid she’ll go off you?’

Keith makes me cry. Is that what dads are for?

‘Yes, Dad. Have a look at me. I’m enormous and I’ve got weeks to go. I don’t feel like myself. I feel like someone’s mother.’

‘Peta, the weight will come off.’

He’s holding my hand across the table. His hands are dry and warm. He has rectangular thumbnails and they look like they’re made of plastic, they’re so perfect.

‘But I’ll still be unsexy.’

‘BJ loves you, Peta. She didn’t go off you when she got home and found you pregnant. Let her in. Don’t mess this relationship up too.’

I can only be annoyed at Keith for a second. It’s true. I messed it up. ‘I don’t know, Dad. Here she comes.’

I take my hand back, put it in my lap.

‘So, Peta, have you thought of names? What about Keith?’

‘That’d be good,’ BJ says, dumping the box on the kitchen floor. ‘But only if it’s a boy.’

‘I don’t think this is going to work.’ I’m doing the breakfast dishes.

‘Yeah, me neither.’

There. I knew it.

‘You don’t?’

‘You don’t trust me. For four weeks I’ve been trying to talk to you about the baby, even small things, and you can’t give me a straight answer.’

‘I don’t want to be boring.’

Try saying that wearing rubber gloves.

‘In just over a month you’re having a baby. What could be more exciting?’ She’s sitting on a kitchen chair, backwards like Fonzie. Her fingers are turning white as they squeeze the back of it.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Riding a shitfighter through the streets of Paris, the sun being up at midnight.’

‘You want me to go back to Simone?’

‘No. Yes. You were happy there. I don’t want you to hate me.’ I pull the plug and try not to hear the dishwater whirlpooling down the drain.

‘I fucken hate it when you don’t trust me.’

I don’t say anything for a moment, hang the tea towel on the handle of the oven, straighten it. Darth Vader glows 10.30.

I sit opposite BJ. I’m using the table as protection but I want to be under it, want to take myself back to the joy of deciding she’s the one.

‘It never occurred to you it was hard for me too,’ she says.

‘Why? What did you have to give up?’ I stand and push my chair in.

‘Oh, so you gave up things for me? “See what I have to do to be with a lesbian?” was it? Sorry, I didn’t know I was such nasty compromise.’ BJ is on her way to the front door.

I hear the upward zip of her jacket.

The door slams. I slide down the kitchen cabinets to the floor. I’ve seen that move so often in movies, a broken woman and the echo of a slammed door. It feels as desolate as it looks on the screen.