Authors: Fiona McGregor
Stew came out. ‘Queen King!’ He embraced her, his funky sweat overpowering. ‘You’ve been doing it rough, I hear.’
‘Yes. Just a bit.’
‘Are they making you better?’
‘They seem to be trying.’
Stew took his phone out. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry but can I get your number? We’ll catch up soon, okay?’
The studio was surprisingly empty. Rhys took Marie straight through to the kitchen. ‘Welcome home, trooper. What can I get you?’
‘My back’s on fire.’ Marie sank into a chair. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘It’s my day off.’
She began to relax in the oddly shaped room with its flaking cupboards and worn chequered lino, relics of the mid-twentieth century. On the table stood a vase of orchids, flared and downcast, like reaching hands. There were empty takeaway containers on the sink and groceries in a bag: camping paraphernalia was stacked in the corner. Rhys fetched a stainless-steel bowl and a bottle of tincture. She filled the bowl with kettle water then dropped some tincture into it. ‘I’m going to go over the area with some calendula first. Can you lift your shirt for me?’
Rob appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey, Marie, great to see you.’
Blanche had watched her mother cross the road, a small determined figure in a blue silk shirt, hair blowing in the breeze thick as a wad. Didn’t your hair fall out with chemotherapy? Her mother’s hair, strong and lively, was one of her best features. Was it that strong that it would hang on? She watched the boy in stovepipes emerge and greet Marie. In their blithe, conferring figures, Blanche glimpsed the other life her mother had been living. She was intrigued, moved and resentful — and ashamed of her resentment. Her stomach began to heave. She opened the door and walked a little way to throw up in the gutter. There was something liberating about vomiting in the Indian summer dusk as though she had relinquished control in a glorious hedonistic arc, or delivered a timely message to the hateful tattooist across the road.
She went to the corner shop for a bottle of water and a packet of mints, then got back inside her BMW. The car was a cosy vinyl-smelling world in the unfamiliar street with that tattoo parlour whose innocuous front gave nothing away. Blanche watched it like a private detective, alert, suspicious. She wondered about the lick of black on the footpath. She flicked the key and the radio came on to Skyhooks’ ‘Horror Movie’. She was back in the 1970s with Clark in the rumpus room, in Joke Shop masks miming to the song, each trying to outscare the other; Clark too old to withstand the game long so that Blanche’s final bound from behind the couch crumpled before his freshly revealed, disdainful face. Where was he now? Off fucking his married woman while she was again the ambulance driver. In order to be here today, Blanche had cancelled a meeting with Kate to workshop the sanitary napkins, but this was as much escape as sacrifice as she still had no ideas beyond the unsuitable one she had told to Kate a week ago. The songs on the radio degenerated and she went to the ABC.
There is no government push to change existing legislation surrounding abortion
, said the prime minister.
But that doesn
’
t rule out a private member’s bill.
Blanche crunched the mint between her molars. This morning she had made a second appointment for an abortion. ‘Rush now while stocks last,’ she snarled at the radio.
The boy in stovepipes was walking across the road. For a second Blanche panicked, thinking her mother had sent him this way but she realised as his face came into focus, morose and preoccupied, that he was oblivious to her. He looked much older this close, the same age as Hugh, his arms bright with tattoos. Two men holding hands, dressed in army trousers, walked the other way. Blanche placed her hands on her belly. Do you attest that your mental health will be jeopardised by the birth of this child?
Yes
, she had ticked.
Yes
,
yes
,
yes
, all the way down. Why couldn’t she be like the women in magazines?
I’m so thrilled! We’ve been trying for ages!
She was a devil woman, crouched by the fire, sharpening her instruments ready for the kill.
Half an hour later, stiff and impatient, Blanche got out of the car and crossed the road to the tattoo parlour. Past the reception desk, Blanche saw her mother from behind. She was straddling a chair, clasping its frame to her body. Her back was bare, beside her a woman with a tube in her hand. Blanche was dazzled by the colourful gloss of her mother’s skin, some of it tattoos, some rashes. She stopped in the doorway, gripped by prudish jealousy. The woman turned. ‘Hi. You must be Blanche.’ She extended then retracted her hand. ‘Sorry, I’m covered in cream.’
Marie twisted around. ‘This is Rhys. My daughter, Blanche. I’ve been dying of itchiness the last few days.’
‘I could have done that for you.’
‘I didn’t take any cream in with me. I didn’t think they’d keep me in that long.’
‘There’s some tea in the pot, Blanche. Cups are up there. Help yourself.’
‘Thank you.’ Blanche walked over and mechanically poured. She sat at the table, which was covered in papers, a vase of purple orchids, toys. Sit still, she silently admonished her stomach. ‘Do you tattoo in here?’ she enquired.
‘No.’ Rhys laughed. ‘This is my kitchen.’
Sorry for asking a polite question, thought Blanche.
‘The moth’s not too itchy, is it?’ Rhys said to Marie.
‘It’s calmed right down.’ Marie tried to move a toy truck near her elbow but it was stuck to the table. An orchid landed on the telephone bill with a loud clack. Sap had dripped everywhere, adhering Travis’s truck to the table and, it now appeared, Blanche’s teacup. The room was electric with Blanche’s embarrassment.
Rhys floated the shirt back over Marie’s body. ‘Has he had his dinner?’ she enquired.
Travis had walked into the kitchen. Barefoot, he was cradling a guinea pig in his thin arms. ‘He’s had lettuce and carrot,’ he replied. He squatted to release the animal then, staring at Blanche, caught it again. Rhys introduced them and he walked over. ‘This is Ted.’
‘Hi, Ted.’ Blanche was hypnotised by the child, the green-golden of his eyes. He was like a creature from a forest.
‘Rob gave him to me.’
‘He’s cute.’
‘Wanna hold him?’
‘Um. Okay.’ Blanche took the guinea pig onto her lap. He skittered off, half shimmying down her leg, half falling to the floor.
Travis giggled then picked up Ted and took him to Marie. Ted sat on Marie’s lap twitching his nose. Between her fingers Marie noticed some strands of her hair. She discreetly released it onto the floor. ‘I met some interesting people in hospital, one of whom is a fan of your work.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get you into private care, Mum,’ said Blanche.
‘I like it in there. As much as I’m able. A jailbird called Brian, who said your work has won competitions all over the world.’
‘Yeah, I’ve done a few of those blokes. Pussycats mostly. At least with me.’
Rhys and Marie began to discuss prison tattoos. Marie had a bit of a smarmy look, Blanche noticed. She said to Travis, ‘I hear you’re going camping.’
‘Yep. We’re gonna see parrots. Green and red and um ... We’re gonna go swimming.’ He pressed against Marie’s leg and fondled the guinea pig, and when Marie placed her hand on his head she felt a circle of warmth complete itself through her body, lighting a possessive yearning. She wished he were hers, along with Rhys, and the whole room seemed fluorescent with this treacherous display.
‘That must be fun,’ said Blanche to Travis.
‘Yep. There’s fire.’
‘Do you ever go to those tattoo conventions?’ Marie said to Rhys.
‘Nah.’
‘Why not?’
‘Tattoo artists are totally insane. I couldn’t stand it.’
‘You saw a bushfire?’
‘Naooo, we have a campfire. For marshmallows. We do dances.’ He moved into the centre of the room to demonstrate.
‘Travis goes feral,’ Rhys quipped.
‘Dad’s coming too.’
Marie looked questioningly at Rhys.
‘We’re good mates,’ Rhys explained. ‘We go way back. You might’ve seen him at FAST? In his Osama bin Laden t-shirt?’ She made a wry face.
Blanche was running along behind the conversation, trying to catch up.
Travis stood on his toes, peered across the tabletop and wrenched his truck from its ooze of dying flowers. He licked the wheels experimentally. ‘It’s sweet!’ To her mortification, Marie saw her hair had also travelled to the truck. She felt a comforting warmth spread across her lap then Travis was leaning against her, squealing, ‘Ted’s done a wee, Mum!’
‘Okay, Trav.’
‘He’s done a wee, he’s done a wee!’
‘God, Marie, I am so sorry.’
‘That’s alright.’
Blanche seemed about to say something, or get up.
‘My hair’s started to fall out,’ Marie said with false gaiety. She handed the guinea pig to Travis, then went to the outdoor toilet.
In the kitchen, Blanche told Rhys that Marie had responded badly to chemotherapy and nobody seemed to know what the next step was. She spoke from inside a tender, taut place, like a pustule ready to burst. Rhys listened as Travis climbed into her lap. Blanche wanted answers. Four large hazel eyes stared at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rhys. ‘It’s awful. I wish there was a cure.’
‘Well, she calls you her medicine woman.’
Rhys smiled.
‘Why did she come here?’ Blanche said fiercely. ‘Why did she do this?’
‘Because she wanted to.’
‘Yeah, and sometimes I want to commit murder.’
Rhys’s head flicked back as though she had been hit.
‘You don’t like me, do you,’ said Blanche.
‘I don’t know you. But I do like your mother. I have a huge respect for her. We’ve become friends.’
Respect.
The word inflamed Blanche. ‘Well, why then?
Why?
’
‘I guess she wanted to do something independent. She wanted a change and this was a big part of that. She loved being tattooed. She wasn’t one of those people who just likes adornments. Every design meant so much to her. I mean
means.
She could tell you better than I can. Why don’t you ask her?’
Blanche glared at Rhys. Those mutilated hands, her scrawny son hearing all this stuff about prisons and tattoos, the dirty soles of his feet facing her like two shut doors. He was humming loudly, running his truck down his mother’s thigh. ‘Do you just tattoo anything on anyone that walks in here? Take the money and mark them for life. Is that it?’
‘I tattoo consenting adults with designs of their choice.’
‘Mum would’ve consented to anything after a drink or ten.’
Rhys tightened her mouth. ‘Nobody gets past reception with so much as two beers under their belt. I’ve never seen your mother drunk. She was —
is
— one of my best clients. If not
the
best.’
‘I can see that. You must’ve made thousands from her. A real cash cow.’
Rhys shifted Travis. He crouched on the floor and began to zoom his truck up and down with great crashing sound effects. ‘Go upstairs, darling.’ Travis left the room and Rhys looked at Blanche with glittering eyes. ‘I was going to give you the card of my acupuncturist —’
‘More needles. Great!’
‘Will you at least take this one? All my details are there. I’ll be out of range some of the time but I can pick up messages. Can you let me know if anything goes wrong?’
‘What more could go wrong?’
Marie was coming through the door. ‘Shall we go?’
Rhys handed the acupuncturist’s card to her. ‘Apparently it helps with the side effects of chemotherapy.’
Blanche looked away as her mother and Rhys embraced.
‘What’s FAST?’ she said when they were in the car. ‘Did she mean drugs?’
‘It was a sort of party I went to with her. A cabaret.’
‘You haven’t been taking drugs with her, have you?’
Marie wanted to laugh but was afraid of upsetting Blanche. ‘I think I’ve taken more drugs this past month than in the rest of my life put together. I’ve had codeine or pethidine every day. I suppose I’m becoming a junkie.’
‘You said she was a single mother.’
‘She is.’
‘But Daddy’s going camping.’
‘She’s not in a relationship with him.’
‘I would have said she was a lesbian, actually.’
‘Really?’ Marie was partly defensive, partly impressed.
‘Yeah. She’s got a toughness about her. That job. You’d have to be tough, the people you deal with.’
‘You’re tough, Blanche.’ Marie looked over. ‘And it isn’t an insult.’
Driving through the city, the oval of her daughter’s face clung like a tear in the corner of Marie’s eye. She couldn’t blink it away. She thought about the child Blanche was carrying. Would it be close to its mother? Would it even
be
at all? And if Blanche kept it, would she, Marie, live to know it? She thought about the miracle of a newborn, the family crowding around with conjectures of who the tiny, squashed creature resembled. How narcissistic we are, wanting our children to be both replicas and advancements. Surreptitiously, all the way home, Marie studied the profile of the distressed, self-possessed woman beside her. The pain was almost unbearable.
‘Are you happy for us to decide on a place for you?’ Blanche asked ten minutes later, looping through Cremorne. ‘I’ve got a shortlist, and Clark and Leon said they’d come with us too.’
‘I’ll come if I have the energy.’
‘We’ll get you somewhere simple and comfortable. You won’t have to worry about a thing.’
‘Thanks, that’d be lovely.’
A relieved silence settled between them.
Susan’s car was parked out the front of the house. ‘I didn’t think she’d still be here,’ Blanche muttered as she pulled in behind it.
‘Oh no,’ said Marie. ‘I haven’t been returning her calls.’
‘I think you’ve got a pretty good excuse, Mum. God, listen to us. In thrall to the old dragon.’ Blanche reached for her mother’s bag then helped her out of the car. Together, they walked down the path.
Marie went straight into the kitchen and took two Panadeine Fortes. The five-degree drop from inner-city heat to harbour cool stroked her body. Susan was sitting at the dining
room table with Leon. Marie settled on the couch with Mopoke, a reassuring bolster against the three pairs of eyes watching her. Susan’s looked red. ‘I’ve brought you some
macaroni cheese,’ she said.