just_a_girl (12 page)

Mum lets me down sometimes. She’s not on the ball like she used to be. I get away with my Newcastle adventure. Maybe I should start leaving clues. To make it easier for her to track my whereabouts. A GPS purpose-built for Layla. But she knows where I am today.

It’s school holidays which means I’m up on the Gold Coast for summer. I get to spend about two weeks with dad a year. Guess it’s better than nothing. This year I asked mum if I could stay here for christmas day. I couldn’t stand another Springwood afternoon on the verandah.

Dad’s lounge room looks over the ocean. Somehow seeing waves from the kitchen makes washing up easier. Not that I wash up much as dad has a dishwasher. Mum won’t let us get one. Because she says it wastes too much water. I can see the tiny ant-bodies of surfers in the waves between skyscrapers. The Beachside Towers has vertical lettering in aqua running down the side of the building.
A suicidal jump into the pool below. A seahorse’s head reaches down from the top.

When dad’s at work I lie on the modular lounge rearranged for my bed. My feet in the sun watching MaxTV. Gazing out to the water’s endless twists. Dad’s on set cooking for what he calls a
B-grade Hollywood flick.
I don’t know any of the actors. But there’s a lot of muscle staying in our building.

Yesterday dad and I had breaky in Kirra Beach. Then we sat on the beach but the sand was cold. A couple were lying near hugging and pashing to warm up. I haven’t kissed Davo for almost one week. I haven’t seen him much since school ended. That first kiss when you see each other again at the airport is good but scary. Like you’re both holding back. Afraid of giving too much of yourself away. Like you’ve lost something over that short period of time. That the other person can never find or see. And my mum will be there waiting too. So I can’t get away with too much tongue action. I wish I could have a real pash every day that meant something.

I can see why people buy these lounges. You have the option to lie down on the L-shape. Or doubled up, and sleep either way. A tetris game of cushions. It’s a trap watching this MaxTV. You could happily sit all day waiting for the next song.

Today I was woken up around lunchtime. By the sounds of a helicopter. So close it could only be an emergency. I ignored it for a while. But it got so loud I had to get up and check. In case the apartment was being attacked by terrorists. Turns out the helicopter was moving furniture. From the penthouse suite directly above us to an empty lot
beside the apartments. Where removal men were carrying loads to their van. Like something out of
The Matrix.
The helicopter crawled up and down the building dangling sofas and wardrobes and a huge plasma TV above the crowds gathering below. They don’t use elevators on the Gold Coast.

I’m hungry but dad’s fridge is empty. Except for beers that are
double hopped and bitter.
Pretty hopeless for a chef. I text him
pls pick up white bread and butter on way home i am hungry
just to piss him off. I grab some rice crackers and head back to the couch. He always has to work during the holidays. Mum says I’m not high enough on his priority list.

On top of his TV dad has a framed picture. Me on my first day at school. Even though he left when I was five I don’t have any memories. Of us as a family. I look through the photos on his computer. Soccer games and jumping castles. But it’s like he’s been photoshopped out of my mind. I wonder where those memories have gone. Mum is there all right. I thought maybe dad was always away. But mum said we used to do everything together. Mum said it was maybe the shock of him leaving. That erased all those memories.

I do have one lasting memory. There was a sick stray cat. She used to hang out in our backyard. We had a sandpit and she used to lie in the sun. Mum told me not to touch her because she was always sneezing. There’s a photo of me squeezing her. She was very slow and grey. Mum wouldn’t let me have a pet so I made do with her. I called her Emmy. Which makes my porn star name Emmy Pine. I used to try to feed her secretly after breakfast.

Anyway. It turned out that she was pregnant. I watched them slither out of her. In a slimy plastic mess into the sand. She slowly cleaned them all with her tongue. And they sucked hard at her. The next day I didn’t want to go to school. Because I wanted to play with them. We put them in a box near the heater to keep warm.

I ran home after school. I rushed out the back to see them. But they weren’t there. Mum followed me in and sat me on her knee.

—Layla, your dad decided we couldn’t keep them. We can’t look after three kittens and a cat.

—Where have they gone?

—We asked around and no-one wanted to keep them so we had to say goodbye to them.

—Where are they? I want to say goodbye too.

Mum shrugged her shoulders and put me down on the floor.

I knew there was no point asking where Emmy was. She’d gone with her kittens.

But I could never understand why dad and mum took them away so soon. Why I couldn’t see them that one afternoon. Or where they really went.

They seemed to disappear around the time dad did. I imagined he maybe had rescued them. Was looking after them in his new apartment. But they were never there when I visited.

Around the time dad left, they had a fight in the park. Dad said,
I can’t leave him, it will kill him.
Him? Mum’s face was loaded and she went very quiet. I just stood there not getting it but still afraid. I asked mum if dad was going to jail because he had killed someone. I remember the trees
crowding around us and mum and dad towering over me. There was no way I could reach them.

That next morning mum didn’t wake me up for school. I went into her room and said,
I think I’m going to be late.
She was lying on her side turned away from the door. I got into bed with her. She said,
You don’t have to go to school today.
I was glad I had the day off and snuggled into her back. We lay there for most of the morning.

After that, it took a long time for mum to say the word
gay.
She still can’t really manage it. It’s like the emotion has been ironed out of her face. Of course now she borrows her words all the time from the bible.
Unnatural acts.
She says that dad had a choice. That if he really loved her he would have tried to change.

But I can see that dad’s now slotted into place. He seems to fit where he is somehow. But that doesn’t mean I can tell my friends. It’ll be like I have the gay gene or something. And guys just can’t handle it. A poofta for a dad. They’ll think he’ll be after them. As if you turn gay and suddenly you jump on anything that moves.

I never like saying goodbye to Layla at the airport because I always have that anxious thought that she won’t come back, she’ll decide to stay on with Geoff, and as she left this time it suddenly struck me that she’ll be turning 15 in a couple of months and as soon as I thought of her birthday I started to relive the labour, I mean, there’s no avoiding it, every detail of labour is etched deep into your body and I bet all mothers do that because birthdays have such a different meaning when you’ve actually been through childbirth, and you can never really prepare for the birth, it’s a clear BL and AL division, before and after Layla, and you spend nine months trying to imagine what it’s going to be like and keeping a lid on all your fears, doing the birth classes and breathing exercises and positive visualisations, wondering whether you’re going to need an epidural or caesar but hoping to have a ‘natural birth’ with no idea what that actually means but that it seems to be the right thing to say if you want to be a supermum, and I had a book that said,
Imagine a flower opening up and your body unfurling,
and I asked Violet when I was
pregnant what it was like giving birth to me and she said,
It was the greatest pain you can ever imagine, like your guts are being wrenched from inside you, they say that it’s even worse than torture,
which was helpful at that stage, a great chance for bonding.

And so when the pregnancy reaches the final stages I’m in this calm no-man’s-land of waiting where I have all the time in the world to think, probably the last time I had that chance, looking back, and I realise this event will change my life immeasurably, and my only experience is pretending to breastfeed a doll at birth class, and then the nesting starts and I get the the nursery ready and put stencils of zebras and lions on the wall and make the cot look so inviting that I want to crawl in there myself and I buy a change table and stock it with nappies and size 0000 wondersuits and cottonwool buds, and I remember hating that our toilet was down the end of the house because I’d wake up three times a night to visit and then every time I rolled over I had to hug a pillow between my thighs and Layla wasn’t even that big, I mean, she was only a few kilos when she was born.

But the birth was intense, I mean, my waters didn’t break and you’re kind of waiting for that as the sign and I was in bed and we were testing out the baby monitor and Geoff was cooking porridge and I was telling him when my contractions were beginning,
Here’s another one,
I’d say, and they seemed quite manageable and I spoke to a midwife on the phone and she said,
Treat it as if it’s an ordinary day,
which is kind of hard when you have to stop every few minutes as a wave of tension rolls through your body, and I’m saying
Here’s another one
an awful lot and I lie on the bed and try to relax, but when I go to walk to the lounge room I suddenly need to get down on the floor but I can’t kneel down and I can’t seem to stand up either
and then I’m in a corner desperately calling for a bucket, and I’m vomiting onto the beanbag, and I suddenly have to get to the hospital NOW and there’s no time to even wash my face so in all my photos after the birth I’ve got bad greasy hair, and Geoff is taking his time packing the car and I yell at him to hurry up and NO he CAN’T have a shower and he has filled up the back seat so I have to curl up on my side on the front seat and I don’t want people looking in and I panic thinking about the 20-minute drive, and I say to Geoff,
I know I wanted a natural birth but when I get to the hospital I think I’m gonna have to have an epidural,
and he says, as we rehearsed,
Okay, let’s see how you are when we get there,
and Geoff drives really carefully and it’s the longest 20 minutes of my life and I want to yell at him to drive like a maniac, and I can no longer control my breathing but have started this buffalo bellow that makes me feel better on the out breath and I decide that we really are animals, despite Creation and all that, and as we pull into the carpark I want to get into the hospital before I have the next contraction so I’m out the door before the car has even stopped and the midwife says,
You’ve progressed since we spoke,
and she wants me to lie down on the bed on my side so she can monitor me and I want to walk around now but instead I’m kind of stuck bellyup like a turtle on the road, and Geoff leans over to offer me his neck each contraction and I cling on like a monkey and it gets me through, but it feels like my back is breaking in half, I mean, all the prep talk of your uterus and cervix but all the pain is in a different place and then the midwife reaches in and checks me and her hand inside me is worse that all the contractions and she says in shock,
You’re nine centimetres already,
and I smile and say,
Thank God. Give me the gas!,
and while I’m having a suck I forget that I’m having a baby, but it’s not making me
laugh at all, and I really need to go to the loo so I’m on the toilet puffing like there’s no tomorrow and Geoff and the midwife have disappeared but I grab onto the toilet paper roll holder and hang on for dear life and then the midwife comes in and says,
You’d better get off, you’re about to have your baby,
and I explode in tears because where are the hours of pushing and screaming I’ve seen so often on TV?, and then I’m on all fours on the bed leaning forward against pillows and Geoff is already yelling,
I can see the head, look between your legs!,
but my belly is in the way and I can’t see and the midwife says,
Let go of the gas, Margot, I need you to breathe the baby out,
but I don’t want to do it, and then it feels like I become Hyde Park fountain and my body actually does what I tell it to do and the next huge heave brings Layla gushing out in a flood and they whisk her away to cut the cord and then plonk her back on my belly and she is alert and quiet, mouth open foraging for my breast and Geoff says later,
You know, neither of us thought to ask whether it was a boy or a girl,
and I think it’s a good sign at the time, that it isn’t an issue, and there she is, little Layla, and the funny thing is I’m on a high for the first few days and the midwife says I have
the pinks,
Layla sleeps all the time even during the night and doesn’t feed much at first, and it all seems like it’s going to work out okay, but then the milk comes in and I start to plummet, and the good times are over, and it’s been a bit of a slog since then, her first 15 years have been a bit messy, so I hope the next 15 are easier, and I’m going to pray to the Lord to make it happen.

During the school hols dad’s planned two outings. One for christmas. And one because my birthday’s coming up. Movie World and the Mud Festival. Apparently the fest sold out in one hour and dad was late for work because he was in the online queue. But he waited because he wants to see Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys. I want to see everyone else.

It’s one of the good things about only seeing your dad once a year.
Quality time
means lots of extra presents.

Dad drags me out of bed early to Movie World to beat the crowds. But the international tourists are earlybirds too. We’re surrounded by buildings made of stucco with giant chunks missing. Like a stegosaurus has bent over and taken a nibble. We’re standing with the Koreans in the queue for Batman the Ride. They carry their green enviro-friendly bags stocked with cameras and umbrellas. Those bags are colonising Australia in bad taste. They’re for your fruit and veg. Hello!

The girl next to me wears a t-shirt that’s too small and a delicate pink coral bracelet. Probably chopped off the Great Barrier Reef when snorkelling. She kisses her boyfriend. Who looks over her shoulder at me while their lips are locked. Fuckadoodle, at least close your eyes.

Dad reads the map, planning the day.

—They should call this place Queue World. We’ll go on the most popular rides first to beat the peak hour.

We’re herded by cheesy attendants with lame American accents into a replica set of Bruce Wayne’s Manor. An old-fashioned library holds dusty copies of
The Digest, Queensland Statutes,
dictionaries and any other big books they can find. Dad starts complaining about authenticity. He’s the expert on all things hollywood now he works on film sets.

—This is Movie World for god’s sake. Haven’t they heard of props?

—Come on dad, Batman’s pretty busy saving the world from people like The Joker. I don’t think he’d have much time to read.

I try to remember the last time I saw my dad with a book. He’s never read any of the ones I’ve given him for christmas.

Our guides start shouting at us.

—The security system is failing and you are the newly recruited police cadets called on to save Gotham City. The inmates have escaped!

They’re probably out-of-work actors. You can see why.

And we go on the Bat Ride locked into small capsules. To fight Catwoman, The Joker and Mr Freeze. Dad doesn’t like tight spaces or rides and he’s starting to fidget. He
struggles with his belt before reaching over and checking mine.

A fake Batman robot sits behind his controls. He has two positions. Still and stiller. The ride chunks and jolts our bodies as we crash and hurtle into virtual space. The seats whiplash our necks. Dad crashes into my shoulder and groans.

—Lucky I haven’t had a glass of wine yet.

—The day is young, dad.

As we exit the ride, dad smiles.

—That’s my ride for the day. At least it wasn’t as bad as the Pirate Ship. Do you remember that? I thought we were both going to fall out!

—The Pirate Ship is the lamest ride you can go on, dad.

We cruise into daylight where all roads lead to ... the shop.

A shop for every ride. So there’s the necessary Bat accessories. The sunglasses, the hoodies, the blue Bonds suits for baby boys. The Chupa Chups.

—Do you remember that Robin cape I got for my birthday?

Dad nods but he’s too vague to get away with it. Maybe he gave it to me, I can’t remember. But it was red with a big yellow R inside a black diamond shape. He finds a Batman one and holds it up against my body. Checking the size.

—Want me to buy you another one? I think this would suit you.

Dad’s losing it and I laugh. But he doesn’t listen much and I never really wanted to be Batman. I only liked Robin. The sidekick who had a funny way with words.

After the shop we check out the movie memorabilia. Dad spends ages looking at original prints from really old films like
Star Wars.
He loves posters and books about stars like Greta Garbo and Montgomery Clift. Fuckadoodle, he’s a walking cliché sometimes. I bought him a poster of Marlene Dietrich for his 40th birthday. He had it framed and put above his sofa. So I look at her face first thing when I wake up. She looks hard like a man to me. Maybe that’s why he likes her so much.

Next on dad’s agenda is the Lethal Weapon ride. I’ve never even heard of the movie but dad says it has Mel Gibson in it. I’ve never even heard of Mel Gibson except dad says he had a drinking problem and helped Britney when she was in rehab. Mum always says,
Takes one to know one.
As I board, dad stands in the caged area and waves me off alone.

—I want to see your look of terror as you plummet down the first hill.

The rollercoaster is army grey. I feel like a raw egg in a cardboard carton as the barrier comes down over my head and locks me in. I try to pull it in tighter. There’s a gap between my heart and the protective bars. I don’t want to have wriggle room. I might fall out and crack. Humpty Dumpty with my dad trying to pick up the pieces. I ask the lady when she does up my belt, nappy style, whether this is how the harness is meant to be. She nods as if she’s heard it all before.

People start to scream on the first incline and I know what they mean. The guy sitting next to me stinks. I’m scared he’s going to projectile vomit into the seat in front and it’ll rebound. As we shoot down and corkscrew about
my legs dangle even when I’m upside down. It doesn’t really make sense. With your legs above your head you’re looking down into nothing. Empty space. But it’s the twists and turns sideways that scare me the most. Over and over like the hot cycle on the dryer. Fuckadoodle, I have no idea where I am. My arms are getting bruised as my ribs bang against the machine. The screamers build up the
oh-oh-oh
s before releasing on the down curve. It ends with a large machine-gun crack. A camera takes a picture of you. The shop has them proudly displayed on large monitors so everyone can see. There I am head down towards my knees. Hair covering my face and my eyes screwed up. A nocturnal animal adjusting to the daylight. Dad insists on buying it.

—That’s my new screensaver to remind me of you when you head back down south.

Back in the open air on solid ground everything is clear and bright. As if it’s been hosed out this morning. Fake palms masquerade as mobile phone antennas. Or perhaps the other way round. We watch the Superman’s Cape rollercoaster repeat itself as I eat my hotdog with mustard and bbq sauce. Dad has make-my-day nachos with double the jalapenos.

I talk dad into another shop. Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory for some serious spending. I wish it was like that scene in the movie where everything is made of chocolate even the trees. Unfortunately there’s no sign of Johnny Depp. And I haven’t got a golden ticket. But if I could design the best shop in the world this’d be it. Dad leaves me to choose while he has what he calls a
pick me up
in Rick’s Bar. I grab some lemon sherbet and rocky road. I’m
on a sugar rush when I find him leaning against a fern. Sitting under the ceiling fan pretending he’s Humphrey Bogart. It’s embarrassing because he looks really gay when he waves at me that way.

—You know, Layla, this place is really authentic because it smells like the real thing. Morocco. Have you seen
Casablanca?
We should watch it. They never actually say
Play it again, Sam.
That’s a myth. I tried to find that bar when your mother and I were in Casablanca but it doesn’t even exist. We walked all afternoon looking for Rick’s, with guys coming up to sell us hash and trying to touch your mother on the bum. That’s one place in the world I would never want to go to again.

I screw my face up and try to pull him outside. I don’t like the way he says
your mother.

—This place stinks like piss. How can you even sit here!

—Plus there are lots of Arabs here to make it seem even more real.

I drag him to a seat in the warm air outside and we watch the family groups strolling towards the prayer room. It’s hidden among palms around the corner from Rick’s. The women in black walk silently with their children in prams. Everything covered up except their eyes peering out like ninjas. The men in white walk a few paces ahead as if pretending they don’t know them. I wonder what they must think as they stroll past the beach at Surfers. Covered head to toe while girls in bikinis bounce by.

Lots of girls at our school started wearing a veil. When they got to high school. Some of the other parents were upset about it. But I don’t really get it. Fuckadoodle, it’s just a bit of material. When you talk to someone you look
at their eyes and their mouth. Those bits you can still see. It’s just a girl underneath.

Dad goes to order another drink. But I give him a look. He throws his arms up in surrender. Chucks me the keys.
Can you drive us home, Layla?
I follow him through the gates to the Honda Accord. Sitting all black and slimy leather in the heat.

I think I’m finally over Movie World.

It’s christmas day and there are no oysters in sight. Dad’s cooking my favourite. Osso bucco with that greek risoni. It’s halfway between rice and pasta. The best comfort food. We stop off at Harbourtown to pick up supplies. There’s an outdoor fruit and veg shop that dad says is the best on the Gold Coast. Which also means the cheapest. It’s open but there’s no-one around. Only my dad goes shopping in the afternoon. On christmas day. Everyone else has their feet up on the couch. Working off the pudding and custard.

He goes to find a trolley and I stroll up and down the aisles with my mobile phone. Dad keeps looking at me as if I’ve gone crazy. I’m happy snapping everything. I can’t believe it. Dad starts following me along with one of the workers.

—What are you doing?

—I’ve got to take some photos for mum. It’ll just completely freak her out. She’d be boycotting this place.

We stand there looking at my mobile together. I scroll through the pics.

Every single fruit and vegetable in the whole store is wrapped in plastic. Either individually or grouped in
containers. All the apples. Each little cucumber. Carrots. The fruit beds are a sea of silky smothered sheen.

I’m glad I don’t work here.

—Why is everything covered? What a complete waste. Everything dad! Doesn’t anyone here complain? You couldn’t do this in Springwood. People now have to
pay
for plastic bags where I come from. What’s wrong with people on the Gold Coast. It’s like they live in another universe.

Dad just shrugs his shoulders and keeps shopping. Yesterday it was about battery eggs. He’s a chef and he doesn’t buy free range eggs for home. Because they’re too expensive. He’s the slowest supermarket shopper in the history of the world. He checks every price. I’ve seen other chefs shop on TV. They usually just pick the top of the range quality items. But mum says,
You can’t take Newcastle out of the boy.

Granny has always been obsessed with bargains. She has a whole pantry full of cans of baked beans
on special.
I have to eat them for lunch every visit. Because she doesn’t even like them. Both my parents are tight-arses. Maybe that’s the one thing they shared.

In the apartment he moves around the kitchen like a dancer. I like to watch him in his element. He bends and flexes to pots and stove. To fridge and herbs. I think he could probably cook with a blindfold on. He says he often creates a dish by smell alone. Sometimes at home I try to copy him. After I’ve been up visiting. But I’m too impatient. To wait for things to happen in their own time. I like to know that the rice is going to take 20 minutes by a timer. Not stir it for an hour to make a risotto.

And I’m a bit of a kamikaze. Just chucking everything into the pot at once. I know with stir-fry you’re meant to cook everything individually. According to how long they take. But I just can’t be bothered.

It still tastes good.

Mum cooks the same things on the same nights each week. Her shopping list is rotated. She just prints it out from her computer. Every now and then she’ll test out a new ingredient. Like artichokes. Or capers. But she owns a lot of cookbooks that say,
Get the meal on the table in 30 minutes.

The only problem with dad cooking is that it takes hours. And we often don’t eat until 9.30pm. When we’re both ready to pass out. Because he drinks as he chops the carrots. He drinks as the meat is stewing. And then he drinks while he lets the risoni soak up the delicious juices. And one more glass while he makes the gremolata. So my blood sugar level is low. And he’s getting drunker. And when he’s pissed he likes to give advice. But I go into shutdown mode because I don’t trust the words. They become poisoned. And he always starts to repeat things. He even starts offering me champagne. But I never drink when he’s around. Because it gives him the shits. And it gives me more ammunition in the morning. If I can remember everything he said. I like to get him when he’s vulnerable. I save up all my most interesting questions for these times.

—Dad, have you ever taken drugs?

—Oh yeah, I’ve taken just about everything. I’ve got nothing against experimenting ... but the key is moderation.