Tiddas (15 page)

But how would she even tell Asher? Her tiddas hadn't helped her in finding clarity at all, but that was her own fault. Ellen and Nadine wanted to help, were willing to talk to her about it, but she clammed up whenever they broached the subject. And exactly
what
would she tell him? She'd avoided him for weeks, and knew by his texts asking ‘Is everything
OK?' that he was feeling neglected and confused. But he wasn't her boyfriend, wasn't likely to be her boyfriend. And even though he was the father, he didn't seem to be the fatherly type; he'd never talked about kids at all. Perhaps that's why they got on so well. They were both driven by their careers and desire for professional success, much more than anything else, including their love life. While she and Asher weren't in a relationship, they were good friends, and they had deep respect for each other. Would all that be lost with the news of an unplanned baby?

Izzy had never thought ill of Asher, but neither had she thought of him in any other way than as a friend, a wonderful lover and a great cook. She respected him for his achievements; he was chef at a groovy restaurant and bar in West End and the only deadly Black chef in Brisbane, or so he used to say.

‘Flasher' was the pet name Izzy had given him because he had the best set of teeth she'd ever seen on anyone, Black or white. ‘All the better to eat you with,' he would joke when they were alone, back at her flat after a night of cocktails at his work.

There was a mutual admiration between the two as well. Asher liked that Izzy had big dreams because he did too. He wanted to be the next Black Olive with his own catering company, cookbooks and a sous-chef trained by him. Izzy wanted to be Australia's Oprah. Between them they had enough belief in themselves and each other to make their dreams become realities.

Late at night, after lovemaking, they didn't whisper sweet nothings to each other. They talked about their goals, spoke
with passion about how good life was when their hard work paid off every day. For Asher it might be a customer saying it was the best polenta they'd ever had, or the most divine chocolate mousse to ever slide down their throat. For Izzy it was receiving an email from someone who'd watched her program and learnt something about Aboriginal art and culture. Their careers defined their relationship; it wasn't about love and babies and happily ever afters.

Izzy noticed some movement in one of the many yellow brick apartments on the other side of the river. She wondered what the local mob thought about life on the river now, and how many Blackfellas living in Brisbane were Jagera or Turrbul. As a crane moved slowly over the top of a building she thought back to her communications degree at Charles Sturt Uni in Bathurst and the joy of studying Oodgeroo Noonuccal's poetry. It was when she first read ‘Aboriginal Charter of Rights' that Izzy's political consciousness was awakened. Years later in Brisbane she'd read Samuel Wagan Watson's poem ‘Recipe for Metropolis Brisbane' and thought it genius the way he had succinctly recorded the change in the landscape to this country.

Izzy's phone beeped. A text message from Asher. It was as if he had eyes watching her somewhere, or could read her mind from miles away. A connection that could not be explained, that she had never tried to explain in case any over-analysis ruined what they shared.

Can I cook for you soon? It's been a while

It was Asher's way of inviting Izzy to the restaurant and then taking her home. He was horny, and so was she.

Of course

She smiled, but then another wave of nausea came over her.
FUCK!
she thought.
I hate feeling like this. I didn't want this – and I'm sure he doesn't either
.

She put her head on the table, closed her eyes and wept. How on earth would she tell her mother? She already knew what Trish would say after giving Izzy a guilt-laden lecture about not being married. ‘Why would you get pregnant to someone you're not married to? Why wouldn't you want a baby that God has gifted you?' And then she knew her mum would add something like, ‘Your father would turn in his grave.' At least Asher was Black, she knew that would be regarded as a positive; in her mother's eyes it would lessen the blow. Richard, she knew, would be less than impressed. An unmarried Izzy being pregnant to a bloke he hadn't even met was not what anyone wanted for their little sister, was it?

A rower paddled along the river. This was what Izzy loved most about living in West End, watching the sunrise and early morning health fanatics on the waterfront. All year round it gave her the chance to get her exercise, soak up the changing landscape, have some contact with the general public, smiling to other regular walkers and runners. Most importantly, it gave her time to think. Forty minutes every day as the sun found its way into the sky was all she needed.

Most locals ran, walked and cycled with iPods but not Izzy. She didn't need the fast beat of songs to keep her pace. She didn't want any doof-doof clouding her thoughts. The morning was her time; she cleared her head, plotted her day, scripted any unpleasant things that needed saying at work, and drafted her weekly letter home to her mother, which always included some reference to a wayward scrub turkey that had frightened her.

Something startled Izzy out of her thoughts and she jumped. In West End scrub turkeys roaming free were normal, but no-one else flinched except for her. She blamed her neighbours for feeding the birds like they were domestic pets, even though everyone knew you weren't supposed to. When the males had destroyed their communal garden, Izzy suggested a turkey dinner but she was shouted down. The protected Queensland bird was treated like family.

Izzy stretched and glanced at her phone. It felt strange not to be getting ready for work. She loved everything about her job in the Cultural Precinct and her office at the State Library. Every day was a blessing, starting with her catamaran ride to work each morning. She got the 7.48, always sat out the back – she didn't mind riding backwards until she fell pregnant – and enjoyed the perfect view of the river. Spring was her favourite time of year with jacarandas lining both banks. And she loved all the vessels with Aboriginal places names: Gootcha meant Toowong, Tunamun was Petrie Bight and so on. ‘Too deadly,' she'd said out loud when she first realised this.

‘The ferry is like the tram but just on water,' she heard a woman tell her child the other morning. Izzy wasn't sure that
made much sense. The child seemed happy with the explanation, but Izzy wondered whether she too would become a mother who said stupid things just to shut up an enquiring child.

Her routine each day included a private game where she counted the workers, tourists, business people, those reading newspapers and young girls playing with their hair. Useless statistics she could pull out at a dinner party if she ever needed to.

Occasionally, as the City Cat pulled into Regatta Point, she felt a memory force its way to the front of her mind, recollections of a lover who had once broken her heart. She should've known that a man wanting a first date in a pub was never going to be worth much. Her mother had always told her, ‘You don't meet nice men in bars.'

The famous Regatta Hotel took longer to rebuild after the floods than her heart took to mend though. And the floating restaurant on the river where they had fallen in love had drifted away that fateful January and ended up in Moreton Bay. The man had floated away too, but it was for the best. When he chose a simple-minded woman who didn't challenge his intellect – and also happened to be white and so didn't question his politics – Izzy, a strong, intelligent Black woman, decided he wasn't worth caring for at all. She'd seen a few supposedly intelligent Black men opt for a less complex white woman; somehow, she reckoned, it made them feel smarter. She'd never wanted another serious relationship after that, and yet Asher was her intellectual equal. He was different to other men, she believed, but somewhere deep inside
she felt that he too wasn't relationship material, and that every man had the capacity to be a bastard. In the end he'd leave her for someone without a career. It was fine for she and Asher to fuck, but their determination to succeed outside the bedroom could eventually present a problem.

She had first met Asher during an interview for the library. He was doing the catering for an event at kuril dhagun, and was demonstrating a bush twist on the lamington, which had been created in his hometown. As he spoke into the camera answering her questions, they both felt a chemistry that needed exploring.

‘I'd love to learn how to bake,' Izzy had said off camera.

‘I'd love to teach you,' Asher said with his signature grin.

That night the two spent time in his kitchen covering each other in cooking chocolate and coconut.

Izzy loved talking to authors, actors, directors and visual artists. She asked the questions that helped make their work more accessible to mobs all around the country. Interviews, news stories, profiles of successful Blackfellas – all helped to break down the negative stereotypes that the mainstream media had continued to perpetuate. Izzy loved working in tandem with the Murris in the library too, a team of solid women, with innovative programs aimed at educating and entertaining. Inspired by them, Izzy would disembark the City Cat each morning and head straight to the tropical rainforest walk. It was a soothing way to start the day, breathing in the lush foliage, greeting her favourite honeyeater.

On the way home after her usual nine-hour day, she'd stop at the Nepalese Peace Pagoda and feel the stress drain from
her. If she felt strung out for any reason during the day she'd walk the length of the Grand Arbour and lose herself in the hundreds of bougainvilleas. It was too beautiful a place to remain angry or stressed.

The Friday night markets in Stanley Plaza were a relaxing way to end the week and Izzy would drop by on her way home from work. As soon as the sweet floury smell of churros hit her nostrils she knew her weekend had truly started. She resisted though; being on-camera, even for Blackfellas, meant you shouldn't get too fat or have too many pimples. She was often tempted by the homemade lemonade but usually passed on that too. Unless it was a special occasion when she lashed out on both. Sitting on the edge of the man-made swimming area she would imagine she was in Europe.

Exploring the markets at her own pace was what she liked to do most. Weaving through the stalls of locally designed jewellery, knick-knacks (or ‘dust-gatherers', as Nadine called them) and cheap cotton dresses. She occasionally clicked her fingers to the beat of an artist belting out a tune at the nearby pub.

She collected printing blocks, and used one in particular as part of her signature when writing a birthday or Christmas card. She stopped at the same stall every week to see if there was something new to add to her collection. At last count, her collection of suns was at fifteen. As soon as she learned that Veronica was serious about her artwork, she started collecting some for her birthday.

At work the next day, Izzy walked around dazed. She felt her stomach often, wondering about the life she and Asher had created. She forced herself
not
to think about actually living with a child; she didn't believe she had the capacity to give a child the kind of life it needed or deserved. She simply wasn't maternal, and she accepted that without guilt. But time had run out. She was going to have to be all the things she needed to be.