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Authors: Lucy Arthurs

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Then I broach the subject of Patrick’s family.

When are we going to tell them?

PATRICK

There’s no one to tell.

What about your mum?

Patrick pauses.

PATRICK

She wouldn’t get it.

What’s to get? We’re having a baby. I haven’t even met her.

PATRICK

She’s trouble, Pers.

I don’t care. I’d like to meet her.

PATRICK

One day.

We’re having a baby, Patrick. I need to meet your family.

PATRICK

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Chapter 25

A couple of days later. Evening. Patrick’s.

“Look for the learning.” Louisa May Alcott.

I race from rehearsal, duck home for a quick shower and then over to Patrick’s to meet his mum. Jack’s at Mum and Dad’s.

I fly through the door, give Patrick a perfunctory but enjoyable kiss and settle myself on the couch. Patrick makes me a cup of tea.

She’s late.

I’ve had my tea, followed by another cup and a plate of cheese and crackers. Patrick has gone into the kitchen to stack the plates in the dishwasher. I flick through a magazine.

Then I hear her. She clambers up the front stairs and then lurches into the room. She eyes me. Takes me in. Full body appraisal.

My heart is suddenly in my throat. Maybe Patrick was right. Maybe we didn’t need to meet.

Breathe, Persephone, breathe. Take it one step at a time.

HIS MOTHER

(calls to Patrick)

I’m here!

She didn’t even address me. She appraised me, dismissed me and hollered for Patrick.

I smile.

Hi.

A curt response.

HIS MOTHER

Hello. Pat!

I take a deep breath. She hates me.

Patrick comes out of the kitchen, slightly red in the face. Flustered. He looks stressed.

PATRICK

I can hear you. The whole neighbourhood can hear you.

HIS MOTHER

Well, pardon me.

I’m wearing a pink mohair cardigan with crystal buttons that I bought from Myer last year. Bad choice, Persephone. Totally regretting it now. I did a straw poll with my sister and Mum and decided it was best to play it safe—feminine. Neat. Motherly, but modern. The mother’s an ex-Catholic, but as they say, “once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” I assume because he’s her only son, well only child, and I’m a soon-to-be divorcee with a child, that she will think I’m wayward and loose. I want to make a good first impression.

HIS MOTHER

You must be the girlfriend.

Persephone.

HIS MOTHER

That’s right. Knew it was something Greek. You don’t look Greek.

I’m not.

HIS MOTHER

Oh, well. Where’s your child this evening, Penelope?

I want to laugh, she’s being so nastily dismissive. But I don’t.

Persephone.

HIS MOTHER

I can’t get used to that name. What sort of a name is it?

Um . . . mine.

PATRICK

Mum!

Listen lady, it’s okay for me to hate my name, but you hating it is off limits.

My parents liked it.

PATRICK

It’s a character, isn’t it?

From Greek mythology.

HIS MOTHER

A lot to live up to.

PATRICK

Listen, we’ve got some news.

I smile and nod.

Yes, that’s right.

Patrick squeezes my hand.

PATRICK

Persephone and I are having a baby.

She scoffs.

HIS MOTHER

What?! You’ve only just met.

Yes, it’s early days, but/

PATRICK

/what’s meant to be is meant to be.

We’re very excited about it.

HIS MOTHER

I need a drink.

She gets up and careens into the kitchen in search of alcohol. Then it hits me—she’s drunk. She’s just going into the kitchen to top herself up. That’s why she’s so rude and vile.

Patrick is desperately clutching at straws.

PATRICK

She means well.

I’m not convinced. I think she’s a control freak. A drunk control freak.

Don’t judge, Persephone. Affirm her positive qualities—she has a lovely son, she’s brave in her opinions and she doesn’t seem to care two hoots about what people think about her. She’s spirited. I like that. Even if she appears to hate me. She’. . . I’m clutching at straws.

She comes back from the kitchen with a glass of something. Vodka, maybe. She sits opposite me. She downs her drink and stares.

I need to bail out and go home.

HIS MOTHER

Well. You’ll have to come and visit me. I could babysit.

She laughs.

HIS MOTHER

The place I’m in at the moment has two spare rooms, so we can accommodate you and the little man at the same time.

My son?

HIS MOTHER

No. My son.

It’s like I’m back at high school. Not that I ever stayed over at a boyfriend’s place during high school. Not that I ever had a boyfriend at high school. But I can imagine it is appropriate to sleep in separate rooms when you’re both horny teenagers, not when you’re both approaching middle age.

PATRICK

We’ll just pop down for lunch.

HIS MOTHER

Suit yourself.

She downs the rest of her drink and grabs her bag.

HIS MOTHER

I’ve gotta go.

She kisses Patrick on the cheek.

HIS MOTHER

You look thin.

PATRICK

So do you.

HIS MOTHER

Best of luck.

She walks out the front door.

Nice to meet you.

I say it to her back. She’s gone.

That was quick.

PATRICK

Want a drink?

Cup of tea would be nice.

PATRICK

I’m thinking vodka.

Patrick goes straight to the kitchen. I follow him. He pours himself a vodka and puts the kettle on for me. What on earth do I say?

She’s very protective of you.

He downs his vodka and pours another one. The cup of tea now seems redundant.

I’m tired. I think I might head off.

PATRICK

The kettle hasn’t even boiled.

I know . . .

PATRICK

You could stay.

I don’t know.

PATRICK

We don’t have to sleep together.

What, we can have separate rooms?

Low blow. But he laughs.

PATRICK

Once a Catholic.

Yeah. Once a Catholic. Look . . . I’d love to stay, but . . . I want to get back to Jack. And I need to rest. The play opens in a week and I have to pace myself.

Patrick looks crestfallen.

PATRICK

I told you she was trouble. She just blows in and . . .

He trails off and takes another sip of his drink.

Do you see her often?

PATRICK

Rarely. She travels around. Look, Pers, I hope she hasn’t put you off.

Of course not.

PATRICK

Really?

I’m having a relationship with you, Patrick, not your mother. Although it would have been nice if she’d liked me.

PATRICK

That’s just her.

Patrick looks gutted. Tired and sad. He gives me a wry smile.

PATRICK

Oh well, at least now you know what you’re getting into.

I can handle her.

He kisses me. I collect my things and get into my car. As I turn the key in the ignition, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I can breathe. Finally. For the first time tonight, I can actually breathe.

Chapter 26

Two weeks later. Weekend. My house.

“Drama assumes an order. If only so that it might have—by disrupting that order—a way of surprising.” Vaclav Havel.

I am officially in love with this man, drunken mother or not.

Jack had his fifth birthday a week ago, the day after opening night. Patrick and I came home from a cracker of an opening show and stayed up late to make the birthday cake—a Big Bird cake. Bright yellow, fantastic beak, great big smile. I loved every minute of it and so did Patrick. I had a real sense of what our future might be like.

Then the next day the house was filled with squealing children. The party was great. Quality food, fun-packed, low-sugar lolly bags, and a chipper round of Pass the Parcel with a gift for every child. Yes, I know I should probably subscribe to the “only one gift at the heart of the wrapping” philosophy, but I can’t bring myself to. They’re all winners. They’re all as cute as buttons.

Except for the little boy who was wearing the hoodie. He seemed to have marks on his face. I put it out of my mind at the time and got on with the party, but now it’s coming back to haunt me.

Now, one week after the party and the second week of the play, I’m sick as a dog. I’ve got three weeks left to run on the play and I feel wiped out. I just need to soldier on until it closes. I can’t wait. It’s a delight to perform but I’ve never felt so ill. I don’t think it’s just morning sickness. This morning I have woken up with spots. I’m suspecting I’ve caught something from Mister Hoodie. Patrick suggests we head straight to the doctor. I’m reluctant.

Really? It’s just a rash. Harmless. Probably a virus.

PATRICK

Nah. Each time I look at you more spots come out.

Really?

I check my face in the bathroom mirror. He’s right.

Okay.

Jack is having his night at Tom’s. I still can’t bring myself to let Patrick stay over while Jack’s in the house. Yes, I know I’m carrying Patrick’s child. Yes, I know I’m an adult. Yes, Jack can cope with the fact that mummy has a man in the house, but it feels weird. Half-bogan.

PATRICK

I’ll drive you.

I’m fine. I can drive myself.

PATRICK

Are you sure? I’m worried about you.

I’ll be fine. I’ll ring you. You’ve got work to do.

PATRICK

Well, I’ll be at my place so call me on the landline or the mobile.

It’s just a rash.

PATRICK

Love you.

I make my way to the seven-day medical centre. I see a lovely Indian doctor whose name I can’t pronounce no matter how hard I try. She looks at me quizzically when I tell her I’m an actor and voice-over artist. Seems an odd career choice when I can’t even retain a complicated surname in my head.

DOCTOR

You have chicken pox.

Me?

DOCTOR

Yes, you. And possibly your baby.

Bed rest and lots of fluids?

DOCTOR

This is potentially very serious. If the disease has crossed the placenta, your baby faces possible respiratory compliations, maybe some form of calcification, even cardiovascular problems and/or limb deformity. It’s life-threatening. For you and the baby.

What?

DOCTOR

Termination is recommended, although I can’t tell you what to do. The decision is yours. It’s early days, now would be the safest time.

What?

I can’t think. I can’t hear. I can’t take it in. She’s talking about a harmless childhood disease. But then she’s talking about termination. Calcification. Deformity. What does she mean? It’s just chicken pox.

DOCTOR

As I said, this harmless childhood disease is life-threatening, even fatal for adults, but especially for pregnant women.

I’ve been so irresponsible about the seriousness of this rash. Did she just say life-threatening? Potentially fatal? Me? I’m pregnant. I’m full of life. I’m not life-threatened.

DOCTOR

If you decide against termination, you’ll probably need to have an amniocentesis, although you’ll need to think about that because there’s a chance it can trigger miscarriage. But it’s the only way we can know for sure if the foetus has contracted the virus. You’ll need extra scans so we can monitor the baby should you decide against termination.

We hired a magician for Jack’s birthday party and one of his tricks was having me pretend to be a chicken. Then he waved his magic wand and hey presto, I’d laid an egg. But it doesn’t mean I
am
a chicken! A poxed-chicken or a chicken-poxed. It doesn’t mean calcification, deformity, termination and . . .

DOCTOR

Right now, you need to be in hospital so we can monitor you. Your temperature is very high and we can’t take any risks.

Hospital?

DOCTOR

You’ll be put on a drip in a quarantined ward. The only people who’ll be able to visit you will be people who’ve had chicken pox themselves. Anyone else should stay away. You said you had a son?

He’s been inoculated.

DOCTOR

And you haven’t?

I didn’t think of it. I thought it was something only kids got.

DOCTOR

This is a highly infectious disease. Very dangerous for a woman in your condition. I’ll contact the hospital and let them know you’re on your way. I suggest you call your husband.

He wouldn’t be interested.

It’s out of my mouth before I have time to think.

DOCTOR

I’m sure he would.

Sorry, I mean . . . he’s my ex-husband. My partner is . . .

DOCTOR

Well, call your partner then.

And straight away I’ve gone from tertiary-educated, respected, nice mother who works in theatre and writes plays, does voice-overs but endearingly can’t quite retain complex Indian names, to a bogan who is having a child with someone who is not her husband. A bogan who has a partner and an ex-husband. A bogan who already has a child from a previous marriage. A bogan whose ex-husband couldn’t care less. A bogan who has children with two different fathers. A bogan who . . .

She breezes out of the room and I reach for the phone. I dial Patrick’s number.

Have you had chicken pox?

PATRICK

Yeah, few years back. Worst illness I’ve ever had. Felt like I was gonna die. That’s the rash?

Yep.

PATRICK

Shit.

The doctor’s putting me in hospital.

PATRICK

Which one?

Local.

PATRICK

I’ll meet you there. Don’t panic.

He’s calm and decisive in a crisis. I contemplate my future as I wait for the doctor to come back into the room.

The play. Maybe I could just take a few days off. But they’re putting me in hospital. So? Maybe I’ll be out in time for Tuesday’s show. Who am I kidding? I have a highly infectious disease. I’ll have to drop out. I’ve never done that before. In all my years working as an actor, I’ve never dropped out of anything.

My phone rings. I absently and automatically answer it. My agent’s witchy tones screech down the line.

WITCHYPOO

I’ve got an audition for you. Tomorrow. Midday. An ad. Lots of money. Don’t stuff it up.

I’ve got chicken pox.

WITCHYPOO

Wear make-up then.

I can’t. I have to drop out.

WITCHYPOO

You can’t.

I have to.

WITCHYPOO

Do you know how hard it is to get these auditions?

Of the play. I have to drop out of the play.

WITCHYPOO

What?

I’ve got chicken pox. And I’m pregnant. They’re putting me in hospital. The baby . . . I have to drop out. I’m sorry. Please organise it for me.

I hang up. Absently and automatically. Businesslike. Boundaries. She calls me straight back. I let it go to message. My SELF can’t deal with her right now.

The lovely Indian doctor breezes back in.

DOCTOR

They’re expecting you. Are you okay to drive? I can call an ambulance.

I’m fine.

DOCTOR

No, you’re not. But I think you’re okay to drive. It’s not far. And contact your obstetrician. She’ll need to know.

My obstetrician?

DOCTOR

Of course. You can discuss everything with her. If you feel at all dizzy or light- headed while driving, pull over and call an ambulance.

Okay.

I somehow manage to get up, walk out of the room, make my way back to the car and drive the short trip to the local hospital. I don’t feel dizzy, but I can barely see for tears. How life can turn on a dime. I instantly have an understanding of that saying.

Patrick’s already there when I arrive. He holds me and I sob.

They said the baby . . .

But I can’t get the words out.

PATRICK

Don’t worry about the baby. He’ll be fine.

It could be a girl.

PATRICK

It’s a boy. I’ve got a sixth sense. He’ll be fine.

. . . life-threatening, possible respiratory compliations, maybe some form of calcification, even cardiovascular problems and/or limb deformity . . .

PATRICK

What?

The side effects, if the baby gets it. If it crosses the placenta.

PATRICK

They must have been talking about worst-case scenario.

Yes.

PATRICK

That’s what doctors do. Put the willy up you so you behave.

You really think so?

PATRICK

Look at me.

I lift my head to meet his gaze.

PATRICK

Shit, you’ve got even more spots.

Great.

PATRICK

Look at me. Whatever happens, we’ll cope. He’s our little tacker.

I keep expecting him to break out into a Victoria Bitter beer ad—
You can get it workin’
. His Australianness continues to surprise me. I love it, but I’m not used to a “real” Aussie bloke. It’s genuine with Patrick. It’s part of who he is. He isn’t acting; he’s just being himself. When theatre actors pretend to be Aussie blokes, it’s all knuckle-dragging, speech-slurring, burping, farting, rhyming slang, bunged on Aussie-ness. They even slap on a Jackie Howe singlet for that added layer of authenticity. But Patrick is the real deal. He doesn’t use words like “tacker” because they’re in the script. He uses words like “tacker” because they’re in
him
.

His solid Aussie-ness becomes the firm rock that I lean on over the next couple of weeks. Getting a seemingly innocuous childhood illness when you’re a pregnant woman couldn’t be more complicated.

My parents haven’t had this delightful childhood disease so they can’t visit me in hospital. Nor my sister, nor Tom. It’s just Patrick and Jack. Bonding over a broken leg and a bout of chicken pox. Not a conventional way to get to know your mother’s new partner, but I think I’ve thrown conventionality out the window lately.

Mum phones each and every day. Sometimes each and every hour.

MUM

Everything all right, love?

I’m fine.

MUM

I just can’t risk it love or I’d be there.

I know that. I’m highly infectious.

MUM

And I think it’s wonderful about the baby. I really do. Even if something’s wrong with it. Even if it’s got . . . what did you say?

Calcification.

MUM

That’s right, love. Even if it’s calcified and deformed, we’ll still love it.