Art Ache (3 page)

ME

I was walking down the mall the other day on my way to the bank, and I just started crying. For no reason. In public. I don’t think anyone could tell. I was pretty discreet. The tears just fell down my face. I felt alone. I was in a crowd of strangers just going about their business and I was going about my business and I felt/

MARJORY

/Alone.

ME

Yes. Sad. Overwhelmed. Like there was no future. Nothing.

MARJORY

How does your husband feel about this?

ME

He works. He’s busy. He’s/

MARJORY

/You haven’t told him?

ME

No.

MARJORY

That’s a concern. Why haven’t you told him?

ME

Um . . .

Oh God, no, I’m going to cry. Not now, not here. But why not here? Here is the perfect place. But it feels so weird, so odd, so new age, so . . . not here, Persephone, not . . .

MARJORY

Here.

She pushes a box of tissues my way.

ME

He . . . he’s never home. And he probably wouldn’t care. I try to tell him what it’s like, but . . .

MARJORY

What what’s like?

ME

My life. Having a child, putting my career on hold, trying to work at my bread and butter job to make ends meet but . . . missing my true job. Him working all the time and expecting me to be . . .

MARJORY

What?

ME

A wife.

MARJORY

But you are a wife. You’re married.

ME

I’m like his mother.

MARJORY

You wanted to be that sort of wife?

ME

No. The exact opposite, but that’s what I’ve become. He’s not aware of it. He’d deny it if I said it, but he just wants a mother. His mother. A stay–at-home wife who looks after him, the house, the child . . . I do everything. I cook, I clean, I look after our son, I shop, I plan, I write Christmas cards. I even thought about making a quilt the other day.

MARJORY

You have a problem with that?

ME

Yes! I didn’t go to university so I could make quilts. This isn’t what it’s supposed to be like.

MARJORY

What
is
it supposed to be like? Tell me.

I want to stand up and cross to the other side of the room. I want to put my hands on my hips and stamp my feet, point at her and launch into an Arthur Miller inspired monologue so she’ll understand. But I don’t.

ME

It’s supposed to be . . . fulfilling. Connected. Enjoyable at least.

MARJORY

What is? Explain the “it.”

ME

Being a member of Generation X. They told us we could have it all. The career, the husband, the baby, the home. We could smash that glass ceiling and fly high.

MARJORY

Who told you that?

ME

Um . . . I don’t know . . . everyone. The women who ran with the wolves, the ones who broke the glass ceiling, Naomi Wolf and the beauty mythbusters, Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Germaine Greer, you name it, Julia Gillard. Julie Bishop. Bronwyn Bishop. The Archbishop? I don’t know. Everyone.

MARJORY

And how do
you
think it should be? Do you think you can have it all?

ME

Probably not. That’s why I put my career on hold. How can my husband and I both have careers when we have a young child? He can have his turn and I’ll have mine later.

MARJORY

Tell me more about Generation X. What’s it like?

ME

Crap.

MARJORY

What did you
think
it would be like?

ME

Better than this.

She raises an eyebrow. I take a deep breath.

ME

I thought we could have it all. I really did. I believed that slogan and I’ve tried very hard to make it happen. But the expectations are so high. It’s so hard. We’re supposed to have these amazing equal partners who we can talk to and share things with. We’re also supposed to be able to maintain our incredibly fulfilling careers while we raise our incredibly fulfilling children. We’re supposed to be able to have our cake and eat it too. But no one told us we had to bake the cake first. And cover it with gluten-free, low GI, sugar-free icing, sourced from a gender-neutral, sexually- neutral, politically-correct local store with employees who wear aprons made from hemp and wrap your purchases in recycled brown paper that leaves no carbon footprint. Then after we’ve fed the cake to our natural-cotton wearing children, we’re supposed to model inclusion by consuming a slice ourselves, but without gaining a bloody kilo because we’re still supposed to have the body we had before we had children even though we have no motivation to exercise, feel exhausted and barely recognise ourselves when we look in the mirror. And we’re supposed to be able to express these feelings openly to our adoring, committed partners who will help us navigate our way through it all at the same time we’re crashing through the glass ceiling. My husband couldn’t care less. Sorry, I’m raving.

Awkward pause.

MARJORY

You have a very unhappy marriage.

She’s only just met me. I feel like I’ve taken my dirty undies off and she’s holding them in the air for all to see.
There’s a Stanislavski acting exercise all about that. You have to imagine the acting tutor is waving your soiled undies around for all to see and you have to try to grab them back. It was something about intention, motivation. What’s driving the character in the moment, how they respond to internal impulses. I never really saw the point. Now I do. I’d be grabbing those soiled undies in record time.

MARJORY

You need to put on your life jacket and learn to swim.

ME

Pardon?

MARJORY

Prepare for the worst. It doesn’t sound like your husband’s into it. And I doubt he’s going to change.

ME

Really? I rave on about Gen X and you tell me to prepare for the worst?

MARJORY

You have to take care of yourself. You’re on two different pages. He might change, but you can’t make him.

ME

Really?

MARJORY

Really. All you can do is take responsibility for yourself and your needs.

ME

How?

MARJORY

Put on your lifejacket and prepare yourself. Get used to standing on your own two feet. And learn to swim. That way you’re fully protected.

ME

Why do I need protection?

MARJORY

There’s a problem here, Persephone. You need to surface what’s really going on in this relationship. Give him an ultimatum.

ME

An ultimatum?

MARJORY

It works. Smoke him out.

ME

Sounds a little heavy.

MARJORY

Tell him you have three months, both of you, to either make it work, or to end it.

ME

I don’t want to end it.

MARJORY

He might.

ME

But we’re married.

MARJORY

That’s a piece of paper.

ME

It’s more than that.

MARJORY

For you it is. Doesn’t sound like it is for him. Spend three months going on dates, getting to know each other, spending quality time together. Then reassess. If his mood and behaviour don’t improve, he’s giving you a clear sign. It’s over.

ME

I don’t want it to be over.

MARJORY

You might not have a choice.

ME

Don’t you always have a choice?

MARJORY

You can choose how you respond. That’s a choice. Do you want to spend your life in limbo?

ME

If I have to.

I think my answers are disappointing her. I no longer feel like I’m in a David Mamet or Caryl Churchill play with rapid-fire dialogue bouncing between us; now, I feel like I’m in an absurdist play. I expect a rhinoceros or some other random animal to stroll through the scene at any moment.

MARJORY

Really?

ME

I want a family.

MARJORY

You have one.

ME

I know I raved on about Naomi Wolf and Germaine Greer and stuff, but I don’t want to be a single mother. I want a husband.

MARJORY

There are worse things than being a single mother.

ME

Really?

MARJORY

Of course. Date each other for three months and see how it goes. He could surprise you.

And that he did. Now, two months and three weeks later, he just stood in front of me and told me he no longer wants to be married and that I don’t ‘do it’ for him anymore. I’d call that a surprise. Thanks for the heads up, Marjory. Pity I didn’t listen to you.

He didn’t want to go on the dates. He thought it was a ridiculous idea. We tried the movies once. It was awkward, forced, and inconvenient. He was busy with work and the only time we could find was a Saturday afternoon. Mum and Dad babysat, but they were on a tight timeframe because they had a party to go to that night. And the only movie in that timeslot was some action thing that was dreadful. He was distracted and impatient, but I actually thought that was okay. We were a married couple, I had signed off on forever, we didn’t need contrived dates to prove we loved each other. We had made a commitment. That was the most important thing . . . wasn’t it? Apparently not.

Please pull yourself together, Persephone. You can’t stay on the kitchen floor forever. Jack needs you. Drag your sorry arse off the floor and take your son to the park.

Another sob escapes from my mouth as I haul myself up the kitchen cupboard and lean against the bench. I’m wiping my face on my sleeve as Jack comes bounding in from his exciting adventure to the toilet.

JACK

I flushed my poo all by myself!

ME

Good job!

Breathe deeply, Persephone. Splash some water on your face.

JACK

Now I’m ready for the park. Sunscreen?

ME

On the bathroom bench, sweetie. Can you get it for Mummy?

Why is it kitchen sink water always feels harsher than bathroom sink water? They’re the same pipes and the same H
2
O, but kitchen always seems more severe than bathroom. Oh well, it’s doing the trick. It’s washing the tears off my face and the snot down the drain.

Jack totters up to me with the sunscreen.

JACK

Here you go.

ME

You’re so strong, young man.

JACK

I’m not a man. I’m a boy.

ME

A big boy. You can nearly touch the ceiling.

He considers this while I smother Cancer Council approved sunscreen all over his gorgeous little face. His skin is so perfect. Clear. Translucent. In no time at all he’ll have one or two freckles, then the zits will creep in and before you know it, his cheeks will be covered in whiskers that will then be replaced by laughter lines. Turn around and they’re four, turn around and they’re twenty-four.

ME

Come on, Master Jack. Let’s get to the park before it closes.

JACK

Parks don’t close.

ME

I know. Joke Joyce.

JACK

Jack. Not Joyce.

I scoop his delicious, muscular little body into my arms and give him a huge cuddle. He can walk to the park quite easily. We do it most days but today, I want to carry him. I want to feel him close. I actually want to shrinky-dink him and put him in my pocket. Remember how you used to be able to do that with potato chip packets? Put them in the oven for a few minutes after you’d scoffed all the chips. The packets would shrink and you could put them on a keyring or use them as a fun ornament for your pencil case. They looked so cute. Twisties packets were the best. Well, I’d like to shrinky-dink Jack, but it’s probably against the law to do it to children.

Jack talks the whole way to the park. I nod and grunt in response, hoping he doesn’t catch on to the fact that my mind is miles away. Light years away.

He climbs onto his favourite swing and I absentmindedly push him back and forth.

JACK

Higher, Mummy. Push me higher.

ME

You’ll go right over the top of the swing in a minute.