Odyssey In A Teacup (37 page)

I’d been waiting fifteen minutes when a young woman came out of one of the two doors adjoining the waiting room. She looked a picture of contentment. She paid the receptionist, who then took my filled-in form into the room. A few minutes later, she ushered me in and indicated a chair for me to sit on. Apart from the obvious massage table in the centre, the room was decorated exactly the same as the waiting room: identical appliqué wall hanging, drum, Ganesha, Gayatri and Dhurrie (they must have picked up two for the price of one when they shopped for the practice). I heard some shuffling behind a red and gold curtained area. The curtain then parted and a man in a white sarong and short-sleeved, white shirt emerged.

‘Hello, Ruth, and welcome. I’m Devachandra Mukherjee.’

I nearly,
nearly
said bullshit! Even I looked more Indian than Devachandra Mukherjee. He was a short, pale-skinned, beefy redhead (I expected
his
name to be Flanagan). After an interminable silence, he asked, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Uh, uh ... I thought you were Indian.’

‘I’ve spent a lot of time in Ashrams in India dressed in a dhoti and kurta, so I consider myself an honorary Indian,’ he said defensively.

Really? Leonard Nimoy spent a lot of time on the Starship Enterprise wearing prosthetic pointy ears, but it didn’t make him an honorary half-Vulcan.
I didn’t reply, but I felt that there was already a tension between Mukherjee and me that did not bode well for the upcoming massage.

‘I’ll leave you to get ready. Please strip down to your underpants, lie face down and cover yourself with the towel,’ he said pleasantly as if our exchange hadn’t even occurred.

The massage started okay. He had quite some power in those stumpy little arms, and really worked them. About ten minutes into it, though, I felt something dripping on my back. It couldn’t have been oil because he hadn’t removed his hands to pour any on, unless ... all that time in Indian Ashrams made him an honorary Goddess Gayatri, and he’d sprouted an extra eight arms.

Mukherjee was breathing quite heavily, and the dripping continued for a while before I realised what it was. His face was sweating profusely, and I was copping the overflow.
Eww!
How was I going to get out of this one? I needed to think on my feet, which is really difficult when you’re lying down. I was also worried about offending this person even though what
he
was doing was offensive! It was another ten minutes before an idea took shape. It was just a matter of being honest.

‘This massage is really bringing up some uncomfortable feelings,’ I said, hoping he would stop.

‘Nobody else has ever said that,’ Mukherjee responded petulantly. He was actually indignant!

I didn’t like this. The implication there was that I was being contrary. And I was getting heartily sick of being made to feel like the difficult child just because I disagreed with someone, or because I didn’t conform to a particular standard.

‘Other people’s experiences are not relevant to mine,’ I said, resolutely.

Mukherjee backed down. He cleared his throat nervously.

‘Would you like me to do some drumming to help balance things out?’

Huh? And what am I supposed to do while you sit in the fucking corner and beat your lacquered timber drum? And probably get an erection in the process! I prayed to Gayatri, Ganesha and the Dhurrie rug that he didn’t already have one.
‘Drumming?’

‘On your back, you know, with the side of my hands.’

Oops. Just as well I hadn’t expressed my thoughts. I considered his offer, but drumming would require exertion, and more exertion meant more sweat. ‘No thank you. I’d like you to finish up, please.’

‘Very well then,’ said Mukherjee in a cold, clipped tone.

If he was offended by my choice, too bad; he was the one who’d offered it to me. He shouldn’t have asked a closed question.

I paid for the session and walked out of there, head held high. I felt overjoyed at my assertiveness (a genuine overjoyedness, unlike Raine Bow’s). Things were changing and I was starting to become a pain in the arse again. And as much as a big part of me wanted to slot into Reuben’s world, my spirit had other ideas. Playing small didn’t do it for me anymore. I also started to get that not everything was my fault.

But Reuben didn’t agree. We split up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR:
UP-ENDINGS

The first year was horrible. I could barely find my way out of a paper bag, but I needed plenty of them to help me breathe:
Ah-ha-ah-ha-ah-ha
. Molehills became mountains that felt impossible to climb. The mirror made my life hell. ‘Who’s going to take care of you?’
Ah-ha-ah-ha-ah-ha.
‘You should have been a better wife; maybe you can go back and try harder ... ’

Ralph said my pain meant I was ‘making soul’. ‘It means all the aspects of your makeup that have been dying in the depths are coming alive!’

Screw that! The skeletons that had been creaking for years were now fleshing out and launching a blitzkrieg? ‘I want the fairy tale back!’ I wailed.

But Ralph’s unwavering support (and Maxi and Vette’s) helped me find the reserves and stop myself being squashed by the internal brickbats. It was a dark time. But then, there were the bright spots. Like Sylvia calling to offer some encouragement.

‘That husband of yours must have had some issues in his childhood.’

I laughed so hard when I hung up, I peed my pants (when you’re six or in your forties, it’s okay to do that, but this time, my friends didn’t need to know). Still, I was grateful. For once, Sylvia didn’t make it my fault. But Hannah and Casper did. Although I felt guilty at first, I’d had a bellyful of being the fall guy. So I supported them through their pain, but told them in no uncertain terms that I would only assume responsibility for
my
part. Reuben needed to own his. And by the end of the year, it seemed he had.

He stopped blaming me and we both just accepted that we had been heading in different directions long before our marriage was over. We sold the house and I found a lovely three-bedroom townhouse in the neighbouring suburb. I made an offer and the vendor accepted. The agent called me the next day, though.

‘We’ve had another offer for ten thousand dollars more. If you offer another ten thousand on top of that, it’s yours, guaranteed!’

‘Nope. Sell it to the other bloody buyer.’ I hung up. I wasn’t interested in people’s games and I wasn’t going to be manipulated, especially by a real estate agent. I loved the townhouse but it was
just
a townhouse. I was learning that if I had to struggle for something, anything, then it wasn’t meant to be.

Two hours later, the agent called back to tell me the other party had withdrawn their offer.

Of course they had.

‘It’s your lucky day!’

Really? A non-existent person made a non-existent offer and is now non-existently reneging on it?

‘So, how about we go ahead and get those contracts drawn up?’

‘Sure. But for ten thousand
less
than my original offer.’

‘Oh, er, um, I’m not sure the vendor will agree to that.’

‘Well, if she doesn’t, I guess we won’t be going ahead and getting those contracts drawn up, will we?’

She did, and we did. But I heard on the grapevine that the agent had to reduce his commission. Gutless wonder (or maybe that should be nutless wonder—cast in the same mould as Milton ‘Bluebeard’ Ferret).

I had a good amount left over from our settlement, but I needed to get some work. I was agonising over what I could do when Maxi asked me if I’d be interested in writing a small article for her magazine. Sylvia’s disembodied voice in my head came up with a whole lot of reasons why I couldn’t, or shouldn’t.

‘But it’s a fashion magazine. You know I’m not particularly fashion-savvy.’

‘I want to include human-interest pieces. You don’t need to be a fashion ace for that. And I love the way you tell stories. Just gimme one—five hundred words. But maybe leave out the word
fuck
.’

I decided to grab the bull by the balls. I wasn’t afraid to make a fool of myself in front of Maxi; I knew she would be honest and not just tell me what I wanted to hear, but I also knew she wouldn’t judge me.

She loved the article; so did a large percentage of the magazine’s readership. I started writing regularly after that. I wrote about things like close friendships, the value of reminiscing, embarrassing experiences, relationships, suffering through social niceties, fashion blunders, and dealing with dysfunctional family members. And the response was so favourable, I graduated to writing feature stories for the magazine. I became its ‘inspirational humour’ columnist, with each story alluding to the absurdity of the human condition. I used my maiden name as my
nom de plume
. The banner was ‘Ruth Roth Rites’. With few syllables, it was an easy one to remember, and the alliteration helped add fun to the piece. My signature intro was ‘Hello, I’m Ruth Roth’.

The positive feedback did wonders for my self-esteem, so when Sylvia offered her form of praise, it barely made a dent (‘It’s good that you can support yourself until you meet someone else’). And a year after Reuben and I divorced, I was in a relatively content space.

I had my own home (mortgage-free) and I had regular, well-paying work that I loved. Maxi was an awesome boss! She was easy to work for and it enhanced our already close friendship. The kids and I were simpatico again after those initial tempestuous months, and Reuben and I were on reasonably good terms. I wasn’t in a relationship or dating, but I was okay with that. I got rid of the fire engine red hair colour, replacing it with reddish, mid-brown tones, and I’d grown out the heavy fringe. My overall look now neither squeaked wishy-washy vanilla, nor did it scream
slut
. It kind of conveyed ... natural.

It all felt like a homecoming after an odyssey, which I’d embarked on after Hayley’s Batmitzvah celebration. Or maybe life itself had been a series of them. Considering my many crazy encounters, maybe it had all begun from the time I left my mother’s womb. Either way, all was well in my world. Until the Sunday Ralph called saying he needed to see me urgently.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t want to tell you over the phone.’

‘Ralph, what’s wrong? Is it something bad? Are you sick?’ My gut was churning.

‘I need to see you.’

‘What
is
it?’

‘Ruthie!’

‘Okay, okay, come over.’

Ralph was distressed when he arrived. He plonked himself on the couch; I sat opposite him. With his elbows resting on his knees, he started wildly running his hands through his hair, his legs jackhammering (just as he’d done at Zelda’s wedding when the amputee approached our table. Only Ralph wasn’t wearing a silver lamé suit this time).

‘Ralph, are you sick?’

‘What? No. No.’

Not sick, but obviously, feverishly disturbed.

‘What is it, then?’

He looked up, his face shocked and strained. ‘I’m adopted.’

‘What?’

‘Norma and Albie aren’t my biological parents.’

I stared at him in disbelief. ‘H-how did you find out?’

‘I dropped in to see my mother. Well, no, not my mother.
Norma
. There was this woman there: Vera. She was visiting. Apparently, she’s an old friend. She moved to Melbourne when I was two, and they lost contact. She’d just moved back and called Norma. Wasn’t hard to find her seeing as she’s still at the same address. Anyway, Norma introduced us and Vera blurted out, “You’re the adopted one”. I laughed. I thought it was in reference to me being so different to the others. I guess she assumed they would have told me, like any
normal
person would! And if Norma and her miserable
Arschloch
husband hadn’t turned white as a sheet, I’d have kept thinking it was a joke.’ Ralph shook his head in disgust. ‘So, I said to Norma, “Is there something you need to tell me?” Well, she took me into the kitchen and told me.’

I didn’t know what to say at first. I had so many questions for him, but didn’t want to bombard him and overwhelm him. Some needed to be asked, though.

‘Why didn’t they tell you?’

‘She was worried about how I’d take it, being a sensitive child. And the longer she waited, the harder it got.’

‘Still, I don’t understand how you didn’t find out. You had to present your birth certificate when you applied for your licence and opened up bank accounts. Wouldn’t it have been on the birth certificate?’

‘You would think. But apparently, it’s what’s called a closed adoption—where an adopted child’s original birth certificate is sealed. Forever. And then the adoptive parents get an amended one. The child gets a new identity and the adoption gets covered up. Real cloak and dagger stuff. Things didn’t start changing until the seventies when adoption started to become more open, and without all the secrecy, you could start getting access to information.’ Ralph shook his head again, but this time in a state of despair.

I moved, went and sat next to him and put my arms around him. He buried his face in his hands and started crying. He sobbed. I felt helpless, but there was nothing I could do except hold him. The last time I had seen Ralph this distraught was that afternoon in his bedroom after the Bantam motorbike incident some thirty years earlier. Saying ‘nice tackle’ worked then, but it was hardly appropriate now.

After about five minutes, he calmed, and looked at me. ‘I was waiting for you to say “nice tackle”.’

It was amazing and scary the way we could read each other’s thoughts. We both laughed, but then when he cried again, I cried with him. He spoke about his confused feelings.

‘I feel so betrayed by Norma. I’m just so angry with her at the moment. But I also feel sad she’s not my real mother.’ I nodded. ‘Then again, it’s a relief to know I’m not blood-related to
him
and his sucklings. But I hate him even more now for the way he treated me all those years before I threatened him.’