Unzipped (17 page)

Ruby picks me up on the morning of the ultrasound. I hear Buttercup turning the corner from my bedroom. We drive in silence to the hospital. I’m nervous.

I dreamed the baby had an extra pair of hands and a nurse ran out of the room to get a doctor. He peered at the screen: ‘Oh, yes. We call that bihandular duality. It’s rare, but it can be helpful, especially in the kitchen.’ I dreamed Ruby and I were at the scan and it was textbook until the amniotic fluid started turning to sand.

Ruby parks and I race in, pretending to myself that I’m allowed to go to the toilet. A mind game I can’t win.

The water cooler across the way bubbles. Big, gulping bubbles. I think the tank might rupture, sending a torrent through the reception area. I’ve had six glasses of water since I got up. I might rupture.

It’s four days before Christmas and twenty minutes since my appointment time sailed past, and there are
three women ahead of me. Pregnancy doesn’t care what time of year it is.

Ruby sings water songs. ‘Take Me to the River’, ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head’. She digs at my memory, sings one of Mum’s favourite songs, Manhattan Transfer’s ‘Drip, Drip’.

‘Is this the first ultrasound you’ve attended, Rube?’

‘Yep, can’t wait. Babies and all.’

‘Well, give the water references a rest or you can wait outside with these.’ Stacked on the coffee table are yachting, golfing and photography magazines almost as old as BJ.

‘Okay, I’ll dry up.’

‘Shut up. How come you like babies so much?’

‘Because Mum did.’ Ruby tosses a stamp-collecting magazine back onto the pile.

I smile and miss Mum.

‘Remember when the woman next door had her twins and Mum would go over the minute we’d left for school? All the cooking she did?’

‘Casseroles,’ Ruby says. ‘For weeks.’

I can’t remember the woman’s name or the names of her twins, but I can see Mum’s busy-in-the-kitchen face, her cheeks hot pink, the way she’d blow her hair out of her eyes.

‘I don’t know how to relate to children.’

‘You’re about to find out.’

‘I’m about to wet myself.’

Black and grey and white swirling and pulsing, whooshing whale sounds, my child up on the screen. I can’t believe it.

‘God, Peta. This happens every day but it is bloody

amazing.’

‘Rube, the baby.’

More like the tiny throbbing formation that is my child.

Ruby is in tears. I’m sticky from the gel and dying to go the toilet. This is an everyday occurrence, as evidenced by the seen-it-all manner of the sonographer, but it is amazing. That little heart beating, like a bird’s, like a wind-up toy on overdrive, I love it. We sniff back tears in the semi-dark. Ruby touches the screen and whispers, ‘Hello, baby, I’m your Aunty Ruby.’ I lose it.

I thought I was never going to stop weeing. I wash my hands and run cool water into my red eyes, try to look normal, just another day at the antenatal unit. Examine myself in the mirror, not showing yet. My breasts might be bigger.

‘Sooking like that. Over this.’ The filmy photo of my baby, a black and white mystery, curled into my tight space.

‘Pete, I read on the net, that she’d—I’m saying
she
because I don’t want to say
it
—be about three inches long and she’s got her teeth.’

‘Well, she—I’m saying she because you have—has got a lot of becoming a person to do before the first of July, hasn’t she? I was going to give Mark the photo, but he can have a photocopy. I’ll make a copy for you too, Aunty Ruby.’

I plan to make several photocopies. One for my diary, my car, my desk, the bedside table.

Christmas Day with your sister and her new partner who is also your old husband is an experience you couldn’t pay for. Ruby is so deferential I feel like one of those old aunts people draw straws not to see.

I’m desperate for her to tell me to hurry the fuck up and open my presents, or could I move my big fucken body and let someone else sit down. I’m thirteen weeks, not that big, not big at all, but I could do with the rudeness. Normality.

‘Are you feeling good? Comfortable?’

‘Yes. Thanks, Ruby.’

‘Would you like something to eat or drink?’

‘I’ll get something when I want it, Rube.’

‘Maybe a lie down on the spare bed?’

‘Yes, go on, Pete,’ Mark says.

He isn’t much better. Is he feeling guilty? I hope not. He’s with Ruby, he’s happy, they both are. It’s good.

Eventually I fake a headache and go home.

I walk around the closed shops of my neighbourhood, get bored and drive to Kew Boulevard, park in the same spot BJ and I did all those months ago and stay put until the sun goes down.

There are bike magazines on BJ’s pile. I’m reading all about road cycling—that’s what it’s called—the bikes are made of carbon fibre and cyclists can ride down hills faster than I’m allowed to drive them. I read about the Tour de France. If I can’t be with her I can at least read about where she is. I move the pile from the spare bed, fold the clothes and put them in drawers, stack the magazines in date order on the floor of the wardrobe, slip the toiletries back into the bathroom cupboard.

Two days after Christmas I go shopping for a maternity bra. I go on my own. I don’t want Ruby making fun of me. I’ve done my reading: you buy them before the baby because your breasts become larger during pregnancy, and you buy them for breastfeeding. They have cups that can be folded down to give baby (the books don’t say
the baby,
they say
baby)
access to the breast. BJ should stay right where she is. Nobody could find maternity bras sexy.

New Year’s Eve is at Taylor’s. The usual mob is there, except for Alex and Rob who stay home with their attitudes and their baby boy, Zephyr.

I bail by ten o’clock.

I have Jasmine tomorrow for a sleepover (Keith must have said something to Margie), and I want to make sure the house is right for her and that I look good, rested and responsible. Also, no BJ to kiss at midnight, I don’t want to be awake for it.

On New Year’s Day Stephen drops Jasmine off. She kisses him goodbye in the car, doesn’t want him to come in, she’s a big girl now.

We play Uno and Jenga and watch Harry Potter movies. I let her eat too much junk food on the promise she’ll brush her teeth twice.

At nine-thirty I tuck her into my bed and we read. She falls asleep with her book propped up on her chest. I read
The Bridge to Terabithia
when I was her age. It changed my life, made me understand that pain can happen to everyone, including kids, and that there is life afterwards. She hasn’t got to that part yet.

I’m on my side, she’s behind me, sleeping on her back, still like a stone. Jasmine is brilliant. Margie can’t be that bad. I hope she gives me another chance. Jasmine is here, I guess she has.

Fifty dollars is a lot of money for a ten-year-old and Jasmine wants to spend it at Savers, an op-shop on the scale of Bunnings. She really is my type of kid. I hope the baby is my type of kid.

We go to the Savers on Sydney Road. Tramlines shine parallel in the sun, taxis swing in and out between parked cars and red lights.

On a hot day Savers is brutal. I buy maternity clothes: a dress and a couple of stretchy tops. It’s a start. When Jasmine reaches the register with her six skirts, four T-shirts, and a glass bowl for her mother, she is red-faced and her freckles are standing out.

I hold her hand as we cross the road to a cafe. I’m for an iced coffee and Jasmine wants an iced chocolate.

We sit opposite each other, clasping glasses with those
old-fashioned barber-shop paper straws; hers has a tower of cream with a cherry on top.

‘Mum’s going to love the bowl. She collects stuff made of red glass.’

I’m keeping that detail in my head. I want to thank Margie for taking a chance on me. I want to be as thoughtful as Jasmine. If that’s possible.

‘Jas, you are a lovely kid.’

She grins and takes a gurgling sip. ‘Aunty Pete, this is the second-best day of my life.’

Kids. They’re gorgeous how they classify and quantify. I’m not going to ask her what her best day is. Secondbest is fine.

I drive her home.

I kiss Jasmine on the cheek, straighten up, wave hello at the boys through the lounge-room window. They return my wave, slow, unsure. It’s an improvement.

We walk round the back. Margie is in the kitchen making dinner, burritos by the looks of it.

‘How’d you go?’

She’s talking to Jasmine.

‘Good, Mum. I bought you something.’ She throws her arms around her mother’s waist. One day my child might do that for me.

‘Margie, thank you. Really.’ Don’t cry in front of Margie.

‘Peta, it’s fine,’ Margie says. ‘Mark’s right. We’ve got to get on, and anyway, you really are family now.’ She gestures to my belly—it’s nothing much size-wise, but it’s everything.

Five days into the New Year I come home from work to
find Mrs Dalloway limping. She’s dragging her right-rear leg, her foot at an angle.

Mrs Dalloway understands English and she knows the word vet. She straightens up as if she’s saying, it’s fine, I’m fine, I’ll walk it off. I want to believe her.

The vet inspects her. Mrs D is old and, though she eats, she’s about a third of the weight she should be. Her hips have gone.

‘We could get her through the week, see what happens,’ the vet says, in her soft voice.

That’s when I know. A tear drips onto my hand. There are euthanasia forms to sign. I don’t want to. It’s the worst signature I’ve ever done.

Mrs Dalloway is placed on the table and her lower half is covered with a blanket.

‘I’ll give her a dose of pentobarbital. She may void her bladder or bowel as her heart slows then stops.’

I’m on the other side of the bench from the vet. I hold my nearly hundred-year-old girl. I’ve been calling her
little old lady
for years. The vet injects the drug.

It’s not falling asleep. All this time, I thought it was. That’s what we say, put to sleep.

It’s too quick.

‘I’ll give you some time.’

The vet closes the door behind her.

Mrs Dalloway’s green eyes remain open. They look like glass, they look like nothing good. Her tongue is out, her face seems twisted. The blanket is wet beneath her. I don’t care. I hold her, my head on her body, and stroke a velvet ear.

‘Thank you, Mrs D. Thank you, thanks for being my cat.’

The vet returns and takes Mrs Dalloway away.

I sit in the reception area and wait, all tears and no pet. A little girl wearing a pink tutu and blue gumboots comes in with her dad and a puppy, a chocolate Labrador. The puppy soon has a paw stuck under his collar. He pushes backwards in a circle trying to free himself.

Me, my old dead cat and a cat carrier good for one more trip. A canine bouncing round the reception area like a kid on amphetamines: he’s got all day and no selfconsciousness.

The ground is hard. I’m not making progress. Mark is great at digging holes. A plane flies across the dark sky, a diagonal strip of white lights and engine noise.

My phone rings.

Taylor.

I cry when I hear her voice.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Mrs Dalloway’s dead.’

‘What happened?’

‘I had to put her down. I’m trying to bury her.’

‘What, now?’ Silence, then, ‘Do you want some help?’

‘Yeeees,’ I wail into the phone.

‘Gimme fifteen minutes.’

I sit in the backyard with Mrs Dalloway. She’s on the ground next to the beginnings of her hole, wrapped in the blanket. I sneak a finger into a fold and find she’s still warm. I want my cat back.

Taylor comes round the side of the house.

When I begin to stand, she says, ‘Sit, you’re in no shape.’

She gets on the spade. She has the hole dug in a couple of minutes.

I crouch and place Mrs Dalloway into the hole. I drop
in the bell I’ve removed from her collar. I’m keeping her collar, but if I hear the tinkle she made running down the hallway, I’ll cry.

Taylor pushes the dirt back into the hole and pats it down with the back of the spade. She leans the spade against the fence and we stand side by side, quiet, except for me crying into her hair. She has an arm around my waist.

‘Come inside, I’ll make you a cup of tea. Why don’t you have a shower and get into your PJs?’

Taylor is on mother autopilot and I do as I’m told.

We drink tea in the lounge room. I can see Mrs D’s bowl in the kitchen from my spot on the couch. Fresh tears. I put my cup down.

Taylor looks at her watch. ‘I better get back.’

‘What did you ring for?’

‘To see when you wanted to go shopping for baby gear. Don’t worry, we can talk about it another time.’ She finishes her tea.

I walk her to the front door. ‘Thank you, Taylor. How about Saturday afternoon to max out my credit card?’

‘Sure.’ She gives me a hug. I hold her tight. ‘See you then.’

I close the door on her and turn back to my quiet house.

Taylor and I are at Baby Land on Bridge Road. There is giddiness in the air and baby bumps all round. It’s expensive, but it’s still cheaper than BJ’s bike shop.

Taylor has given me her pram and her cot. She was keeping them for me. Who knew? We’re here for a change table, although Taylor says she wound up changing nappies on the floor.

‘God, this stuff is incredible. Do we really need it? There was motherhood before monitors and baby wipes. What’s this?’ I pick up a breast pump, space-age and efficientlooking. I see the price and put it back on the shelf.

‘You have to stop being shocked and engage with this.’

‘Taylor, I’m buying a change table and a bouncer, whatever that is. I’m wearing a bone-coloured bra that would have SWAT bamboozled. I’m twenty weeks tomorrow. Nothing fits me. I’m engaged.’

I hold up a navy blue baby bag with about eightyfive compartments, hooks and levers, and an instruction booklet in Spanish. The backpack straps can be zipped into the interior so it looks less utilitarian. I like a bag. I like zips. ‘What about this?’

‘Rubbish.’ She glances at the price tag. ‘Expensive rubbish. Get this one.’ She hands me a plain bag. Two compartments, no instructions, half the price. ‘And these.’ A twelve-pack of plain towelling nappies.

‘No. No way. If you think I’m washing nappies, you’re out of your mind. Listen, I compost, I’m thinking of trading in the Golf for a Prius. I care. But there’s a landfill out there with my name on it and I’m going to fill it with disposable nappies.’

‘Peta, I have never washed a nappy. They’re useful, that’s all. Good for spills, good for lying babies on at the park. Relax.’

‘What about this?’ The cutest outfit, rainbow stripes, little booties and a hood.

‘Peta, it’s seventy dollars. It’s not worth it. The baby will grow out of it before you’ve stopped bleeding.’

‘Eh?’

I need to re-read the bringing-baby-home chapter again.

‘It’s a joke. I’m joking. Buy it if you want.’

‘You were funnier when I wasn’t pregnant.’

‘So were you,’ Taylor says heading to the register. ‘Let’s get out of here. I want to have a coffee before we pick up Miranda from Mum’s.’

The boot is full of baby gear, including a bath thermometer, a body thermometer, and a little cage thing on a thirty-five degree angle—to put the baby in when you need your hands free.

‘What are you going to do about the change table?’

‘Mark is going to set it up. It shouldn’t be too hard. It’s not like it’s from IKEA.’

Taylor brings her own sugar. Rustic, round sugar cubes, she drops one into her coffee. ‘Thought of any names?’

‘No. I can’t think of anything I like and they’ve all been done. I tell you, Taylor, you don’t how much resentment you’re walking around with until you’re trying to pick a name for your baby. Pauline? No, I hate her. That was Year Seven. Charlotte. No, still hate her, Year Ten art camp. It’s impossible.’

‘A name reinvents itself when you attach it your child.’

‘Is that so, Imelda?’

‘Shut up. What about maternity leave?’

‘I’ll have the first six weeks off and we’ll take it from there. I’ve recommended someone I was at uni with to cover it.’ I sip my coffee and imagine my library without me. Maybe the baby could fit under my desk.

‘What about antenatal classes?’

‘Taylor, are we playing two coffees and twenty questions? I’m engaged. I’m doing this. Obviously.’ I pat my lump.

‘I’m sorry. I guess I’m being your big sister. The classes?’

‘Having a baby hurts and antenatal classes will inform me just how much.’

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Pete. Labour hurts, but I did it twice more after the first time, so it can’t be that bad. Anyway, you get a baby out of it.’

Or not.

‘Last week, I went for a check-up and a woman was sitting in a wheelchair at reception. She had her husband and her mum and a priest with her. There was no baby.

Taylor. It was the worst thing. It was all I could do not to cry in front of her.’

Now I can cry. Tears all round.

‘God, that’s awful.’ Taylor wipes a tear away with the tip of a finger; it holds there glistening, salty. ‘Peta, I’ll tell you what hurts. When they cry and you can’t fix it. When their friends don’t want to play with them anymore, that hurts.’

It doesn’t look like misery at Baby Land, not with all that pastel pink and baby blue and everything in miniature.

Mark has built the change table. It took him most of the afternoon—he followed the instructions but they were photocopied mirror image and he didn’t realise until he was halfway through.

I’ve made lunch. Nicoise salad. The salad is good. The recipe must be easy or I’m improving.

We’re in the dining room. I’m sitting opposite Mark like I used to. We still own the house together, we’re pregnant, we’re practically a family. Ruby will understand the baby is the primary consideration. Who’ll be first to mention it?

‘This has been good, Peta.’ So, it’s him.

‘Who knew a change table would be so difficult?’ I’m pacing myself.

‘Ruby would have sworn her head off.’

‘And you weren’t?’

He has his mouthful. There’s a bit of egg in the corner of his mouth. I keep looking at it.

‘Those instructions. There’d be nothing left but firewood if she was doing it.’

When are we going to talk about us? ‘Another cup of tea?’

‘No thanks, Ruby and I are having afternoon tea at Kew boatshed. I’m hoping we can squeeze in hiring a rowboat.’

I’ve always wanted to do that.

‘You know, Pete. I was wrong about us. It’s good you had that head injury when you did. We would still be here trying to make it work. I never did cut my hours and I never did mind the trips that much. I don’t think you did either.’

‘You might be right.’

‘I think that’s why I haven’t been able to be as angry as people would have liked. You wouldn’t believe the things they said, Pete. They wanted you dead. Or they thought I’d turned you lesbian. Rob said,
Mate, she just hasn’t been fucked right.
What a dickhead. I gave him a fat lip. But I have to admit, it crossed my mind. Like, if I’d been home and been good enough, you’d never have turned to a woman.’

‘God, Mark, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think about that.’

Back then, I’d been thinking about going to Canada so BJ and I could get married. Or conducting a ceremony ourselves, like a citizen’s arrest—we could have a citizen’s wedding. She and I in front of a town hall, any town hall, whispering our vows and trading rings under our coats. No witnesses, no photos.

‘So. Absence makes the heart go fuck off?’

BJ in Paris, I wish I hadn’t said that. I’m clearing the table, Mark is finishing off the baguette we had with the salad. I hope Ruby likes him tubby.

‘I couldn’t have said it better, Pete. Listen to this. I came home from work, about ten o’clock, and there was this weird smell, like plastic and fire. I asked Ruby what
was cooking and she said, “Your passport”.’

Ruby knows how to express herself.

‘So what will you do?’

‘Well, I’m looking for a new job. I’ll know it when I see it. Like with you and Mrs Dalloway. All those kittens, you were like a kid in a lolly shop, but then you saw her.’

She was a scrap of fur and bad breath and she was hanging onto the cage, vertical,
pick me, pick me.
I poked a finger through and it was love at first lick.

‘No, Mark, she picked me.’

Mark is at the front door. He’s given his key back but I’ve shown him where I keep the spare, under the flower pot, like you’re meant to.

‘Pete. Ruby is no second prize.’

Neither is BJ. And she picked me, too.

For Ruby’s birthday, thirty-four now, we go to the aquarium—she has a thing about water, and underwater creatures, especially stingrays. She loves the ripple of their wings, flaps, whatever they’re called, as they glide through the water. We stay for the feeding and watch as the rays pound their handlers. Stingrays suction their food. We’re told they’ve suctioned off the eye-masks of their handlers when they suck on their heads. I’d be too scared to get in there but Ruby would love it.

We should have organised a dive for her. Maybe next birthday.

I love the aquarium. The low ceilings and warm blue darkness, the tall glass tanks and the tiny fish pinging and darting through the water.

I imagine myself back here in a couple of years. To keep
costs down I’ll bring our own food and drink, even though the chips, salt and vinegar in the air, smell so good. And I’ll bring Jasmine. If she’s not hanging out with boys at the mall and too cool for Aunty Peta and her little kid.