Watermelon
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"That's not a very nice way to talk about Helen," I said, echoing what Mum had said to me earlier.
"Maybe not," said Mum with a sigh. "But it's the truth. I love her and she's a good girl, really. She just needs to grow up a little bit. Well, a big bit, I suppose."
"But you said that Helen might be in love with Adam," I said.
"I said that Helen might think she's in love with him. An entirely different proposition," she said. "And even if she is in love with him, although if you ask me I think she's too immature to be capable of it," continued Mum, "it would do her no harm at all to be dealt a little bit of hardship by life. She's had everything far too easy. A little bit of heartbreak goes a long way. I mean, look at how good it's been for you. It gives you humility."
"So you want me to have a fling with Helen's boyfriend to give me back my confidence and to give Helen a bit of humility," I said, finally thinking that I had grasped what Mum was saying to me.
"Good God," said Mum, annoyed. "You're making me sound like that one out of Dynasty. Playing God with people's lives and all that. It sounds very cold-blooded when you say it like that."
"I'm not saying that I want anything to happen, exactly," she continued. "But I really did feel that Adam was very attracted to you. And that, if he is, and if anything was to happen, and if you survive Helen's attempts on your life--by Jingo, there's an awful lot of `ifs' there--then maybe you should just let what's going to happen happen."
"Oh, Mum," I sighed. "You've made me all confused."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said. "Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe he doesn't like you at all."
I've had enough, I thought.
"Well, I'm off to bed," I said.
"Sweet dreams," said Mum, squeezing my hand. "I'll be in to kiss Kate good-night."
And off I went to my bedroom and got ready for bed. My nightgown was obviously annoyed with me. It didn't take kindly to being neglected and left at home while I wore Helen's leggings and shirt to the shopping center. I was your
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friend, it told me. I saw you through the rough times, it reminded me. You're fickle and nothing but a foul weather friend. The minute things pick up, and you start feeling a bit more normal, you just discard me, throw me over.
Oh shut up, I thought, or I'll never wear you again. And then you really will have something to complain about.
I had more important things on my mind than disgruntled nighties and their grievances.
As I lay down I realized that I hadn't really thought of James in about three hours.
This was an absolute miracle.
All in all, it had been a most unusual day.
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twelve
The following day dawned bright cold and blustery.
I know this because I was awake at dawn.
It was a typical March day.
The rain had finally stopped.
But there's absolutely no symbolism in this fact. Let's face it, the bloody rain had to stop sometime.
After I had given Kate her bottle, I sat with her on the bed as I burped her. It was fast becoming clear to me that although I had been lucky enough to be dragged out of the mire of misery, this newfound liberation brought with it certain responsibilities.
Yesterday had been very nice. Really good fun.
But, and the thought came to me unbidden, there's more to life than having fun.
The little man in my head with the sandwich board, which normally says "The End Is Nigh," was today proclaiming "There's More to Life Than Having Fun."
He works for my Conscience Department.
I hate him.
The miserable bastard.
He's always showing up with his board and ruining things on me, espe- cially when I'm shopping, proclaiming weighty things like, "You Have Four Pairs of Boots Already" and "How Can You Justify Spending Twelve Pounds on a Lipstick."
He would completely ruin my shopping. Either I wouldn't
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buy the item in question. "I'm sorry," I would stammer as the assistant paused putting the shoes into the box and fixed me with a murderous stare. "I've changed my mind." Or else I would buy it but I'd feel so guilty about it that all the enjoyment would be gone.
Anyway, today the miserable old killjoy reminded me that I had to do a lot more with my life than hanging around a supermarket introducing Kate to boxes of frozen chocolate mousse. What kind of value system was I giving her?
Or making dinner for my family. Or getting odd little crushes on my sister's boyfriend.
I walked over to the window with Kate in my arms and we stood looking down at the garden that Michael so lovingly didn't tend. I was feeling a bit like a man who is just about to face a firing squad. It was time for me to face the music.
I had to address various horrible questions.
Involving money and custody of our child and the marital home.
And I swear to God it was so painful, my brain winced as I considered each subject.
This was the first time since I had watched James's back as he walked out of the hospital ward that I had looked at the practicalities of splitting up with him. Like, should James and I meet to consider selling our apart- ment? Should we divide our possessions equally between the two of us? That would be extremely amusing.
For example, would we drag our three-piece living room set out into the middle of the room and saw the couch in half, and take a piece each with all the foam and stuffing spilling out, plus a matching chair?
You know, that kind of thing.
I honestly didn't know how we were going to divide most of our posses- sions. Because they didn't belong to me and they didn't belong to James. They belonged to the elusive third party, "us." The person or energy, or whatever you want to call it, that was formed by the union of James and me. Which was much more than the sum of its parts.
How I wished I could find the missing "us." If only I could track it down and lure it back with offers of all these wonderful possessions. Like some awful third-rate game show host.
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See that lovely television.
It's yours. Now will you stay?
Have a look at the fine remodeled kitchen.
Beautiful, isn't it? Well, it can all be yours if only you'll come back.
Though I suppose you wouldn't get anything like a remodeled kitchen on a third-rate game show.
"That's not a very nice way to talk about Helen," I said, echoing what Mum had said to me earlier.
"Maybe not," said Mum with a sigh. "But it's the truth. I love her and she's a good girl, really. She just needs to grow up a little bit. Well, a big bit, I suppose."
"But you said that Helen might be in love with Adam," I said.
"I said that Helen might think she's in love with him. An entirely different proposition," she said. "And even if she is in love with him, although if you ask me I think she's too immature to be capable of it," continued Mum, "it would do her no harm at all to be dealt a little bit of hardship by life. She's had everything far too easy. A little bit of heartbreak goes a long way. I mean, look at how good it's been for you. It gives you humility."
"So you want me to have a fling with Helen's boyfriend to give me back my confidence and to give Helen a bit of humility," I said, finally thinking that I had grasped what Mum was saying to me.
"Good God," said Mum, annoyed. "You're making me sound like that one out of Dynasty. Playing God with people's lives and all that. It sounds very cold-blooded when you say it like that."
"I'm not saying that I want anything to happen, exactly," she continued. "But I really did feel that Adam was very attracted to you. And that, if he is, and if anything was to happen, and if you survive Helen's attempts on your life--by Jingo, there's an awful lot of `ifs' there--then maybe you should just let what's going to happen happen."
"Oh, Mum," I sighed. "You've made me all confused."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she said. "Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe he doesn't like you at all."
I've had enough, I thought.
"Well, I'm off to bed," I said.
"Sweet dreams," said Mum, squeezing my hand. "I'll be in to kiss Kate good-night."
And off I went to my bedroom and got ready for bed. My nightgown was obviously annoyed with me. It didn't take kindly to being neglected and left at home while I wore Helen's leggings and shirt to the shopping center. I was your
120
friend, it told me. I saw you through the rough times, it reminded me. You're fickle and nothing but a foul weather friend. The minute things pick up, and you start feeling a bit more normal, you just discard me, throw me over.
Oh shut up, I thought, or I'll never wear you again. And then you really will have something to complain about.
I had more important things on my mind than disgruntled nighties and their grievances.
As I lay down I realized that I hadn't really thought of James in about three hours.
This was an absolute miracle.
All in all, it had been a most unusual day.
121
twelve
The following day dawned bright cold and blustery.
I know this because I was awake at dawn.
It was a typical March day.
The rain had finally stopped.
But there's absolutely no symbolism in this fact. Let's face it, the bloody rain had to stop sometime.
After I had given Kate her bottle, I sat with her on the bed as I burped her. It was fast becoming clear to me that although I had been lucky enough to be dragged out of the mire of misery, this newfound liberation brought with it certain responsibilities.
Yesterday had been very nice. Really good fun.
But, and the thought came to me unbidden, there's more to life than having fun.
The little man in my head with the sandwich board, which normally says "The End Is Nigh," was today proclaiming "There's More to Life Than Having Fun."
He works for my Conscience Department.
I hate him.
The miserable bastard.
He's always showing up with his board and ruining things on me, espe- cially when I'm shopping, proclaiming weighty things like, "You Have Four Pairs of Boots Already" and "How Can You Justify Spending Twelve Pounds on a Lipstick."
He would completely ruin my shopping. Either I wouldn't
122
buy the item in question. "I'm sorry," I would stammer as the assistant paused putting the shoes into the box and fixed me with a murderous stare. "I've changed my mind." Or else I would buy it but I'd feel so guilty about it that all the enjoyment would be gone.
Anyway, today the miserable old killjoy reminded me that I had to do a lot more with my life than hanging around a supermarket introducing Kate to boxes of frozen chocolate mousse. What kind of value system was I giving her?
Or making dinner for my family. Or getting odd little crushes on my sister's boyfriend.
I walked over to the window with Kate in my arms and we stood looking down at the garden that Michael so lovingly didn't tend. I was feeling a bit like a man who is just about to face a firing squad. It was time for me to face the music.
I had to address various horrible questions.
Involving money and custody of our child and the marital home.
And I swear to God it was so painful, my brain winced as I considered each subject.
This was the first time since I had watched James's back as he walked out of the hospital ward that I had looked at the practicalities of splitting up with him. Like, should James and I meet to consider selling our apart- ment? Should we divide our possessions equally between the two of us? That would be extremely amusing.
For example, would we drag our three-piece living room set out into the middle of the room and saw the couch in half, and take a piece each with all the foam and stuffing spilling out, plus a matching chair?
You know, that kind of thing.
I honestly didn't know how we were going to divide most of our posses- sions. Because they didn't belong to me and they didn't belong to James. They belonged to the elusive third party, "us." The person or energy, or whatever you want to call it, that was formed by the union of James and me. Which was much more than the sum of its parts.
How I wished I could find the missing "us." If only I could track it down and lure it back with offers of all these wonderful possessions. Like some awful third-rate game show host.
123
See that lovely television.
It's yours. Now will you stay?
Have a look at the fine remodeled kitchen.
Beautiful, isn't it? Well, it can all be yours if only you'll come back.
Though I suppose you wouldn't get anything like a remodeled kitchen on a third-rate game show.
