Because of You Page 7

  Mum opens her gift, it’s a pair of retro skates. She’s been wanting to try roller derby to blow off work stress and get fit.

  ‘You didn’t need to.’

  ‘I did.’

  I open my gift, it’s a couple of tickets to a summer music festival.

  ‘Did I do good, daughter?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. Very good, Papa,’ I say, softening.

  ‘Mum told me you were busting to go, so you can thank her. I wanted to buy you your first Chanel handbag. I saw one at a second-hand store in New York that was exquisite. More a work of art than a fashion item. So I bought it for myself.’

  Once we’re seated at our table the inquisition begins.

  ‘I’m told there’s been boy troubles while I was away,’ says Dad.

  ‘It’s nothing. I got dumped. Whatever.’

  Dad narrows his eyes and studies me for a moment.

  ‘You’ve definitely lost your sparkle. Let’s get it back. Father-daughter mani-pedis at the spa? Followed by cupcakes at Velvet?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Dad sparkles, even on dull days. When I was little, he wound my hair into intricate braids laced with flowers. He dropped pink food colouring into my porridge and called it fairy stew. Sprinkled hundreds and thousands onto my sandwiches and gave me my first Barbie. Mum tried to throw it out.

  When I was a teenager, he showed me how to shave my legs, took me for my first facial and gave me the world’s best pimple cure – a dab of crushed aspirin before bed. He taught me how to apply mascara and what foundation matched my skin tone. He took me shopping for clothes, while Mum read a book in a cafe.

  On special occasions, he’d let me dress up in his old drag gear. Platforms and wigs. Tiaras, corsets and costume jewels the size of golf balls. His bedroom was like Aladdin’s Cave.

  ‘I think we should order,’ Dad says, picking up the menu and giving Mum a pointed look.

  I don’t feel up to sitting politely at a linen-covered table, picking at a tiny meal on a huge white plate. I’d rather we all go home and order pizza.

  But Dad likes to make up for being away with elaborate treats. So I feign enthusiasm as I order a main and dessert from the attentive waiter.

  We wait for our food and I can feel what’s coming next.

  ‘Nola, we wanted to talk to you about the things you told Tom,’ says Mum.

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ says Dad. ‘Tom was under the impression your mum and I were an old married straight couple? I mean, I adore you, Sonia,’ Dad says to Mum, ‘but I’ve never thought of you in that special way.’

  Usually Mum would laugh at a joke like that, but she doesn’t now.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him we are gay, Nola? You didn’t used to hide it from your friends when you were younger. In primary school you were proud of us.’

  We sit in silence for a moment.

  ‘Are you ashamed of us? Of the family we have?’ Dad asks quietly.

  ‘No,’ I say defensively. ‘When I started at Zara, I wanted to fit in. It was stupid. First I lied to the girls at school. Then I couldn’t stop lying. It was too late.’

  ‘It’s never too late to tell the truth,’ says Dad. ‘I came out to my family when I was twenty-four years old. I spent so much time in the closet I found Narnia. But I found a way to be true to myself. You have to make that decision too. And it’s your decision, Nola, not mine. Not Mum’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter. ‘I wish I’d never lied.’

  Dad leans over the table and forces me to look him in the eyes. I’ve hurt him. ‘I will never, not ever, be ashamed of who I am or try to conceal my sexuality. The very thought that my own daughter would want me to be someone different, makes my blood run cold. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my cheeks blazing.

  He leans across and plants a kiss on my forehead. ‘I love you very much, but it’s time for you to start living a more authentic life. I’ve thought so for some time. Even before all this.’

  Mum reaches over the table to take my hand but I shake her off and leave the table in search of a bathroom cubicle to cry in. I’ve never disappointed my parents, or myself, like this.

  I twirl a fork in my dessert. Biscuit crumbs, apple gel, meringue and a cloud of lemon mousse. It’s sharp, sweet and crunchy all at the same time. It’s delicious but I can’t eat it. I want to crawl under the table.

  Mum and Dad are sharing a chocolate semifreddo and to anyone else in the restaurant they’d look like a couple in love. Dad’s hand rests on Mum’s arm. They rarely drop eye contact, and finish each other’s sentences.

  My parents have known each other since they were four. They were next-door neighbours growing up in a small coastal town. They went to the same kindy, primary school and high school. Both of them knowing they were different. Dad was Mum’s formal date. He sewed her dress, and jokes that he wished he was wearing it. Together they survived the nasty, sly comments. Girly boy. Butch bitch.

  They went to uni in the city together, then shared a flat in London where Mum got her PhD and Dad worked at a high-street designer boutique during the day and performed on Friday nights in a drag revue at The Green Pineapple nightclub. Then they travelled the world with backpacks and bad perms. The photos are framed on both their walls. Mum says they made a deal to become parents at thirty-five, if they hadn’t fallen madly in love with other people by then. I’m living proof they both suck at long-term relationships.

  I said I didn’t want the gory details, but they insisted. My whole life they’ve always told me the unfiltered, unflinching truth. Their honesty first, squeamishness second policy made for interesting dinner table discussions, including one when I was about nine about how babies like me are made.

  Among other frank facts, there was a medical grade syringe, a mutual shot of tequila for courage and six weeks later, a pregnancy test that Mum drove to get at 2am from the 24-hour chemist, having woken up, certain she was pregnant. She called Dad as he was stumbling out of an Oxford Street nightclub, wearing hot pants with glitter smeared across his chest.

  It was the late nineties. As he always says, ‘Glitter was my drug of choice.’

  They sat together as the stick told them they would be parents and they stayed outside for the rest of the night. Mum with a cup of tea and Dad with the bottle of tequila. Looking at the stars and imagining my face.

  ‘We decided to call you Nolan if you were a boy and Nola if you were a girl,’ Mum said.

  ‘Because the name means famous, champion, chariot fighter,’ said Dad. ‘We were sure you would be all those things and more.’

  I am none of those things. Not yet, anyway.

  ‘Can we go soon?’ I ask my parents.

  ‘Yes, in a minute,’ says Mum, but she’s engrossed in Dad’s stories about his trip. Sometimes I feel like I’m the killjoy. They’d stay out all night reminiscing if they could.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to get some fresh air.’

  As I’m crossing the restaurant, I see Tom at a table. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I closed the door to his house, crying. I panic and attempt to sidle down the opposite side to where he’s sitting. My head down.

  Before I get away Mrs Maloney calls out my name. Tom’s entire family, plus some people I don’t know, turn around and stare at me. It’s hard to believe that a few weeks ago it would’ve been me sitting at that table. Folded into their banter, Tom’s thigh pressed against mine. Now I am an outsider.

  Mrs Maloney waves me over and I look at my parents across the room, their backs to me. The restaurant is crowded. I might get away with a quick hello. I feel the sting of tears. Can I hold it?

  ‘Nola!’ says Mrs Maloney. ‘How are you?’

  Tom stands up, mumbles ‘hi’ and avoids eye contact. Next to him is Holly.

  She’s replaced me a
t this table. She took my life and stole my boyfriend. I instantly loathe her. She’s wearing a white lace top, has thick, strawberry blonde hair swept off her face into a cute ponytail. She’s uncomfortable and plays with her napkin.

  ‘Hi Tom,’ I mutter.

  He’s clearly mortified – I bet he’s wishing a fire alarm would go off or the lights would trip. Anything that would provide a diversion for his escape.

  Mrs Maloney pulls me in for a kiss as two waiters arrive with a cake for Tom’s older sister, Ivy, singing ‘Happy Birthday’. Tom’s dad joins in full baritone, drowning out the rest of the family. The cake is a glossy ice-cream creation shaped like a red toadstool. It’s Ivy’s eighteenth. I was going to give her a pair of silver hoop earrings.

  The table moves on to ‘For she’s a jolly good fellow’ and I find myself singing too, Mrs Maloney clutching at my arm as Ivy blows out her candles. I decline a slice of cake from a waiter, my heart thudding heavily, sweat dripping down my neck.

  ‘We couldn’t believe Tom broke up with you,’ Mrs Maloney whispers in my ear. ‘This new one isn’t a patch on you. She’s such a shy thing. Never says a word. I think we scare her.’

  Holly is within earshot. I gently pull my arm away from Mrs Maloney, when my parents join the table, too.

  So to recap. It’s me, my ex, his new girlfriend, my gay parents and a toadstool made of chocolate ice-cream.

  ‘Hi Tom,’ says Mum.

  ‘Hello! I’m the father,’ says Dad, reaching out his hand to Tom’s parents. Mrs Maloney shakes Dad’s hand politely, her eyebrows slightly raised.

  Dad looks stylish as always tonight, but I see her coolly appraise his bright red jeans, metallic fitted shirt and purple trainers and exchange a glance with her husband. The exact look I wanted to protect myself and my parents from.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say abruptly. I grab Dad’s arm and he shakes me off.

  ‘I want to go,’ I say.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ Dad says. ‘I’m being social.’

  ‘Fine. You stay.’ I turn around and walk away from the table, certain I’ve never had a night quite this awful.

  Tom follows me out of the restaurant, calling my name.

  ‘Nola, come on! It’s raining! Stop!’

  I stop walking and turn around. We’re both getting soaked. I get a flash memory of Tom’s wet body against mine, after a late summer swim at Whale Beach. His arms draped around my shoulders, his mouth on my salty neck. Why can’t I have what I want? Why can’t I have him?

  ‘Now you want to talk to me? After ignoring all my messages?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Nola. I didn’t want for you and Holly to meet like this.’

  Holly. He says the name so gently, so sweetly. He’s in love with her. Our relationship is really over. If I make any sudden moves I will split open. I don’t want to cry in front of him.

  ‘Tell me one thing. Would it have made a difference if I had told you the truth about my parents?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe,’ Tom says. ‘But you can’t go back now. I can’t either.’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  ‘Bye Nola. Take care.’

  Tom goes back inside to eat cake, slide his hand around Holly’s back and whisper in her ear. Be smug in his conviction to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  Breakfast is winding down and I’m on duty, clearing soggy Weet-Bix and toast crusts off plates.

  ‘Are you going on the recreational seaside outing, Tiny?’ Zak asks. ‘I’m told the transport will be leaving imminently.’

  ‘Probably not,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t believe I shall attend either,’ says Zak.

  ‘What else you doing today?’

  Zak’s been drinking hard lately. I need to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t slip back to old habits.

  ‘I think I shall imbibe several alcoholic beverages at a public bar. You are welcome to join me, now you are of a legal age.’

  ‘Nah, thanks anyway, Zak.’

  People assume I’m like Zak and it’s booze or drugs that screwed me up. But I’ve never taken a hard one in my life. Not a line, pill or needle. Not a sniff of a can or a smoke on a glass pipe. I have a weak stomach, and a fast metabolism, so a few beers and the occasional cigarette is all I need to get a buzz on.

  ‘Maybe you should ease off the drink, Zak?’

  ‘Maybe you should mind your own business, young lady.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  I roll a tub of dirty dishes into the kitchen on a trolley and start rinsing them off. Eddie’s on the breakfast shift. ‘Heading to the beach today, Tiny? You don’t want to miss the famous Bondi waves.’ He pretends to surf, hands out for balance.

  ‘Dunno. I’m scared of sharks.’

  ‘You eat breakfast?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He halves a passionfruit from the fruit bowl and hands it to me. ‘Try this. I didn’t cook it so it’s safe.’

  I scoop up the sweet orange pulp with my fingers, seeds sliding down the back of my throat.

  ‘That vollie, Nola, is coming,’ says Eddie. ‘She’s your age, right? She seems cool. It’ll be good to have her along today.’

  I think about sitting with Nola on the Hope Lane steps. The way it felt easy between us. I’d like to see her and tell her how much I liked her poems.

  ‘Yeah. I suppose I’ll go.’

  ‘You won’t regret it. Beach days are always fun.’

  Our ride is a big community bus with HOPE LANE: Bringing compassion to the streets on the sliding door.

  Pee Wee plonks himself on the seat next to me, shoving aside my defensive bag. He’s wearing orange paisley board shorts, socks, sandals and a sombrero. Around his neck are a bunch of old VIP passes to rock concerts.

  ‘Hey, I was saving that for someone,’ I say.

  Pee Wee is deaf as a post and doesn’t move an inch.

  ‘What are those?’ I shout, pointing to the passes flapping around his neck.

  ‘Mementos. I was a roadie once. Know what a roadie is?’

  ‘Yeah. Course.’

  ‘Went on the road with real bands. The Stones. Eric Clapton. Bowie.’

  ‘Who’s Eric Clapton?’ I say.

  Pee Wee throws his head back and roars laughing. ‘Did you hear that?’ he calls down the bus to Drew.

  I don’t like Drew and try to stay out of his way. He’s cranky and gives everyone a hard time.

  ‘This baby doesn’t know who Clapton is. “Layla”, “Tears in Heaven”. You probably weren’t even born then. That makes me feel old.’

  ‘You are old.’

  ‘I’m fifty-two.’

  ‘Yeah, old. If you hung out with all those rock stars, how’d you end up here?’

  ‘Me missus left me and took all the money. I was broke. Had tinnitus.’

  ‘What’s tinnitus?’

  ‘Ringing in my ears, day and night. Drove me mad. I couldn’t get work so I smoked weed. Dropped acid. Magic mushies. Fried my brain. You like to party, Tiny?’ he says, dropping his shout to a whisper.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say, turning my head to the window and wishing him away.

  ‘Fair enough. I’ll play you a new tune I wrote. It’s called “Happy Screamer”.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say.

  ‘Come to the open mic night then.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Once a month at Rough. Haven’t you been?’

  ‘Nah. Sounds boring.’ I stare out the window until he gives up and moves down the back to sit with Drew. Someone grabs the still-warm seat, and I turn my head, expecting to see Aimee, hassling me to turn up to my psych appointment. But it’s Nola. Holding a beach bag and wearing sunglasses on her head. She looks different out of school uniform. Older. I’m stoked to see her.

 
‘Is it okay if I sit here?’

  ‘Sure. Actually, I was saving it for ya.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We sit quietly for a while as the bus gets going. Not talking. Just being in the same space.

  Nola reminds me of my friends back in Dubbo. Some nights we’d get a feed at the Thai place in town. We’d eat the hottest curries on the menu until our mouths burned and tears streamed down our faces. Then we’d go back to Mari’s place with a bag full of lollies to watch a movie.

  ‘Did you read my poem?’ I ask. My pulse quickens thinking of her reading my words.

  ‘Yes,’ says Nola. ‘It was really good. Was it true?’

  I think about telling her it was make-believe, a story. But where would that get me? Besides, she seems like someone I can trust. Those people don’t come around very often.

  ‘Yeah, I’m a mum. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘Do I need to?’ Nola asks.

  ‘Nah. You don’t need to,’ I say. But there are people who should know where I am. People here who need to know I had a baby.

  ‘How old is your baby?’

  ‘Charlie’s eight months.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be with him?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I should, but I’m not.’

  Nola nods. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I liked your poems,’ I say. ‘Who’s Tom, he your ex?’

  ‘He is. I might finally be ready to get over him.’

  ‘You really loved him, didn’t you?’ I say.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’

  Nola looks at me, like I’ve said something surprising.

  I lean my forehead on the window, watching Sydney go by. Rain is coming. You can smell it. Whoever thought today would be a good day for the beach has rocks in their head.

  ‘Turn on the radio! Triple J!’ shouts Pee Wee.

  ‘Talkback!’ shouts Drew. Aimee is driving the bus and she’s frazzled. The traffic is shocking.

  ‘Not now! I’m concentrating!’ she shouts back.

  Nola takes out her phone and hands me an earplug. I slip the bud into my ear and listen to her music – an indie pop mix. It’s not bad. I prefer the hard stuff. As the bus crawls in a pile-up of traffic towards the sea, I think about Charlie. The smell of his body on mine and the way he looked at me. So sure he was in the right place when I was looking for all the exits. Waiting for the right time to leave.