Spin Cycle (5 page)

I can't believe that, only this morning, I was feeling miserable because my life was just chock-a-block monotony. Now I feel miserable because my monotony looks like its chock has been blocked. And by events that are definitely not of my choosing. I would like to just curl up somewhere and ignore the fact that I no longer have a therapist, or a budgerigar, or an unattached mother, or a sister who isn't pregnant. Well, I suppose I
do
have a sister who isn't pregnant. At least, I hope so. And I can't really wish that
Diane
wasn't pregnant because it is obviously making her so happy. In fact, I don't know what I want – and I think that might be the problem. But I'll worry about that later. Besides, the house is too quiet for me to overlook the fact that Samantha and Ben are not here. And then it naturally follows that the reason they are not here is because they received a sudden, and extremely unusual, invitation to my ex-sister-in-law's house for dinner.

I find this a little worrying, and very, very curious.

Not that I am naturally curious, I have enough trouble trying to work myself out at the best of times to keep curiosity about others fairly well in check. It is just that Alex's sister rarely invites her niece and nephew over for a meal and never before at such short notice. The message was one of six on the
answering machine when I finally remembered to check it earlier this evening and Samantha rang straight back to make the arrangements. The other five messages were: three from a rather strange and equally obnoxious girl at work called Joanne – heaven knows what she wants, and I have no intention of finding out. One from ex-husband number 2 asking me to
please
ensure that CJ is neatly dressed on Thursday when he collects her – not like last time (although I'm pretty sure she wasn't in rags then either). And the last one from my best friend Teresa, who simply said that she really needed to speak to me so please ring back ASAP. I plan to call Terry later, but I must admit that I didn't take much notice at the time because it was Maggie's message that caught my attention.

My ex-sister-in-law Maggie (actually christened Mary Magdalene – talk about child abuse) usually avoids speaking to me. In fact I wouldn't be all that surprised if she had checked to make sure that I wasn't home before calling. Maggie is a short, rather odd and
extremely
rotund female (just imagine a bowling ball with arms and legs) about eight years older than Alex who teaches at one of the local secondary schools. She shares her home with another female teacher (yes, I have often wondered as well), three dogs and thirteen cats at the last count. She heartily dislikes me because she has a theory that her brother is a one-woman man and that
my
defection has ruined him forever.

I wish.

I have no idea what she bases this idea on (although
it shows a rather interesting lack of knowledge about men). The reports from the children suggest that the only one-woman facet of Alex is having one woman at a time (and even that surmise is only circumstantial), and if he is ruined, then it is only because he has worn it out.

I occupy myself by cleaning up the house and make a concerted effort to clear my mind of pets, parents, siblings and offspring. Then I refill my wineglass and, starting at the kitchen, begin to wander through each of the rooms slowly. This is a form of therapy that I have personally invented for when I have too much on my plate (in a metaphorical, not mushroom, sense) and need to ground myself with what I have.

Because I
do
love my house.

I love everything it represents – independence, perseverance, security, family, roots. I love every painstakingly repainted wall (even the absurd emerald green and violet combination chosen by Sam for her room, and the howling-wolves-at-dusk wall paper border chosen by Ben for his), and I love my eclectic collection of ancient furniture which will one day (perhaps not in my day, but one day) qualify as genuine antiques. I love my L-shaped dining room cum lounge-room, my kitchen and also my tiny little meals area next to the kitchen which can barely fit a small table and two chairs. I even love my archaic bathroom with its shower-over-the-bath despite its mosaic brown-flecked minuscule tiles which cover every (and I mean
every
) available surface and which I shall replace with gusto as soon as
I have the necessary funds. Revolting or not, it's still mine. I end my meandering, uplifting tour in my own bedroom that is dominated by a large 1950s walnut bed-head and matching wardrobe (which were an absolute bargain at a local garage sale last year). As I sit down on the floral-peach (definitely not salmon, not even close) covered doona, take a sip of my wine and look around me, I can actually
feel
the pleasure I take in this room seeping into my bones, helping me to relax and put everything in perspective.

I
love
my house.

I take another sip and smile as I begin to feel better. However, one of the things that I have learnt with age is that even pleasure has its limits – and it is
very
difficult to sit and do nothing for an extended period of time. So when, after about fifteen minutes, it starts to feel odd that the house is so quiet and I am so unoccupied, I decide to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. As usual the outfits I want to wear don't fit, and the ones I'll have to wear are either in the wash or need ironing – and I'm not
that
motivated. In addition, I cannot find one of my favourite shoes anywhere. I pick up my glass, which is now half-empty, and make a mental note to consider enrolling in one of those get-yourself-organised classes. I can always use the money that I would have spent on therapy.

In her room, CJ has fallen asleep on top of her Barbie doona so I put my glass down on her bedside table, wipe her tear-stained little face and kiss her gently before rearranging her securely into the bed.

‘Don't let the bed bugs bite,' I whisper softly as I feel riddled with guilt. I should never have sent her off like that – I mean, the mushrooms
were
revolting after all. And I bet she didn't brush her teeth on the way. I sit down on the bed next to her and tenderly smooth the blonde tendrils back from her face. It never ceases to amaze me just how angelically beautiful young children look while they are asleep. My heart involuntarily contracts as I tuck her doona up and that's when I notice the crumpled photograph of her father she has clutched to her bosom.

Oh well.

What
is
it that I want? I'm back to the same old question that refuses to be answered. That's
why
I went to therapy in the first place – to get some answers. But I seem to have ended up with more questions. What the hell is wrong? Apart from the fact that my mother is getting remarried, and my sister has decided to add to the population growth. I mean, these are just more bloody straws – and the camel's back was already pretty bowed down. So, is this a mid-life crisis? Do I need to buy a red sports car, dress inappropriately, or have an affair with a blond half my age to make myself feel better? Well,
actually I suppose the blond couldn't hurt. But, then again, the underlying problem would still be there after my breathing returned to normal. And I just don't know what the underlying problem
is.
Apart from the fact that I'm not terribly happy – and that the unhappiness feels like it's turning into some sort of internal
heaviness
that is perpetually weighing down my every action. But it's not like true depression – I've read about
that
hell – more like I'm stuck fast in a rut and I can't seem to pull myself out. Even if I knew which direction ‘out' was. Maybe
that's
the damn source. I take a deep breath because I
will
not let this get me down. I will not, I will not. After all, isn't happiness supposed to be just a state of mind?

I prop myself up on my pillows and have a look at the time. For goodness sake, where are those kids? I decide that I'll simply have to dig up Maggie's number soon and phone her to demand the immediate return of my offspring. I'll give them ten more minutes and then I'll take action. I flop my head back down on the pillows and stare up at the darkened ceiling. The scary thing about the way I have been feeling lately is that I
have
felt a little bit similar once before. Just prior to my first marriage break-up, in fact. I remember feeling utterly miserable and trapped by monotony – which is why, as the marriage slowly disintegrated, I hardly raised a finger to prevent it happening. And I am still not sure whether or not this was a good thing. Which is why I am so nervous of taking any sort of drastic action to shake my life up now – what if I regret it? What if I make another mistake? What if there is no going back?

I roll over and check out the time again but there is still four minutes until my deadline. Flipping back on the bed, I decide that what I need is someone to tell me what to do and what direction to head in. Someone to pick up my life and give it an almighty shake. I don't mind picking up the pieces and putting them back together – I've done it before. It'll be like a jigsaw – only this time I won't take my eyes off all the pieces, that's for sure. It's just that lately I seem to have lost sight of the big picture – and I really need to see that in order to give everything else purpose. Which is why letting go of my therapist was probably not the most intelligent move I've made lately. I sigh heavily. God, I can be such a dimwit.

I roll over again and peer at the glowing numerals on the clock. That's it – ten minutes are up. Damn it, I
really
don't feel like having to take action. But as I start to pull the covers back and put one foot on the floor, I hear a car door slam – and then another one.

I leap back into bed quickly and pull the covers up. Then I pick up a book and rearrange the pillows to give the impression that I was nonchalantly reading rather than experiencing any concern about their whereabouts. I listen to the footsteps crunching down the driveway, Sam's key turning in the lock, the door being flung open, the hat-stand falling on top of Ben, Ben swearing, and then they are both peering in my bedroom doorway.

‘Mum, are you asleep?'

‘No, I was just reading. Goodness, look at the time! Why are you so late?'

‘How could you be reading with the light off?'

‘Um … I must have dozed off? Anyway, that's not important, sit down and tell me what happened.' I pat the bed next to me invitingly and Samantha throws herself down but Ben remains standing defensively in the doorway.

‘It wasn't my fault, someone left the hat-stand all crooked!'

‘Don't blame other people, Benjamin … and anyway, I didn't mean that, I meant what happened at your aunt's and why are you both so late?'

‘Oh, Aunt Maggie said it would be okay coz we hadn't seen her for absolutely ages and besides, we had to wait for Aunt Ruby to finish whatever she was doing and drive us.'

‘
Aunt
Ruby?'

‘She told us to call her that – she's really nice, Mum.'

‘I bet she is. Anyway, how was dinner and why the sudden invitation?'

‘Oh! Guess what? The most terrific news! You'll never ever guess!' In his enthusiasm Ben abandons the doorway to join his sister on the bed as I experience a rather disconcerting feeling of déjà vu. I'm quite sure that I have heard almost exactly the same words earlier today, and so it is with a sinking heart that I plaster a look of excited anticipation on my face and say with considerable feeling:

‘Just tell me –
now
please.'

‘Well, Dad is coming –'

‘
I
want to tell her! Mum, Dad is coming to –'

‘No! No! I'm telling her! MumDadisgoingtogo –'

‘SHUT
UP
, Benjamin!'

‘That's enough! You'll wake CJ if you keep this up! Now, take it in turns and stop arguing. Is your father coming or going?'

‘He's coming! He's coming back here in February to live in Australia
and
he's going to be able to see us all the time because he's already bought a house
right near us
!'

‘Sam, I wanted to tell
something
! You're a real bitch!'

‘Benjamin, watch your language.' I say this automatically because I am still rather stunned by their – or rather, her – announcement. My roller coaster is rocking and the cliffs are looming. I summon up the necessary courage to ask the all-important question and pride myself on the fact that my voice barely quavers …

‘How near is right near?'

‘I want to tell! It's my turn!'

‘When I say
right near
, I mean right near … like
right next door
!'

‘
Right
next door? You mean next to our house next door or a little bit further away next door?'

‘I'll tell! I'll tell!'

‘Like, really right next door! Mr Waverley's house! You know the one with the cute little dog?'

I rapidly cast my mind back to a mental image of the cute little dog encircled by the ‘O' on the sign, and realise what my mind didn't quite register at the time. The ‘O' wasn't in the FOR of the FOR SALE which has been there for at least six months. It was in another ‘O' which was itself in a large sticker plastered across the sign, and which read SOLD. That's it.
Now I'm over the edge. This must be all some huge cosmic birthday joke. I shall turn forty while my mother marries for the fourth time, my sister delivers for the fifth time, and my first ex-husband shifts right next door. When they said that life begins at forty, I always assumed they meant it as something to look forward to. Not one nightmare on top of another. No wonder people go grey.

‘Sam, you're a real bitch, you really are.'

I don't bother to chastise Benjamin this time. Somehow I don't think that I'm capable of it and besides, he's quite correct. His sister
is
a bitch … but her bitchiness is the least of my problems at the moment.