| |
Intimidated is the word, I think.
Outside the café window, I watch Freda moving between tables, serving the breakfast crowd and connecting effortlessly. Confident as. Is that a result of her special talent? She’s still wearing the little peasant handkerchief thing on her head, looking girlish.
As if sensing my presence, she looks up and catches me staring. She smiles and waves me inside, moving towards the door. Now I have no choice. ‘Come, come,’ she says. ‘I will take a break. We can have coffee. Or hot chocolate. You prefer chocolate?’
We sit in the same window booth as last time. ‘Lucky seat,’ she says.
I smile, unsure of what she means.
‘Love birds’ seat,’ she adds.
Huh. Maybe she’s not so astute after all.
‘You and Harry. You are living together now, yes?’
I’m not really paying attention; I’m mesmerised by her smoky eyes and thick accent. ‘Um, no. I’m minding his apartment.’
She smiles as if she’s indulging a child in a lie. ‘Call it what you want.’
Already, she’s making me pissy, stirring an impulse to explain, defend myself. ‘Just until he gets back. From his cruise.’
Her expression doesn’t change. ‘Lauren,’ she says, ‘why don’t you let life be? Go with the flow, as they say. It’s much easier to accept what is. Less energy. More joy.’
I give her a sideways look. ‘What is this? Dr Phil?’
She holds up her hands. ‘Okay, we can pretend if you like.’
God, she’s so annoying. It’s like she already knows what’s in my soul, already knows my secrets, and she’s waiting – with the endless patience of a trickle of water weathering a mountain – for me to know it too. And would that be such a bad thing? A tiny, hopeful corner of my mind sparks. But another part, an overwhelming part, says if I even nudge the stone blocking the entrance to that cave, a darkness of memories will unfurl and swallow me. I can’t risk it. ‘I’m not pretending.’
She stands. ‘Something to eat?’
I nod. Any distraction will do. ‘The muffins look good.’
She leaves and my mind stews. Now that I know I’m not being blamed for the house fire, there’s no reason I can’t go back home to visit Mum. Poor Mum. I picture her, still sitting in that chintz chair, staring out the window. Staring, staring. She hardly knew who I was back then. How is she now? Would it be upsetting for her to see me again? Has she aged even more? And Mary with her cankles – I can’t help smiling. Her back porch. The fruit trees and overripe tomatoes. And bam! She’s rushing around the side of the house, Samuel’s suicide letter in hand. My stomach cramps as the cold stone stirs.
Freda returns with our food and drinks. I tuck in as if I’m starved. If I don’t, she’ll pick up on my energy and start asking more questions. ‘I haven’t got around to stocking Harry’s fridge yet,’ I tell her. ‘You’d think working in a 7-Eleven I’d be rolling in food, but my boss doesn’t give us any staff discounts. Miser.’
‘So, are you in love with my little brother?’
I blink. Say what you think, why don’t you? I take a sip of hot chocolate to deflect my surprise. She’s not going to give up, so I hit back. ‘I don’t know. Love isn’t on my agenda at the moment.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Lauren.’
The way she says my name, just the one word, carries so much weight, I’m compelled to answer. Truthfully. ‘I like him. A lot.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘You said on the phone you need some help? Yes?’
I nod. ‘Not me. My friend, Snap. You met him a week or so ago. He needs some legal advice, you know? Or contacts in the legal world or something.’
She listens as I relay the situation: how Snap is thinking of pressing charges against Bob, how the police say Bob wants to press charges against Snap, how there were no witnesses to his bashing, and now Snap might be permanently disabled. I pause. ‘What do you think?’
Her face is blank. ‘You haven’t said what the argument was about.’
‘Is it important?’
‘I don’t know. Is it?’
And here’s that creepy feeling again, that she does know. How do you protect yourself against someone like this? I cross my arms. ‘Okay, how do you do that?’
She doesn’t even try to pretend. ‘It’s not what you think. I’m not special, there’s no magic here.’
‘Then how?’
It’s her turn to reveal something. She tells me about her childhood in Romania, in the early nineties, growing up in an orphanage. ‘I was lucky,’ she says. ‘I was eight when my parents died. Old enough to own my spirit.’
I think of my dad dying and my mum being so ill. I’m on the verge of telling her we have something in common, but I suspect she already knows. I press my lips together.
‘I learned quickly,’ she continues. ‘Get smart or get starved, or sick, or dead.’ She describes removing clothing from children who had died overnight. Their small bodies limp in her hands. The rows and rows of babies growing into unsocialised children with vacant eyes, incapable of speech. ‘I would not be like them. I would not let that place break me. I watched. I learned. People are not difficult to read.’ Her eyes look far away, as if she’s back there.
‘But I spent four years in that horror, until Harry’s parents rescued me. All the Westerners, they wanted babies, babies, babies. But Harry’s parents, they were different. They knew my chances were none – a twelve-year-old girl who could not forget or pretend she had no other life. And I was twice as lucky. Romania changed the adoption laws soon after and less help came.’
‘They adopted you?’
‘Not quite. They sponsored me. I was put with a good family there. They gave money for my education, for living, until I am old enough to come to Australia, for myself.’
‘And that’s what made you want to study law? To help other people?’
She laughs. ‘I was naïve. The law is not for helping. It is for manipulation.’
‘So, you chose to serve people here instead?’
She shakes her head and laughs again. ‘What is this notion of “serving” you have? I am not Mother Teresa. Nourishment and friendly words. Often it is all the help people need. And they are happy to pay for it.’
I go back to my coffee because my soul is shrinking a little – me and my pathetic problems.
Her voice softens. ‘And you? What is this pain you carry with such conviction?’
‘Conviction?’
‘Perhaps I have the wrong word? Let’s see ... connection ... correction. No, conviction is right. You are a martyr.’
‘I am not!’
‘Yes.’
She says it so simply and with such conviction I believe her. Maybe I am what she says. Has my pain become who I am?
‘Who hurt you?’ she asks.
‘No-one.’ It’s an instinctive response. I chew my lip for a moment. Make a decision. She’s not going to stop until I give her something. ‘Someone ... who shouldn’t have.’
‘Shouldn’t have? Nobody should hurt you, Lauren.’
‘I mean, somebody I trusted.’
‘Ah trust. There’s an old saying, something like “It is those you are closest to who will hurt you the most.” Why are you protecting him?’
‘I’m not.’
She tilts her head, her cynicism so easy to read.
I lower my head and mumble. ‘I don’t think he meant to hurt me. I think he just couldn’t control himself.’
‘Lauren. Look at me.’ She tilts my face up. ‘What this man is thinking is one thing. What this man is doing is another. We cannot always control our thoughts. We can control our actions. Do you understand?’
What this man did. I’m tempted to correct her tenses, but I don’t. I nod. Though I’m not sure I’m convinced. There were things I could have done differently. Maybe I shouldn’t have got so close.
‘What this man did. It was not your fault. Okay?’
God, she’s scary. I nod again. Then I bite my lip, chewing on a question that’s been gnawing at me. We’ve gone there now. I may as well ask. ‘Freda?’
‘Yes?’
‘Should I forgive him?’
Freda falls silent. Have I thrown her? She lifts her head, takes a long slow breath, then sighs before finally looking me in the eye. ‘Who is this forgiveness for?’
I don’t understand her question. For Samuel of course. Isn’t it?
‘You will think about this, yes?’
That’s it?
She squeezes my hand. ‘Good. Now for your friend. I know some people who can perhaps help.’
‘Thank you.’
Freda reaches over and puts her hand over mine. ‘Trust me, Lauren. Like me, you will survive this.’
That night I dream of babies. Hundreds of them, crying in filthy cots. So many souls unloved. I miss Harry. I miss my mum. I wonder what life would be like if she never got sick.
~
It’s déjà vu, back in the Starlight Room. Nerves and all. Paul is a great pianist and seems a nice guy, but his rhythm is different. So is the resonance of his notes, the whole sense of his playing. I’m stiff and awkward, constantly smoothing my dress and adjusting the angle of my microphone. What would Harry say? ‘You can’t please everyone. Just be yourself.’ But who am I? That’s the question.
I try slowing my breath, using my diaphragm for support. I visualise my body relaxing, my neck muscles, my shoulders, my arms – a soft, warm cloud of love descending on me ... Nope. I focus on my voice, keeping my larynx low, my jaw loose. I concentrate on the lyrics, it’s just me and the song. Let everything else disappear. Nada. Will I ever get this?
Thank god the first bracket is over. Paul buys me a vodka and soda, and we take our break.
‘How’s it going?’ he asks.
‘Good. You?’
‘Yeah, okay. You’ve got a great voice. Do you mind me asking? You seem a little tense.’
‘Oh, shit. Is it that obvious?’
‘No, no, you’ve got a great voice—’
‘Well, I haven’t performed that much. I thought Harry would have told you.’
He makes a face, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Do I suck?
‘You just need to loosen up a bit. That’s all. Relax.’
‘Ha.’
‘What?’
‘Harry tells me that all the time. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t seem to let go. And the gaps between the songs – I can’t hide behind the music there, and I have no idea what to say.’
‘Patter. It’s called patter. You’ll get it. It comes with time. Just say something interesting about the next song, chat about something funny that happened to you today, ask if people are enjoying their meal, that kind of thing.’
‘It sounds so easy.’
‘Bit more experience, you’ll get there.’
He reaches into his jacket pocket, takes something out and fiddles under the table with it. He looks around to make sure no-one is watching, then pops a tablet in his mouth. I must look shocked because he says, ‘Panadol. Got a headache.’
I keep staring. The guy’s full of it. Why would he hide Panadol?
‘What? You want one? Here, give me your hand.’
He pulls my arm underneath the table, reaches into his jacket pocket, then places a small plastic packet in my hand. The tablet is pink. I try to lift my hand to look more closely, but he drags my arm down.
‘Careful.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just something to loosen you up.’
‘Am I that tight?’
I flush at my own innuendo. Paul smiles but refrains from going there. ‘You’re okay. It’ll just warm you up. Make you feel good.’
I hesitate. Alcohol is my strongest drug. I’ve never even smoked dope. Why would I take something harder?
‘Relax. It’s just a Molly. It won’t hurt you.’
‘Molly?’ I flip the packet over in my hand. The tablet’s got a smiley face on one side.
‘E. Look, you don’t have to take it. You can give it back. They’re not cheap.’
I close my hand around it. ‘How do you know it’s safe?’
‘I have a reliable source.’
I laugh. A reliable drug dealer? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Still, people do these all the time, don’t they? I’m nervous, but it could be fun. ‘How long does it take?’
‘Depends. Everyone’s different. Could be fifteen minutes, sometimes an hour.’
It’s time to go back on. Paul heads up to the piano. The tablet is still in my hand, the packet becoming sticky with the heat and sweat of my palm. Yes or No?
What’s the big deal? Paul looks fine. He says he feels great. It would be so good to step on stage and not feel tense, unworthy. I want confidence. I want to own that stage. I open the packet, shake the tablet into my hand and look at it. Harmless. Small. Pink. Do it. Just do it. I lift my hand. The E is in my mouth. I take a sip of my drink, swallow, but the pill is still there. It won’t go down. What am I doing?
I cough it back into my hand, scrape it back into its packet and tuck it in my purse. My life is too out of control as it is. I settle for sculling my vodka. And several more, during the night.
