Today…
The smell of disinfectant is strong, almost overpowering. One eye squints open and takes in my surroundings. The other eye is covered by a bandage. The room is like looking into the sun; white walls, white curtains, white lino on the floor and white linen on a bed that apparently belongs to one of the seven dwarfs. This is either a hospital, heaven or a re-enactment of Snow White.
“Mrs Taylor! Nice to have you back, dear. How do you feel?” asks the nurse. She is short, frumpy and her uniform perfectly matches the surroundings. In fact she looks like one of the seven dwarfs, minus the beard. “Mrs Taylor?”
Is she talking to me? My surname is Wilde, Taylor is Chris’s last name and I’ve never used it because it was a bit…common. Wilde has more pizzazz. Mind you, it was never explained to Chris that way. It made sense to keep a name that already had professional associations and he accepted my reasoning, so we left it at that.
“Mrs Taylor, can you hear me?” Suddenly her face is so close that it’s impossible to focus properly.
“Yes, yes, it’s just that…” I’m unable to finish the sentence without being distracted by the surroundings, because it’s not that hospitals are my usual place to hang out, but this nurse looks different to other nurses. The formality of her manner and uniform for a start, as well as the hairstyle — a bun pulled tightly on the back of her head, just underneath her hat. Don’t nurses usually wear their hair in ponytails? Dash has never worn a bun, or a hat come to think of it. The starch fumes floating off her irritate my nose.
“Where am I?”
“You are in St Vincent’s Hospital, dear. Do you remember what happened to you?” she asks.
It’s all a bit blurry, like a movie watched on fast-forward. Fragments of memory fly around but not enough to piece together what put me in here.
“Ummm, no, not really. Can you fill me in?”
“Fill you in? That’s a strange term. Your husband said that you fainted and hit your head on a table and then again on the floor when he was unable to catch you. Do you remember any of that, dear?”
A sharp intake of breath. Oh my God! The blood drains from my face like water from a bath. It’s one of those moments where you stop breathing and don’t start again until the dizziness hits. The movie in my head comes together in all its cinematic glory — the concert, the fight, Chris’ decision, the vodka, the urgent need to wee and then the crash. Closely followed by waking up on the floor, the kitsch Sixties house, the kitsch Sixties husband and kid, culminating in the discussion where Chris confirms the date on the newspaper — 1961. FAAAAAAARK!
How easy would it be to spiral out of control and descend into a series of panic attacks right now? Struggling to control the erratic breathing that has possessed my respiratory system, violent hand trembling and compulsion to stutter, I force myself to act as normally as possible given the circumstances. Mrs O’Shane. Control the situation, don’t let it control you.
“Mrs Taylor, are you alright? You’ve lost your colour again. Here, let’s lay you back down,” she says, as she places my head on the pillow and takes the pulse in my wrist. “You know, dear, it’s perfectly normal for you to regress into shock again. Head injuries can be unpredictable. Mind you, the doctors says yours is nothing to worry about, just a concussion. You’ll be here overnight so we can keep an eye on you. Plenty of time for rest.”
“So, this is just a regular hospital then? Not a psychiatric one?” If it were an asylum it’s unlikely they’d be releasing me tomorrow, but best to check. Any more surprises might just kill me today.
“Yes dear, that is correct. That’s a queer question to ask. Do you have a history of psychiatric illness?”
“No!” Ooops, that was a bit too quick. “I mean, there aren’t any psychiatric issues.” Other than this unbelievably realistic hallucination that the year is 1961, but it’s probably best not to mention that. It’s doubtful that the people of this era take kindly to those who insist they are time travellers from the future. Mrs O’Shane.
“Where are my things? My bag, my phone?” Oh crap, shut up! Future babble will have me locked up quicker than you can say ‘crazy lady’.
“Your phone? Do you mean a telephone? Oh no dear! The rooms don’t have phones, just the matron’s office.” Thank God that went completely over her head. “I believe your husband is in the waiting room. Do you want to see him?” she asks.
“Yes, of course! He didn’t do this to me. It really was an accident.” Chris is definitely not a wife-beater — that message needs to be strong and clear.
“It’s none of my business dear. I will let your husband know that you are conscious again but he will have to wait until the doctor has seen you first.”
“Really? But he’s my husband, can’t he just come up and sit with me?”
“No dear!” The vehemence of her reaction surprises me. “A husband’s place is in the waiting room, or at home. They usually just get in the way. Doctor will be in soon,” she says, as she moves efficiently out of the door in a whirl of white.
Well, my location has been verified, St Vincent’s Hospital — the place of my birth, in the future. How ironic. The next step is to confirm that it is actually 1961, that this really is happening, not that it would be wise to ask anyone. Being locked up in an asylum is definitely not on the agenda. My opportunity to freak out will come when the lights go out; even then it will be a very subdued, quiet, internal type of freaking episode.
Once again my bladder speaks to me. Getting out of bed slowly — you’d be surprised how difficult it is to navigate with only one working eye — I find the toilet and remove the beige undies that clearly belong to someone’s grandmother. Pulling my undies down, a gasp of horror followed by a scream thunders out of me.
Oh. My. God. As if the undies weren’t bad enough, I trip and stagger in the tiny bathroom, trying to outrun the small, furry creature that has crawled onto my lap and decided to live there. But there’s no escaping because it’s part of me, a bikini line gone wild. This garden hasn’t been tended to since the onset of puberty. I haven’t seen that amount of pubic hair since…ever.
“Mrs Taylor?” The nurse knocks on the door. “We heard a scream, are you alright?”
No, definitely not! Holy mother of God! There’s so much pubic hair that it could be braided into dreadlocks. I could shear it like a sheep and make a jumper out of it. Where’s my lovely, neat, clean Brazilian?
“Mrs Taylor? Mrs Taylor, are you alright dear?”
“Umm… yes, thanks. I just…um…tripped.”
“You tripped? On what?”
On my pubic hair, which is almost touching the ground. “Just on a…a…thing. Everything’s fine, thank you.”
As the water runs over my hands, I notice that my formerly perfectly manicured hands are sans nail extensions and polish, same for my toes. The well of despair just got deeper. There’s a picture on the wall of a woman who looks very familiar — even similar to me. Perhaps she’s a relative. What an odd place to have a picture though. Oh no! Another gasp and small scream escapes. There’s no hope of stopping the sounds coming out of my mouth. That’s no picture, that’s my reflection in the mirror.
“Mrs Taylor?” the nurse asks again from the other side of the door.
My eyes are glued to the image before me. They’re not even capable of blinking. Oh. My. Fucking. God. There’s a mop of mousy brown hair that has not been cut, styled or highlighted. Mousy brown! No one has to live with mousy hair anymore, not since the invention of peroxide, so what the hell’s going on? My eyebrows are not professionally shaped, my skin is not glowing or rejuvenated and my lips are decidedly less pouty than normal.
“Mrs Taylor?” She is more insistent this time.
“Yes, all good thanks, Nurse. I just…umm…” Saw myself in the mirror without all my chemical and cosmetic enhancements and was horrified at my own plainness. My eyes and labourer’s hands explore my face, looking at all the little wrinkles, the blackish bags under my eyes, the open pores of my cheeks and forehead, the thinness of my lips in comparison to the real me, the few blackheads on my chin as well as the grayness of my skin, I feel the beginnings of depression take over.
Oh no! Please no! Not the girls! As I open my top, my eyes are greeted by the sight of two size-seven feet on the cold lino floor. There’s nothing in-between the two most polar points of my body. Out of gasps and screams, nothing escapes other than a small, pathetic whine. They’re gone, my perfect D-cup breasts are gone. My pride and joys, the things that stop me dead in my tracks every time I walk past a mirror naked. My beautiful, perfectly shaped, nubile, pert breasts are gone. Chris wasn’t in favour of my boob job originally, but he soon changed his mind when he saw them; this kind of fakeness he doesn’t mind at all. Hypocrite. But they are gone and in their place are my real breasts, which look like the ears of a golden retriever, only hairless.
Tears well up, making it difficult to take in the image in the mirror. So this is what it feels like to fall out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Utterly deflated, I drag my ugly arse back to my bed.
The newspaper on the chair confirms the date — April 1st, 1961. So, now I can add ‘time traveller’ to my CV. Excellent. Maybe it’s a dream; a vodka-induced oblivion that generates incredibly realistic dreams. I pinch myself hard, then slap myself in the face twice just to test the theory. Surely we don’t feel pain in dreams? Unfortunately, the only thing that achieves, apart from pain, is a group of people staring at me, probably thinking that the crazy lady in the corner is in the wrong type of hospital.
Amongst the group of people staring at me is a guy puffing away on a cigarette, wearing a deathly halo of smoke. What’s worse is that the lady he has come to visit is also smoking. If hospitals are places where sick people come to get better, why then are people allowed to smoke here? They probably don’t know about the dangers of passive smoking. There’s lots of things they don’t know yet, like computers, mobiles, JFK’s assassination, Rock Hudson being gay. Better watch what I say from now on.
Then it finally hits me — this is 1961. I have travelled back to the year 1961 unknowingly and unwillingly. How the hell did that happen? Maybe it was the vodka, the stress from Chris’s decision, the shock, the wall, the fall, the … Jesus! It could have been caused by a million things, or a combination of everything, or nothing — perhaps it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when all the stars were in alignment or Jupiter was passing Mars. The point is that this time is not my own, there’s nothing familiar about this era, apart from my house and family. Thank God they came with me, or, should say, were already here. It appears that this life is normal to them. They know me and our life here, whereas my knowledge is non-existent.
What about my real life, what’s happening there? What about my business and the contract? It could fall through if the real me is here and not there. Is there another me living there? Physicists believe that there could be millions of versions of ourselves living in parallel universes. It was on the Discovery Channel, so it must be true. What happens if the 1961 me runs into the real me here? Has she gone there, to my modern home? What if the me in my own home has disappeared and Big Al and Chris think I have up and left all together?
Oh no! Anya is on the loose and my husband is without a wife to nag him to stay away from her. She’s probably moving in right now. What if, what if, what if.
Oh God! The only outcome from thinking of all the possible scenarios and their consequences is insanity; then Mrs O’Shane will be my cellmate for eternity. Time to get myself together and switch into survival mode. Breathe deeply, slowly, be calm and think. Note to self — remember that you shine in times of crisis; usually other people’s crises. You can do this. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! My inner voice goes up an octave with each fuck. I could almost telepathically shatter glass at the moment.
The biggest question of all is how the hell am I going to get back to my life before Anya becomes the new Mrs Taylor?
Doctor Tomlinson’s visit takes nearly half an hour. His questions are difficult to answer without raising suspicion and finally he settles upon a theory that the memory loss I appear to be suffering may be a result of the fall and may be temporary. He needs to keep me under medical supervision until at least tomorrow in order to rule out the possibility of the fall being caused by a brain injury, like a small stroke.
On the upside, this provides the perfect excuse for being clueless. People will have to explain everything, and possibly re-introduce themselves, which will go a long way toward helping me fit in here; for however long it takes to find the way back home. On the downside, I am still in 1961.
Chris comes up to see me after the doctor has left. He brings me a straggly bunch of yellow daisies wrapped in newspaper. They look as though he pinched them out of someone’s garden. His genuine concern is touching and comforts me in a strange way. Perhaps it’s because he’s familiar, some link back to my real life. Maybe it’s because he still finds me attractive, despite my hideousness and the fact that I’m wearing an unflattering hospital gown, propped up in a bed.
“Sweetie, you really scared us; passing out twice and hitting your head both times. The doctor said that you are suffering from amnesia, so we’ll have to be patient with you until you start to remember things. Are you feeling better?” He takes me gently in his arms and hugs me like a soft doona. Then he lifts my chin and our lips touch. It’s something I thought that I would never feel again. It’s enough to breathe some life back into me.
“Yes, much better,” I lie. “I’m fine to go home now, really, it’s nothing. Just a bit of a sore head. God, and my eye hurts like hell too. The pain meds must be wearing off.”
There are gasps from the other people in the room; they’re all staring at me again. One lady clasps her hands over a child’s ears as if to protect him from foul language, just like Chris does when he takes Ethan to the footy. Was it me? What was so offensive? It’s not as though the ‘f-bomb’ was dropped.
Chris holds my hand, stands and turns to address them, “Sorry folks, my wife has suffered a head injury. She’s not herself. I apologise for the blasphemy.”
Blasphemy? Jesus, I wouldn’t have picked that one. Note to self: watch your language and do not take the Lord’s name in vain, which will be torture considering my alias is ‘Little Miss Blasphemy’. They mumble and mutter amongst themselves and a couple smile at Chris. What other words are inappropriate here: bum, darn, gosh? So much to learn.
A siren sounds. It’s either an air raid warning or the end of visiting hours, hopefully the latter. I’ve had enough bombs today. To my surprise visitors are very compliant and start packing up to leave, making hasty goodbyes with kisses all around. Maybe the hospital security is a bit heavy-handed around here?
“Don’t worry about a thing Jules, the boys are fine. Lily’s got them. I’ll pick them up tonight,” Chris says.
“Lily? Who’s Lily?” Oh joy! We have a nanny, thank God for that.
“Lily, from over the road. Your best friend?”
“Oh, so, she’s not the nanny?” Damn.
“Ummm, no Jules. She’s not. This must be part of the amnesia, although you and Lily are so close it’s impossible to think that you’d forget her.”
How’s that, one day here and already there’s a best friend. Hopefully she’s a mad scientist who has a time machine stashed in her laboratory. This will be odd because there haven’t been too many friends in my life — the consequence of being a workaholic. The whole friend-etiquette thing is a mystery. Dash and Lauren are the closest things to friends, but Dash has to love me because we are sisters, and Lauren has to pretend to love me for the sake of her brother.
“How many children do we have?” Chris asks.
“Um, two?” It’s more of a question than an answer. Please don’t tell me we’re Catholic and have twelve children. If that’s the case, being Mrs O’Shane’s cellmate doesn’t sound too bad.
“What do I do for a living?”
“Oh, that’s easy! You’re an architect. You design renovations and extensions mainly, but you’d like to move into designing commercial buildings in the future.”
He smiles that sexy Chris smile, but something is missing. His eyes don’t crinkle like normal, they hold a seriousness about them, a tiredness. He pushes my hair back behind my ear and kisses me gently, sending tiny butterfly shivers all over my body. How can those be the same lips that kissed Anya?
A second alarm rings and people start to leave.
He takes me in his arms and holds me like a fragile bird, whispering, “It’s all going to be OK, love. Don’t worry about anything. Just rest and you can come home tomorrow, OK?”
“Sure you can’t smuggle me out now?” The warmth of his arms is sweet and the thought of being here alone scares me.
“You need your rest, sweetie. Although, I will miss you. We haven’t had a night apart since Cal’s birth. I’m just going to speak with the Matron. I have to find out what time you’ll be discharged tomorrow,” he says
“Can’t you just phone them in the morning?”
He gives me a pitying smile and leaves the room.
A new, older nurse comes in. “Your husband says that your memory loss is extensive, Mrs Taylor. Much more than we had originally thought. Is that correct?” Her directness is confronting, no greetings or small talk, she just launches straight in.
“Is it?” Please don’t tell me the bit about twelve children is correct. “If he says so then I guess he must be right.” After all, he knows the 1961 me and would be a better judge.
“You guess?” She wrinkles her forehead with distaste. “Dear, either you remember who you are and from whenst you came or you do not. Now, which is it?”
“It’s a bit hard for me to answer that question, with my memory loss and all, Nurse,” I say.
“Matron!”
“What?”
“I beg your pardon, not ‘what’! I am the Matron, not the nurse!” she says.
Of course, that should have been obvious, seeing as she has the charisma of a bulldog. Now the visitors’ speedy exit makes sense. Who needs security when this Matron is haunting the halls?
“Sorry, Matron.”
“What is it you don’t remember?”
What sort of a stupid question is that? If I remembered what I don’t remember then I wouldn’t be suffering memory loss, now would I?
“What do you mean, Matron?” I ask.
“Mrs Taylor, tell me where your memory is short — is it your birthday, names of your children, where you live, what you had for breakfast, your maiden name? I need to get an idea of whether it is short term or long term memory you have difficulty with.”
It’s not really the memory loss that’s bothering me, Matron. It’s the whole freaking time travel/parallel universe concept, but if we discuss that you’ll arrange for a padded van to come and take me to the institution that will house me until my last breath.
“It’s hard to say really, Matron. Perhaps more of it will come to light after settling in at home again. You will be discharging me tomorrow, won’t you?”
“We shall see about that, Mrs Taylor. I will inform the Doctor. Now, take your tablets, lights out in twenty minutes. Patients need their rest.” And with that she’s gone, thankfully. Any nightmares tonight will be accredited directly to her.
I get up to visit the loo again and hear voices from the Matron’s office across the hall.
“Her husband says the memory loss is disturbing, Doctor,” says the Matron. “Apparently she’s quite out of character, fantasising about having a job, etcetera.”
“Hmmm,” he says. “Considering the history I’d like a second opinion.” He exhales loudly. “I’ll contact Dr. Holman at Kew Asylum now and ask him to come over tomorrow. I think it’s better to be safe than sorry in this instance.”
Kew Asylum? The nuthouse? Mrs O’Shane’s residential address?
“I couldn’t agree more, Doctor, particularly seeing as there are children involved.”
“Dr. Holman will admit her to the asylum for a short term stay to start off with if he believes that is in her best interests.”
Holy shit! My heart skips a beat and then rolls around in my chest cavity like an iron ball.
“Very good, Doctor,” the Matron says. “I will get the forms now, in preparation for her transfer to Kew.”
Oh my God. They’re looking at committing me to an asylum tomorrow! Tears begin to fall down my face as I think of being locked away, perhaps indefinitely. If I can’t manage to convince this doctor tomorrow that everything is OK, they will lock me up and throw away the key. I’ve read the history books and know how people with psychiatric illnesses were treated. They were used for experiments, surgeries, even electric shocks. They were medicated into a zombiod status. Even women who had postnatal depression were locked away. If they commit me tomorrow, I will never get home. Never, because my life will be spent in some dank, dark cell surrounded by truly disturbed people, sad people, lost people…and I will be one of them…and Anya will take my family and Chris will let her because his wife has left forever.
True to the Matron’s word, the lights are out twenty minutes later. The silence and darkness are eerie. The large thick windowpane warps the moonlight, shadows move across the floor and walls like floating spirits. The hospital looks as though it was built around the turn of the nineteenth century, with high ceilings and intricate cornices. It makes me think about all the souls who have stayed here before me. How many of them have been in my position? Surely this has happened to someone else, somewhere in the world, it can’t just be me. What a shame they don’t have a support group. Perhaps they do, inside Kew Asylum.
Listening to the sound of hushed feet pad across the floor outside, the muted voices murmuring through the walls, it occurs to me that what is needed is a plan of action, or survival. Remaining calm and in control is the only way to go. Raising suspicion will only result in relocation to the nuthouse. Whatever happens, I have to play the part of 1961 Juliette well; the performance has to be Oscar-worthy. It’s my only chance of getting back home.
The little sleep I got last night was punctuated by horrific dreams of being thrown into an asylum, my skin translucent and covered with sores, black and rotting teeth surrounded by bleeding gums, hair like a bird’s nest falling out in clumps around my filthy, bare feet. After each dream I would wake, my heart pounding and the nightgown clinging to my body with rivulets of sweat.
“You haven’t eaten your breakfast, Mrs Taylor? Shall I leave it for you?” the nurse asks.
“No thanks. I’m not very hungry this morning,” I say. The truth is that even if the toast were able to make it past my throat, it would come back up as soon as it hit my stomach.
“OK then. You can pop in and have a shower while you wait for the doctor to come and see you,” she says as she clears away my tray. “He’s due here in thirty minutes, so best you get a move on. There’s a towel here for you.”
The hot shower does nothing to calm my nerves. It washes off the sweat from last night, but does not remove the stench of fear. What if they commit me? Who the hell am I in 1961? How can I act like the normal me when we’ve never met?
Thirty minutes passes like thirty days as the doctor makes his rounds. He enters the room with another man by his side and together they make an odd couple. Dr. Tomlinson is tall and slim, while the other, Dr. Holman I am guessing, is short and round with greasy black hair and round glasses perched high on the bridge of his nose. He scares me, but it’s showtime, so I tell my beating heart to quiet down and my swirling stomach to be still and put on my PR face.
“Mrs Taylor, how are you feeling this morning?” Dr. Tomlinson asks.
“Much better, thank you Doctor.”
It is better not to be too chirpy or volunteer too much information because that will make me seem …nutty.
“Good, good. This is my colleague, Dr. Holman. He’s going to ask you a few questions, alright?” he asks.
“Yes, of course,” I say. The sweat is starting to accumulate in my armpits again.
“Mrs Taylor, can you tell me today’s date?” Dr. Holman asks.
“Yes, it’s April 2nd…1961.”
“Good. And your complete name please?”
I try to swallow to lubricate my tongue, but my mouth is completely dry.
“My name is Juliette Eleanor…Taylor.”
“Good. Your address please.”
I tell him the address and he continues to ask me a barrage of questions about myself and my family, all of which are very difficult seeing as the answers are, largely, unknown to me. Then he gets me to perform a series of physical activities that remind me of the ones the police used to get suspected drunk drivers to do — walk along the white line, touch your nose. The effort required to not show my fear, to stop myself from sweating, or vomiting, or scratching or fidgeting is enormous. He’s a psychiatrist, so he is assessing my behaviour, not just my answers.
After forty minutes, my nerves are shot. It’s a struggle not to dribble and scratch imaginary lice. He shows no emotion and examines me as though he has already decided my fate and is looking forward to conducting experiments on me back in Kew Asylum. Soon after I fail to answer the question regarding what I do for a living, the two doctors pack up and leave the room, taking with them the last of my energy. The skinny bed looks as inviting as a bedchamber in Buckingham Palace as my body flops down and sleep overtakes me.
“Mrs Taylor? Wakey wakey,” the nurse says as she brings in the lunch tray. It’s a curried egg and lettuce sandwich, a bowl of yoghurt and an apple. “You’ve had a nice little nap but now it’s time for lunch and the doctor will be in here soon.”
“He will?” I ask, clutching at the sheets on the bed.
“Yes, he’s got some news for you.”
Oh my God. Tears prickle my eyes and my heart speeds up to dangerous levels. They’re committing me. I am going to Kew Asylum! The nurse continues talking but I can’t hear her because the wailing inside my head and the blood rushing around my body is drowning out every other noise.
Is escape an option? There’s got to be a door around her somewhere. A back door, a side door. Any door will do. Then I can go home and tell Chris that they discharged me. He’ll never know the truth. Until they come to get me and take me away, that is. Oh God, would they do that in front of my children? Would Ethan and Cal have to watch me being taken away, kicking and screaming like a…a looney?
“Good afternoon, Mrs Taylor,” Dr. Tomlinson says. “I’ve been in discussion with Dr. Holman regarding your condition.”
The blood stops moving around my body. My eyes cease blinking. The internal organs that keep me breathing grind to a halt.
“According to him, you have suffered a type of amnesia. You have trouble recalling information stored in both long and short-term memory, which is puzzling, but not uncommon. Your test results show no other brain injury or malfunction, so it’s safe to rule out stroke. If you had suffered a brain injury your coordination wouldn’t have been so precise, amongst other symptoms that are absent.”
I nod and will my brain to stop whirring around in my head.
“Therefore, your memory loss is a result of the fall, rather than your fall being a result of a stroke or brain injury. The memory loss is hard to predict. You may make a fast recovery, or it may take some time. For this reason you will be transferred…”
“No, please don’t. It’s just a bump to the head, Doctor, that’s all,” I say.
“If only it were that simple, Mrs Taylor. We need to ensure that you are not a danger to yourself, or to others. Especially your children.”
“But they need me at home, to…look after them.” My voice has risen two octaves.
“Yes, they do,” he nods, “which is exactly why you are being transferred to the care of your general practitioner.”
“The… what?”
“Your GP, a Dr. Hamilton,” he says, checking the forms in his hand. “He will observe you weekly and make the necessary arrangements from there, should you need to be…”
“So you’re not transferring me to Kew?”
“Not at this stage, Mrs Taylor. Let’s see how things go over the next few days. Then we can make a decision. Your appointment with Dr. Hamilton is in four days’ time. Here are the details.” He smiles, handing me a form with my appointment time on it.
It’s like the sun has come out to play again after months of storms. My entire body loses its rigidity and all that’s left is the ache from having been so tense.
“So I can go home…”
“Today, yes.”
It’s almost impossible not to launch off the bed and crash tackle Dr. Tomlinson in appreciation, but that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do seeing as the threat of a psychiatric stay still looms over me. If it were possible to see the relief washing off me at the moment, my feet would be standing in a puddle of it up to my knees. Thank God.
My discharge papers are signed and Chris comes to collect me. It’s lucky my head still hurts from the injury, otherwise the caffeine withdrawal would be skull-crushing. The good news is that the eye bandage has been removed and, although still partially shut, my vision has improved. I am no longer bumping into things, which is a bonus because one head injury at a time is enough.
It’s a proper autumn morning — a chilly wind but warm sun. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn the beautiful orange, yellow and red tones. The birds are singing and the sound of traffic is light — more like the suburbs than the city. There isn’t even the smell of the city; the air is clean. Most unusual.
“Where did you park, Chris?” The parking can be an absolute bugger in this part of the city.
“Park? Park what?” he asks.
Was my question cryptic? Has he lost half his IQ?
“Park. The. Car,” I say it slowly as though talking to a simpleton, complete with charade-like hand gestures, turning the steering wheel and honking the horn.
“Ooooh, the car,” he says.
“Yes, the car.” My head is broken, but he has no excuse.
“Jules,” he stops walking, “we don’t have a car.”
The world stops. Even the birds stop singing.
“What do you mean we don’t have a car? Of course we have a car. Everyone has a car.”
“No, not everyone. Jules, are you feeling alright?”
“What do you mean not everyone has a car? Who doesn’t have a car, this is the twenty-first century for God’s sake!”
People are stopping to look at the bruised looney about to have a melt down on the footpath. Note to self: Mrs O’Shane.
“Jules, calm down. We don’t have a car. We used to have one, but we sold it when Cal was born because we couldn’t afford it anymore. And it’s only the twentieth century, not the twenty-first.” His head makes a very small shaking motion, tiny, but noticeable.
“Well, how the hell do I live without a car? How do I get around, you know, do stuff, get to work?’ Grief is already starting to set in at the loss of my luxury-mobile.
“You either walk or catch the bus, train or tram.”
“I catch public transport?” Shock has moved into denial. “No way! Public transport is full of people who fall asleep or pick their nose when they think no one is looking.”
“You do use it Jules, but not often. Not much takes you outside the house.”
Perhaps the front room is my office now? But then where would Chris work? No, because the front room had a dining setting in it two days ago. Perhaps he has his own set of offices in the city? The prospect of being married to a successful architect who has his own firm cheers me up. We must be rich. No, if we were rich we’d have a car. Maybe we are rich but environmentally friendly, you know, ahead of our time. No, Chris said we got rid of the car because we couldn’t afford it. The rollercoaster is emotionally exhausting. “Do I work from home?”
“You could say that, Jules…” and then he says the words that burn a hole straight through me, literally, the pain starts in my chest and works upwards. “You are a housewife and Mum, you gave up work when you were pregnant, remember.” It’s difficult to breathe.
I choke on his words.” No! No! No! That’s ridiculous. There’s no way would I ever give up work! Work is my life. Why would I do that?” My airways are constricting.
“Because you were about to become a Mum, it’s what you’d always wanted. We agreed that our family came first. Besides, you didn’t really like your job anyway.”
“Bu…I…No…Kids…”
Can’t breathe.
“Jules, this all seems like a shock to you. We’ll go back to the hospital, they may need to do more psychiatric tests on you. Perhaps you need a…a longer rest.”
Nothing quite snaps you back to reality like the threat of a psychiatric ward sleepover, does it?
“No! No, I’m fine. Really, I’m just…um…” What’s the correct word? “…Just tired, that’s all.” No Oscar-worthiness here.
“You can have a rest at home, but if we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss our tram, so let’s get going.” He leads me by the arm, like a stubborn goat.
“Can’t we take a taxi?” I ask, stopping again.
“A taxi? Jules, we can’t afford a taxi,” he says as he pulls me again into forward motion. It’s a bit like taking your dog into the vet, when it scrabbles against your efforts to get it into the surgery.
“But you’re an architect, Chris. You make a good living. How can we not afford a taxi ride to Clifton Hill? It’s only a few blocks away.”
Chris smiles, not the sexy, crinkly eye smile. It’s more of a ‘my wife is a nutter’ kind of expression. The tram dings and we board quietly. Well, he boards quietly. Mine is more of a morose plonking up the steps and into a wooden slatted seat that acts as a mobile torture rack as the tram pitches forward, cracking three vertebrae.
Great, no car. How does anyone live without a car? What else is missing from my life, other than my laptop, mobile phone, financial independence, nanny, housekeeper, successful business, bank account, hairdresser, beautician, and career, which is probably about to disappear because I’m unable to answer my bloody phone, because it is over fifty frigging’ years away from me. Calm down…breathe. Mrs. O’Shane.