SIGMUND FREUD
Wednesday: 46 days
Pain level: 8.5
Location: Chest
It is only after I fill out my diary that I remember my dream. I was nude hiking. Again. And it was still raining. This time more details were revealed. I was wearing a pack. Nude could mean sexy, but the pack spoils that. No, this is not a sexy dream. Someone appeared on the track ahead of me. They were not nude. This made me anxious and I woke up.
A recurring dream must be significant. I think my erotic writing is weighing on my mind. I am feeling exposed. It is exciting, but at the same time scary. No one must ever find out what a depraved person I am.
Thinking about last night’s phone call to Daniel makes me sad. I can’t believe he has forgotten ‘the rain in Glenorchy’. I resolve to never call him again. In the back of my notebook, next to Don’t ring Daniel, I write Ever again! This doesn’t seem quite decisive enough so I add, Or else!
I am in the kitchen making coffee when Sally rings. It is only seven am. Days start earlier in Darling Head than in Sydney.
‘This is your life coach. I want you to strike up a conversation with the fifth stranger you see today.’
‘Strike up a conversation?’ I squeak. ‘I thought we agreed on talk to. Like, hi, nice day, isn’t it? That sort of thing.’
‘I’ve revised my requirements. Minimum five-minute conversation.’
‘Am I paying you for this?’
‘No,’ says Sally. ‘You’re my test case. I’m thinking of starting a business.’
‘Coaching shy people?’
‘Not just shy people. Fat people, people lacking motivation, people who are having trouble achieving their goals. I might even do date coaching.’
‘Date coaching?’
‘Yeah, get with it, Edie. This stuff’s big in America. Life coaching is the second fastest growing industry in the world.’
‘What’s the first?’
‘I don’t know. Yoga instructing probably.’
‘So what does a date coach do?’
‘It’s sexual psychology: how to flirt, how to look for someone compatible. For an extra fee I’d tag along on a date incognito and give feedback.’
‘And you’re an expert on this stuff?’
‘Come on,’ Sally drawls.
I know she’s right. Not only did she study psychology, but she has a natural knack for social skills. Our Grade Twelve yearbook named her the girl most likely to flirt her way to the top.
‘Have you got a name for your business?’
‘I’m thinking of motive eight.’
‘Motivate?’
‘No, it’s a play on words. Motive. Eight.’
‘I like the sound of it but what’s the eight for?’
‘I’m working on that part.’
‘Maybe you offer eight types of coaching?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or an eight-step process?’
‘Yeah, yeah, an eight-step process. I like it.’ I can almost hear Sally’s brain ticking over. ‘And the first part of your eight-step process is to start a conversation with a stranger.’
‘Any hot tips, coach?’
‘Start shallow, move deep.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Well, in your basic five-minute conversation, you might not get to deep. Aim for medium — one step beyond weather and current affairs, but not as far as identity, beliefs and values.’
‘Sal?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I think you’ve mistaken me for an advanced-level pupil. I signed up for basic conversation.’
Sally sighs. ‘Okay, Edie. We’ll start with small talk. Say hi, ask an open-ended question.’
‘Like, been gettin’ any?’
‘That’s not actually open-ended; they could just say yes.’
‘How about, how would you rate the quality of the waves today?’
‘Better. From there, try to segue into a more interesting topic. Pay attention to their non-verbal cues to see what interests them. You’ll get the hang of it.’
‘You lost me at segue.’
‘Just fucking talk to them, Edie. I expect a full report.’
‘Okay, coach.’
‘Failure is not an option,’ says Sal.
‘Is it a requirement?’
‘Ha!’ She hangs up on me.
While we have been talking I have been gazing at a brochure Dad has left on the bench. It says SurfAid and has a picture of dark-skinned, curly-haired kids on a beach. Kids on a beach without surfboards, tut, tut. I imagine that SurfAid must be a missionary-type mob carrying, not bibles, but surfboards to poor deprived children who are yet to experience the thrill of wave riding. To my father, and most of Darling Head, surfing is no mere pastime, it is a spiritual pursuit. And I am a heathen in need of conversion.
Going outside, I settle on the couch with coffee and toast. When I finish I glance at my watch. Unfortunately, it is only seven-thirty, so I still have time to conduct my conversation before work.
As I get dressed my mind turns to Professor Brownlow. I feel like our relationship has moved on since I last saw him, but realise he, not having been writing erotic fiction about me (I assume), may not feel the same way…
I fuss around with my wardrobe for longer than usual. Nothing is right. My entire range of clothing is absolutely useless in the following ways:
The dress I picked up at the market for ten dollars is too hippyish;
My T-shirts are too tight, too faded and make my arms look fat; and
My Sydney clothes are too hot, too black and scream wanker.
I settle on my Astro Guevara T-shirt and jeans — the best of a bad lot.
I turn on the computer so I can check my emails before I leave and glance in the mirror as it boots up. It’s a good day. If I cross my eyes so the image blurs and don’t move too close I look a little like Nicole Kidman when she was still a fuzzy redhead whose face moved. I know if I uncrossed my eyes and moved closer, I’d look like Mum in the photo I keep in my drawer. I move away from the mirror before that happens. Thinking about Mum is not a good way to start the day.
Unfortunately, thinking about not thinking about Mum has the opposite effect.
How did you and Mum meet, Dad?
You know that story, Eddie Bear.
I want to hear it again.
It was when I won the Australian champs in Bells Beach. Your turn, Jen.
I was sent down from Melbourne to interview him. The normal sports journalist was sick.
Among all those suntanned surfers and hangers on your mother looked like a vision from another world.
I was wearing my biggest hat and sunglasses.
She had red hair down to her waist and her skin was like milk.
Everyone was crowded around him, but I took off my sunglasses.
She had eyes like the sea.
It was love.
At first sight.
Before I know it I am kneeling next to the camphorwood chest which is beside my bed and, what is worse, I am pulling out her notebook.
Mum’s notebook has a hard red cover with black binding. Inside, her scrawling writing charts years of her thoughts, dreams, poems and whimsical fancies. The thing that I sometimes forget about my mother is how funny she was. How much she made me laugh. That was her gift. Our house was full of laughter when I was a child. My mother liked to play with words. Words were her toys, her tools and her passion.
‘You’re my little sweetiepiekins.’ Mum tickles my tummy as I lie on the bed.
‘And you’re my great big honeybunchkins.’ I know this game.
‘You’re delightful.’
‘You’re delicious.’
‘You’re luscious.’
‘You’re lovely.’
‘I’m going to gobble you up for dinner.’
I squeal in mock terror.
A scribble of black ink runs across the inside front cover. I know the words by heart but they always make my chest ache. The urge to read on is almost irresistible, but I have been there before and I know Mum’s notebook is a ticking bomb. My eyes follow the line just once then I close the book before I go too far.
My computer is humming now, inviting me to look her up. That famous woman I have never Googled. I know she had children — a boy and a girl. I already know one half of their story. I don’t know if I am ready to find out the other half. I tap my fingers on the keyboard in a little drumbeat, type her name, then erase it. As I shut down the computer my heart is beating like I’ve had a lucky escape.
My mother’s notebook sits in my bedroom like a junkie’s fix. I am both drawn to and repelled by it. I wish I could find a way to settle it in my heart in a way that didn’t hurt. I put it back in the chest and pick up my car keys.
Driving down to the village, I park next to the shops. The fruit shop man nods at me as I climb out. That makes him a friend, rather than a stranger, so I can’t count him. As I cross the road, the man I know only as unfriendly goatee man is crossing the other way, surfboard under his arm. Even though we have seen each other many times and I suspect he knows who I am (that is, my father’s daughter) he stares straight past me. I make a mental note — stranger number one.
A couple I’ve never seen before are enjoying breakfast outside the beachfront café. They have a well-groomed look that almost invariably separates the blow-ins from the locals. Strangers two and three. My heart beats faster. I am getting dangerously close to stranger five. What if I don’t like the look of them? I can move on, I tell myself. Sally will never know.
My prepared opening line will work best if I am looking at the sea, so I walk over the grass towards the railing lining the beach. As I do so, I realise I have my hands clasped behind my back. My hands become a bit of a problem when I am anxious. Clasping them behind my back is comfortable, but Sherlock Holmesish. Dangling by my sides feels wrong and I suspect makes me look deranged. Having them in my pockets can work, but my jeans are too tight today. Resting my elbows on the railing provides instant relief.
Darling Head turns on amazing autumn mornings. The sea is a cliché of transparent blue and even I can see the waves are good. Line after line of swell rolls in; not a single wave is left unmarked by a board rider slicing along the smooth face.
Even though I am not tempted to join the surfers I can see how it might be fun if you were so inclined. I am, of course, no stranger to the surf. I was brought up in the great Darling Head tradition. At five, I was signed up for the Darling Head Surf Nippers. Every Sunday during summer Sally and I lined up on the beach, ran races, paddled boards out through the breakers and were dumped face first into the sand on return. These days left me freckle-faced and red-nosed but fair skin was no excuse for non-participation. It wasn’t until I was twelve that I dug my heels in and retreated indoors. Nothing Dad could do would tempt me into the waves again.
A self-possessed black cat stalks up the path from the beach with its tail in the air.
‘Hi, puss,’ I say.
Clearly a cat of discernment, it completely ignores me.
‘Don’t worry, the feeling’s mutual,’ I mutter as it strolls away.
Stranger number four, a fisherman with an ancient wiry-haired dog, goes past. For a moment I think he might be the one I’ve been looking for. But I think that every time I see an old fisherman heading back from the sea. This quest for The Fisherman has plagued me for years. I wish I could stop looking, but I can’t. Would I know him if I saw him? If I knew him, would I know what to say? But I can’t be thinking about that now. I am on a mission to overcome shyness. I have a report to make to Sally.
The next person I see will be stranger number five (as long as I don’t already know them).
I have the panicky sensation I get when people are going around the room introducing themselves and my turn is coming soon. My throat is constricted and my mouth is dry. Any moment now I’m going to have to open my mouth and say something. It’s impossible. I can’t talk.
Down the beach, Dad and Rochelle are coasting into shore, side by side on their surfboards. As they reach the sand they stand, picking up their boards with one hand. This action is so well practised it is almost a dance. I wonder what it would be like to be so sure in your body. As I raise my hand to wave at them, a guy comes up the ramp from the beach.
Stranger number five.
I freeze, my hand half-raised, my smile half-formed, my breath half-breathed. He looks at me, obviously wondering if he knows me. It is the worst-case scenario. He is about my age, but I can already tell our auras don’t align. Not that I’m into that stuff. And, here’s the major surprise, he actually is a stranger. I’ve never seen him before in my life.
He has a panicked look on his face and a ring through his eyebrow. I’ve always found body piercings intimidating. It’s the bold statement they make — hey, I’m hip; I’ve got a pierced eyebrow. I could never carry it off. It’s the same with tattoos and asymmetrical hairdos. The guy is wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with a giant tongue on it. His jeans are damp at the bottom. His bare feet are pale — too pale for Darling Head. He is holding black basketball shoes in his hand and a bag dangles next to his hip, its strap running across his chest. He might have just stepped off the streets of Kings Cross. He pauses at the top of the ramp, looking as if he is calculating the relative risks attached to running off or appeasing me.
I decide to let him go past and find a friendlier victim. But then I realise my hand is still raised in a frozen greeting. I am committed. I lower my hand. ‘Hi.’ My voice comes out in a squeak, but at least it comes out. Conversation has commenced.
His eyes flicker down and up again, possibly checking for weapons. ‘Hi?’
The inflection in his voice confuses me. Is he saying hi or questioning me? I decide on the latter. ‘Yes. I said hi.’ I cough to clear my throat. I’m pretty sure Sally would be handling this better. What was I supposed to say to move the conversation on?
‘Do I know you?’ he asks.
‘What do you think of the quality of the waves?’ I ask, then registering what he has said, add, ‘No.’
He frowns, lowering his eyebrow ring, shakes his head and walks off without another word.
A hot flush spreads across my face. I suspect our conversation has lasted less than five seconds. I stand, cemented to the spot with humiliation. My errant hands have moved themselves onto my hips and are projecting an aggressive image totally at odds with what is going on in my head.
‘Eddie,’ says my father.
He and Rochelle are standing in front of me. They look like trained seals, the water running off their black wetsuits.
‘What are you doing?’ Dad looks at me hard. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, just…checking the surf.’
Dad smiles, immediately distracted. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? When are you getting in?’ He has been saying this for eleven years, but still sounds hopeful. Like me, he is a testament to the futile optimism of the human spirit.
I smile back, waggling my head in the indeterminate way which has served me well over this time.
‘Did you meet Jay?’ asks Rochelle.
‘Jay?’
‘My brother. I saw you talking to him. He just got off the overnight bus. I told him to look for us down the beach.’
‘Oh.’ I register this fact. Rochelle’s brother is a stuck-up git who thinks I’m mentally deficient. And he’s coming to stay with us. Great. Things couldn’t be better.
Rochelle smiles, her eyes creasing into a ripple of wrinkles which only make her look happier. ‘You and Jay should get on well. He’s creative too. He plays in a band.’
That figures. He’s a pierced, superior nob who thinks he’s a rock god because he plays at pubs every now and then.
‘I’d better go to work,’ I say.
As I am unlocking my car, someone calls out to me.
‘Hey.’ A boy rides up to me on his bike. He is about thirteen and, like most kids in town, has the white-blond hair and peeling nose of a surf fiend.
I pause with my hand on the open car door. ‘Yeah?’
‘Do you know Dave McElroy? I saw ya talking to him.’
It is my usual practice to deny such accusations, but today I find that my bruised ego needs massaging. ‘He’s my father.’
His mouth drops open and he gives me a look usually reserved for minor celebrities. ‘Rad. So, who are you sponsored by?’
Now is the time to nip this in the bud. I open my mouth to tell him I don’t surf, but the words don’t quite come out. His hero-worship is a little intoxicating and in the wake of my debacle with Jay, I need all the uplift I can get. ‘Just Rip Curl,’ I murmur modestly.
‘Cool. I’m hopin’ to get them. I’m coming top in my division. Going down to Bells for the nationals soon.’
Bells is Bells Beach in Victoria — a famous break. ‘Rad,’ I say.
‘Yeah, thanks. I’m Tim.’
‘I’m Edie.’
He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled grease-stained paper bag. ‘Can you get your dad’s autograph for me?’
So that’s what he wants. Dad stopped giving autographs years ago. He said his time was over. Kids still approach him but he turns them down gently. Tim has found a better way. I take the bag, then wonder what I’m supposed to do with it. ‘But how will I get it back to you?’
‘I’ll see you round.’ He waves and rides off.
I look at the greasy paper bag. It’s not like we don’t have paper at home. But perhaps the bag is significant? I fold it up and push it into my purse. Rip Curl. With any luck I won’t run into him again.