SIGMUND FREUD
Friday: 55 days
Pain level: 7.5
Location: Chest (business as usual)
Friday morning presents me with a dilemma. It is a work day, but will Professor Brownlow want to see me? Perhaps he would prefer it if I stayed away? On the other hand, I need the money. I also need to tell him I will be leaving at the end of next week.
My legs are even stiffer today, so running is out of the question. Perhaps I will disown Murakami and down a few whiskeys tonight instead, a la Dylan Thomas.
Tips for self-improvement: Find myself a stylish neck kerchief and a boat house.
As I get dressed I hear Dad and Rochelle talking. Rochelle sounds annoyed. Are they having an argument? That would be a first.
‘You have to tell her,’ says Rochelle.
Dad mutters something incomprehensible in reply.
Tell who what? Me? Are they arguing about me? I don’t like the sound of it. I also don’t want to get involved. I loiter in my preparations and by the time I come downstairs they have gone to work.
I drive to the university, averting my eyes from the church sign as I go past. I am a confirmed sinner now. I am not open to salvation.
When I arrive, Professor Brownlow is at his desk, poring over some papers. My social barometer is firmly set to awkward. I stand at the laboratory door for a moment, reliving the horror of Wednesday night. I cough.
Professor Brownlow looks up. His eyes are bloodshot and he needs a shave. We lock eyes, but he doesn’t say anything for a little while. Then he pushes out the chair next to him and gestures to it. ‘Come in, Edie.’
I sit down, wheeling the chair back until I am sitting well outside lover or even friend distance. On reflection, I edge back a bit more; even co-worker distance is probably pushing it, should Belinda make a surprise appearance. At three metres, I feel I have struck the right note; very distant acquaintance.
Professor Brownlow slides an article across the desk towards me. ‘Sally gave me this. It’s very good.’
I lean forward and take the paper, being sure not to brush his fingers with mine. I look at the title: ‘The secrets of happiness’. Running my eyes down it, I read the headings out loud. ‘Be positive, be brave, meditate, be kind to yourself, put your pessimism to work, find a calling, act happy.’ Act happy. I attempt to smile. ‘Sounds terrific.’ Funnily enough, it kind of works. Acting happy makes me feel better. ‘Is it working for you?’
Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘It’s a work in progress.’
‘How are things panning out for you after…’
‘Belinda is giving me the benefit of the doubt. That might be the best I can hope for at the moment.’
‘Would you rather I left?’
‘No, no.’ Professor Brownlow shakes his head. ‘I need you.’ He gestures towards the cabinet where my drawings are kept. ‘I’ve been having a look. You did a fantastic job the other night. I think you’re coming into your own with this work.’
He needs me. Now I find I’m unable to tell him about Japan. I almost destroyed his marriage and he needs me. Next week will have to do. I stand up, ‘I’d better…’
‘You know Belinda wasn’t totally wrong about you.’ His voice is low.
I turn. ‘What?’
‘I am very drawn to you.’
‘You are?’ I am thinking of the motel room and the sexless bed-sharing.
‘I’m a lot older than you, Edie, not as spontaneous. I’ve learnt just because things seem like a good idea at the time, it doesn’t mean they are.’
I glance at his article. ‘What about being brave?’
‘I’ve learnt to temper bravery with an assessment of the consequences. It doesn’t mean I’m not tempted.’ Professor Brownlow’s eyes twinkle for a moment behind his glasses. Then he pulls a beaker from his cabinet and proceeds to pour chemicals into it as if I wasn’t there.
After a couple of seconds I am convinced that sexually charged moment never happened.
Saturday: Day 56
Pain levels: 8–9
Locations: Everywhere except my toes
Saturday is a carnival of awkwardness. Jay and I bump off each other like dodgem cars. Every time I see him a silent scream erupts inside me. He, meanwhile, is cool and polite. We catch each other in the kitchen in the morning; me heading for the toaster, he for the kettle.
‘Excuse me.’ He steps aside to let me pass.
I try to match his demeanour, but probably look sulky. As he leaves, I notice he has the same sinuous rockstar glide as his father. I think of Tanya and what else they might have in common. I wonder if he ever meant a word he said to me or if it was just meaningless banter.
It seemed meaningful. But then, I do have a tendency to take people at face value. I need to learn. My heart should have toughened up by now. I can’t keep doing this all the time; can’t keep going back for more.
It would be better if he was rude. Then we could fight. But his coolness is impenetrable, like he has switched off. I no longer exist for him as a person, only as an object in his path. I seethe with unspoken retorts, rude comments and taunts that I will never utter. Retorts and taunting are not my forte.
With every encounter in the kitchen, lounge room or on the verandah, I become more shaken and tearful, but I don’t let him see this. I clench my teeth, walk past, presenting an exterior so at odds with my interior it is a wonder it doesn’t slough off like a snake skin. I am relieved it doesn’t. I manage to keep myself together, patched up with a fragile thread of determination to not let him see me cry.
I consider running, but eat a lot of chocolate instead. This requires frequent trips to the shop so I can pretend to myself that I am only eating small amounts of chocolate. While standing in line to buy very small chocolate bars I read a succession of women’s magazines. I learn how to get a flat stomach, hold fabulous dinner parties and get the latest Hollywood look. I also learn that you should never leave the house unless you are looking so fabulous that you would not be embarrassed to meet an ex-boyfriend. Who has time for this stuff? There has got to be a market for trendy burqa-style outfits to wear on days when you need to buy milk, but haven’t got two hours to get dressed.
As I munch my way through Cherry Ripes, Mars Bars and Kit Kats I decide that if I ever become a famous erotic writer I will tell my fans that everything I have learnt about writing, I have learnt from eating chocolate. I wonder what those things are. How it can make you feel bad when you indulge too much. How it can make you feel good when you do it slowly with intention. How some chocolate is better than others. None of this seems any more of a long-bow than running.
In the afternoon, I buy myself a red silk scarf from the pre-loved clothes shop. On my way home, I pick up two mini-bar-sized bottles of whiskey. Getting a whole bottle would be tempting fate. That evening, I tie the scarf around my neck, then drink the first bottle. Standing near the window, I imagine I am Dylan Thomas in his boatshed.
It rains a lot in Glenorchy…
When I spoke this line in Gleebooks, I had the crowd on tenterhooks. A bold start — but how would I follow it up in rhyming verse? Corky? Dorky? I unscrew the lid of the second bottle…
And even the deer are quite gawky.
I take a sip of whiskey and try to remember what comes next but my mind is blank. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it. I adlib.
The shifting mist
Makes you want to get pissed.
And you’d kill for a sausage that’s porky.
I’m sure the original poem was much more spiritually uplifting. It certainly seemed that way at the time. I finish the bottle, collapse on the bed, pull out my notebook and write under Tips for self-improvement:
Never write poetry again.
When buying whiskey, get the large bottle.
‘Eddie.’ Dad calls up the stairs.
‘What?’
‘There’s someone on the phone for you. Jennifer.’
Jennifer? Do I know a Jennifer? Standing up seems too hard. Let alone going down the stairs and talking.
‘Tell her I’m not here. She can call my mobile.’
This seems to do the job, as I am left in peace. After a few minutes I remember that my mobile is in the fishpond. Never mind, she’s probably from the bank or Optus and I can do without those calls.
Despite my resolution, I can’t resist one last poetic utterance before I close my eyes.
Men with guitars
Should be put behind bars.
My ticket to Tokyo sits on my bookcase like a lifeline.
On Sunday morning Sally comes around for the next phase of my life coaching.
I am sitting on the couch outside when she arrives. Jay has gone out so the coast is clear. I swallow my Mars Bar and stuff the wrapper down the back of the cushions before she sees it. ‘I hope this isn’t going to be strenuous. I’m not in the mood for talking to strangers.’
She smiles. ‘Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m going to try something different. We’ll do it in your bedroom.’
‘Good.’ This sounds promising.
Sally is unusually dressed today. Her hair is tied back and she is wearing a neat skirt and a startlingly white T-shirt.
‘What’s with the primary-school teacher look?’ I ask.
‘I’m trying for a more professional persona. Like?’
‘Like.’ We climb the stairs. My room is fuggy as I have been spending a lot of time lurking in it with the curtains drawn.
‘You lie on the bed.’ Sal moves to the window, draws the curtains back and opens the window. ‘There, doesn’t that feel better already?’
I brush the chocolate wrappers off the bed and lie down. Lying down is good. ‘Are you going to give me a massage?’
‘You wish.’ Sally wheels my writing chair over to the bed and sits down beside me. She bends over and picks up a Cherry Ripe wrapper. ‘Bad sign, Ed. It’s lucky I came round to help you out. This is going to do you so much good.’
I’m not sure that I like the sound of that. ‘What are we doing exactly?’
Sally pulls a notebook out of her handbag. ‘I’ve been having a look back through my university notes. I think I’m ready to get into some Freudian therapy now.’
This is not very confidence inspiring. ‘Sure you don’t want to try a bit of brain surgery while you’re at it?’
‘You should be grateful. People pay a lot of money for this.’ Sally sounds reproachful.
‘Sorry.’
‘You’re getting this for free, remember?’ Sally riffles through her notes. ‘Right, just to bring you up to speed, you need to know that the personality is like an iceberg divided into three sections. Our conscious mind, the ego, is just the tip of the iceberg. Lurking beneath the water is the subconscious, made up of the id and the superego. Got that?’
‘Ego, id, superego. Got it.’
‘Freud says that when the ego loses control and the id goes on a rampage it causes anxiety.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘The purpose of this therapy is to find out what is going on in your subconscious, because your subconscious affects your behaviour. This is called making the unconscious, conscious.’
‘Did you pass this subject?’
‘Edie, I am a highly trained therapist. In fact, if I were you I would be careful what you say around me. For example, when you questioned my competence — that is called transference. You are projecting feelings about someone else onto your therapist. So, tell me, whose competence do you really doubt?’
‘My own?’
‘Aha.’ Sally’s pen scratches on paper. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’
‘That’s good, Sal. I like the way you say that.’
‘Do you?’ Sally smiles. ‘Thanks. I’m trying for a kind of pondering psychoanalyst thing. It’s working?’
‘Yeah, it’s good. I’d throw in the odd “I see, I see” too if I were you.’
‘Mmm, great idea.’ Sally’s pen scratches again. ‘Okay, lie back and relax. Don’t look at me.’ She wheels the chair back so I can’t see her without twisting my head. ‘There. Now I am a blank slate on which you can project your subconscious.’ She sounds like she is reading from lecture notes. ‘Now, Edie, some free association: what do you think of when I say…worms.’
‘Worms?’ I squeak. ‘Why worms?’
‘Vy not vorms?’ Sally puts on a German accent. ‘Vat are you trying to avoid?’
‘Have I ever spoken to you about worms?’
‘Only once. In an email you sent after you and Daniel broke up. You said, and I quote, “the worms came between us”.’
‘It was a typo. I meant words.’
‘Aha. A Freudian slip, then. Why do you think about worms when you mean words? I still sink ve should talk about vorms.’
‘I don’t want to talk about worms.’
‘I see, I see.’ Sally’s pen scratches. ‘I note that the patient does not want to talk about worms. Penis envy.’ These last words are murmured.
‘Pardon? What did you just say?’
‘Penis envy. Worms are a phallic symbol.’
‘What’s phallic about worms?’
‘In Freudian therapy anything long and slender is a penis.’
‘Sally, is this ethical, for you to be doing therapy on me? I mean, you’re my friend.’
‘Since when were you concerned with ethics? Okay, if you don’t want to talk about worms, tell me about your dreams.’ Sally’s notebook rustles. ‘Recurring dreams are particularly significant. They mean your subconscious is trying to work something out.’
‘Well, as it happens…’ I fill Sally in on my recurring nude hiking dream.
‘Strictly speaking,’ says Sal, ‘this is a nude tramping dream. They call it tramping in New Zealand, not hiking.’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘I will decide what is relevant. Now, let’s see…’ She leafs through her notes. ‘Nudity means that you have a fear of exposure. Does that resonate with you?’
‘Mmm.’
‘However, the fact that this man doesn’t worry about your nudity means that you may be unnecessarily concerned. Do you recognise him?’
‘I’m not sure that I’ve even looked at his face.’
‘Well, try and take a look at his face next time. Your subconscious is telling you that you don’t need to be scared of exposing yourself in front of him.’
‘Oh. Thanks. That is surprisingly useful. You’re worth more money.’
‘See,’ says Sal. ‘Psychoanalysis is easy. I just needed to get warmed up.’
Freudian analysis over, Sally and I chat for a while. ‘So what’s happening with you and Jay?’ she asks.
Hearing his name makes my chest ache. ‘We’re not talking.’
Sally frowns. ‘Why don’t you tell him that that you and Ralph never, you know…?’ Sally makes it seem so uncomplicated. She just forges ahead and obstacles vanish in her path, while for me they sprout like mushrooms.
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘It’s not like Jay and me were…in a relationship or anything. I’d end up sounding stupid. Nothing happened between us.’ That is not true — plenty happened, but now it seems hard to define.
Sally squeezes my hand. ‘Plenty of fish in the sea.’
But it’s never seemed that way to me.
Once Sally is gone I open another Mars Bar then Google ‘fear of worms’ . There is even a name for it: vermiphobia. Freud says that vermiphobia is related to a fear of death and dying. Freud says a lot of weird stuff. At least it isn’t fear of penises. Sally had me worried there for a while.
I finish my chocolate. Talking to Sally has cheered me up a little, but not enough. I think perhaps I need to talk to someone who knows what it is to suffer. I drum my fingers on the keyboard. Yes, the time has come to enter into an email correspondence with my beloved Nigerian, Philip.
Do what you want, says the bonsai in a weary tone. I know you will anyway.
I decide to take that as an endorsement. My fingers race over the keyboard.
Dear Beloved,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you Beloved, as you have me. Although I have never replied to your emails I have read them with interest. It must be very sad for you that I am the only person you can trust. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to take care of your fortune but I am happy to talk to you if you need a friend.
I am in need of a friend myself. I fear that my best friend, Sally, is exploiting me for her own ends and I think that I might be in love with my uncle-in-law. Does this kind of thing happen much in Nigeria? My uncle-in-law now seems to hate me due to a misunderstanding and is in a very bad mood. You and I may have much in common in our misery.
Be blessed my beloved,
Sooty Beaumont
I check my emails about twenty times over the next couple of hours, but there is no reply. This is discouraging. I had been sure that Philip, if no one else, would be pleased to hear from me. Men — there’s no working them out.
On Sunday night when I go to water the bonsai I see that it has not one leaf left on its spindly branches. I contemplate it for some time, then pick it up and place it in my rubbish bin. I don’t know if I am happy or sad to see the end of it. I have a strange feeling that, given time, I might have grown to like it. An ache in my chest reminds me that I haven’t filled out my pain chart today. I pick up my notebook and open it at the chart, click my pen open and shut and open again, start to write, then scribble it out. Then, on a sudden impulse, I tear out the chart, rip it into little pieces and scatter it like confetti over the bonsai. I have lost interest in my research.
I look at the brittle skeleton in my bin and decide that a speech is in order. ‘Vale bonsai. I didn’t like you much, but you were a good tree in your own way, if a little harsh and judgmental. I salute your elegance, your spirit, your unerring judgment and your stoicism in the face of adversity.’
I wonder if I should let Daniel know that his tree has gone to better pastures. I decide not.
On Monday, I decide that I must take the crab between the pincers as it were. I cannot delay telling Professor Brownlow about my impending departure any longer. I stop by his desk on my way in and give a light cough.
Professor Brownlow’s glasses glint in the fluorescent lights as he looks up. I am glad he is wearing his glasses — this would be so much worse if I had to gaze into his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, but…’ I chew my lip.
Professor Brownlow waits.
‘I’m leaving on Friday.’
He cocks his head. ‘Leaving?’
I nod. ‘I’m going to Japan. I’m going to get a job teaching English.’
Professor Brownlow frowns. ‘This isn’t because of…’ he taps his fingers, ‘the motel-room misunderstanding?’
‘No. I bought the ticket before that. I need a change. Everything’s been a bit strange here. The writing, and…other stuff.’
Professor Brownlow takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose.
I want to scream, Don’t do that, don’t make it any harder than it has to be.
‘The young man who was here the other night?’ he asks.
I nod. ‘That’s one of the things.’
‘It wasn’t because of the fracas in the laboratory, was it?’
I shrug. ‘Partly. Maybe. But, you know, if that’s the way he is, it’s better to find out sooner rather than later, right?’
Professor Brownlow sighs. ‘Have you tried explaining it to him?’
I shake my head. ‘No. I can’t talk to him. I don’t even want to. He’s turned into a different person.’
‘Oh,’ says Professor Brownlow. ‘That’s hard to deal with, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it is. But the Tokyo thing; that was planned ages ago. And anyway, I don’t want my life to be ruled by other people anymore. I’m just going to let it go.’
‘We only need to practise letting go,’ says Professor Brownlow.
I smile. The depths of Professor Brownlow’s literary knowledge astound me. ‘You read Rilke too. For a zoology lecturer you’d make a good literature teacher.’
‘Zoology is the what. Literature is the why. By the way, did that woman, Jennifer, catch up with you?’
‘Jennifer?’
‘Black hair, like this.’ Professor Brownlow gestures with his hands to indicate one side higher than the other.
‘Oh, her.’ I remember now that Djennifer was heading for the lab the other night, I assumed in search of crab erotica. ‘No. What did she want?’
‘I’m not sure. I ran into her in the corridor as I was leaving. She was looking for you. It was all so hectic…’
‘That’s one way of describing it.’
Professor Brownlow smiles. ‘That strange man was a big fan of yours, wasn’t he?’
I roll my eyes. ‘I suppose Djennifer wants an autograph too.’
Professor Brownlow looks doubtful. ‘Maybe. She said something about the divine feminine. I didn’t know what she meant.’
‘Oh. Well, I guess she’ll find me.’
‘I hope you’re going to take the opportunity to expand your knowledge of Japanese literature while you’re over there.’
‘I might.’
Professor Brownlow gives me a long look.
‘Okay, I will. Definitely. Can’t wait.’
He smiles. ‘There’ll be a test.’
‘You mean I can’t fob you off with Nori Toyota?’
He shakes his head. ‘You’ll be back, won’t you? I’ll keep your job open for you.’
‘I don’t know.’ A stab of loneliness pierces me at the thought of Tokyo. I wonder if my Where is the toilet? conversation starter will come in handy there. Toire wa doko desu ka? Sadly, my limited Japanese means this line is unlikely to lead to a rewarding chat.
Tokyo. Thirty-five million people and not one of them I know. Sally would say that’s thirty-five million opportunities to get to know someone new.
But I am not Sally.