Mum’s sitting up in bed, staring out the window. She still has the drain but the IV stand is gone and the beeping monitor is switched off, and she’s wearing one of her own nighties instead of the hospital gown. All in all, she looks much more like Mum than the frail patient I saw yesterday.
“Hello, darling,” she says when she realises I’m standing at the door. “Isn’t it a glorious day? I told your father, when I’m better we’re going to take up bushwalking on the weekends – days like this are too lovely to spend indoors.”
When I’m better. She sounds so sure of it, so convinced that it’s a matter of when, not if.
“Where’s Dad?”
Mum puts on the chatty voice she uses whenever she impersonates me. “Hi, Mum. How are you? Did you survive the revolting mush that passes for dinner in this place?” Even less than twenty-four hours after surgery she has the energy to deliver a sarcastic lesson in good manners.
“Sorry. How are you? And where’s Dad? He left ages before me. He should’ve been here by now.” If he’s been in an accident because I let him drive when I knew he was acting weird, I’ll never forgive myself. And neither will Mum.
“He’s gone to find a vase and get some milk for my muesli. Why are you so worried?”
Relief drains the adrenaline that’s been pumping through my veins. “It’s just that there were some real maniacs on the road this morning. It must be a full moon or something.”
Mum looks sceptical. “I think the moon actually has to be out to have that effect. Anyway, he made it here just fine.” She pats the bed next to her, indicating that I should sit down. I lean on the edge of the mattress, trying not to touch her in case I hurt her. “How are things at home? Is everything still in one piece?”
“Yes,” I answer, because despite the hairy soap and furballs and fried chicken dinner, nothing is actually broken.
My monosyllabic answer doesn’t put Mum off her line of questioning. She’s used to it from our daily post-school interrogation. “And how are you?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“‘Fine’ like you were when Dan ran away, or ‘fine’ like you were when he came back?”
“Do you have to bring Dan into everything? I do have other things in my life, you know.” Mum looks hurt and I instantly regret saying it. What kind of person tells off someone in a hospital bed? “Sorry,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes focused on the pattern woven into her hospital-issue blanket. “I didn’t sleep very well, that’s all.”
Bad choice of words. Mum flies into Concerned Mother mode. “Is something wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”
“There you are! I was beginning to worry about you on your bike – the traffic was awful this morning.” Dad has a vase of sunflowers in one hand and a bowl of muesli in the other. He’s grinning and holding them up triumphantly, as if he’s just magicked them out of thin air.
“Fray was just telling me how well you’re all getting on without me,” says Mum, sliding her hand out to squeeze mine gently.
I get to Switch at 11.05, having narrowly avoided being sideswiped by two buses, a truck and a minibus from the Parkville Senior Citizens’ Centre. There’s sweat running down my back, partly from busting a gut to get here, partly because it’s already eleventy degrees in the sun, and all I can think of is a long cold drink. I’d meant to leave the hospital in plenty of time to take the shadier long route but “I have to go and spend the day shopping with my friends” felt like such a lame excuse for cutting my visit short that I stayed with Mum until the last minute.
There’s a rapping on the cafe window behind me as I chain my bike. I turn to see Siouxsie pointing to her watch and then at the bus stop across the road. I nod. Yes, I know we’re catching the bus to go shopping.
Jay is at the counter when I open the door and step into the deliciously air-conditioned cafe. “Here she is, and just in time, too – I sold my last brownie ten minutes ago.”
I hand him the container. “Dried cherry and almond. I’m afraid it’s a couple short of a dozen. Ziggy got to them.”
Jay laughs and hits the No Sale key to open the cash register. “I guess he’s only human, after all,” he says, holding out a twenty-dollar note.
I look at the orange bill, wondering if he expects me to give him change, since it’s not a full batch.
After a few seconds, Jay pushes the money into my hand. “Think of it as a bonus. From what I hear, you’re in for some serious shopping today.”
“If we ever get there,” says Siouxsie, chivvying Steph and Vicky past me, towards the door. “The bus is due in two minutes and if we miss it, it’s a twenty-minute wait for the next one.”
“Can I just get a glass of water first?” I ask. “It’s really hot out there.”
Steph pours a glass from the jug on the counter and hands it to me. Siouxsie looks like she’s about to pop a vein.
“Take it with you,” says Jay. “You can bring the glass back later.”
“I’ll just drink it quickly.” I lift the glass to my lips, but Siouxsie’s already halfway out the door.
“The bus is coming!” she shrieks.
Steph and Vicky bundle me out in front of them while Siouxsie races across the road to hail the bus. I cover the glass with my hand, but a lot of it sloshes out, splashing down my leg.
“You can’t bring that with you,” says the driver when I go to get on.
“But–”
“No buts,” he says, pointing to the No Food or Drinks sign above the windscreen. “Tip it out or get off.”
If I was by myself, I’d get off, but my friends are making pleading faces from the back of the bus so I turn and pour the water into the gutter. The driver smiles smugly as he hands me my ticket.
I make my way up the aisle, pretending not to notice the other passengers giving me what-kind-of-idiot-carries-a-glass-around? stares.
“What a fascist,” says Siouxsie when I finally get to my seat.
“Actually,” says Vicky, “he’s more of a petty dictator than a fascist. Fascists believe–”
“So, what’s the plan, Sooz?” asks Steph, who hates talking politics even more than I do.
Siouxsie counts off our destinations on her hand. “First we’ll hit the Old Dogs’ Home in Kingston for some classy designer cast-offs. Then we’ll head to Fran’s Frock Emporium for some serious foraging, and if we’ve got any time or money left, we can do the St Vinnie’s warehouse on the way back.”
When we pass the Welcome to Kingston sign Sooz presses the bell for the next stop. “Let the adventure begin.”
The Old Dogs’ Home Charity Store is more like a boutique than an op shop; they definitely have a better quality of unwanted stuff in Kingston.
The woman behind the counter glances up from her book and eyes us with suspicion. She casts a pointed look at the security camera above the door, as if she’s already preparing to identify us in a police line-up. She nods at the empty glass in my hand. “Is that from here?”
Given that I’m barely even inside the door, let alone the fact that the homewares section is at the back of the store, it’s such a stupid question that I don’t know what to say. I shake my head.
“Well, you can’t bring it in.”
“Um … okay.” I’ve only brought a small shoulder bag with me, in anticipation of being loaded down with shopping bags at the end of the day. The bag has just enough room for my wallet, keys and lip balm; it’s not designed for carrying glassware. “Can I leave it on the counter for five minutes?”
The woman sighs as if I’ve just asked her to babysit triplets. “I can’t be responsible for shoppers’ possessions. I’m a volunteer, you know – I don’t get paid for this.”
My friends don’t seem to have noticed that I’m not browsing the Jackets and Slacksuits rack with them. Siouxsie is holding up a pink-and-yellow sequined jacket and nodding at Vicky, who shakes her head vigorously and turns her attention to the black section. Undeterred, Siouxsie tries to give the jacket to Steph, who laughs out loud. The fifth time the volunteer looks up from her book to make sure my glass and I haven’t moved, I can’t take it any more.
Outside it’s even hotter than before. This is not good shopping weather. It’s the perfect day for a ride by the river, where you get a breeze off the water. Or for lying on a rug in the Botanic Gardens, watching the shadows of leaves flicker across Dan’s face …
“What are you doing out here?” asks Steph. “We thought you were in the change room all this time. Siouxsie’s been in there chatting to someone for the last five minutes.” She goes back into the shop before I can explain, returning with Siouxsie and Vicky.
“I wish you’d said you weren’t coming in,” says Siouxsie. “It was pretty embarrassing when that woman finally came out of the cubicle and told me she only liked one of the dresses I’d passed over the door to her.” She turns to look inside, where a middle-aged woman is chatting with the volunteer. The woman holds up an emerald green cocktail dress and gives Siouxsie the thumbs up. “At least someone appreciates my taste.”
Before we part the beaded curtain over the door of Fran’s Frock Emporium, Vicky takes my glass and puts it in her backpack. Siouxsie steers me towards the middle of the shop and instructs me to go through the first large rack of dresses while she begins her search at the other end.
The bulging clothes rack in front of me is daunting. The metal hangers are so tightly packed that there’s no way to inspect anything without pulling it out, and while the sign above the rack says Fabulous Frocks that’s as far as the classification goes. If only the dresses were arranged by size. Or era. Even by colour would be some help. I flick through the hangers as best I can, skipping past taffeta formal dresses, wedding gowns and anything that Mum might have worn in her younger days.
After fifteen minutes I’ve reached the middle of the rack empty-handed. Siouxsie has got to the same point, but she’s holding an armful of dresses and has more thrown over her shoulder.
“Nothing?” she asks in disbelief. “You must’ve seen something you liked.”
I shake my head. “Nothing in my size, anyway.”
“First rule of op-shopping, Fray: if you like it, pick it up, even if you’re not sure it’ll fit you. If you leave it on the rack and someone else gets it, you’ll be sorry.” She pulls the dresses from her shoulder. “Lucky for you I’m on the case. Try these.”
Grateful not to have to trawl through the other half of the rack, I take the dresses and head for one of the two curtained change rooms at the back of the shop. I take off my jeans and T-shirt and slip on the first dress, a slinky black halter-neck. After a short struggle with the zip, I manage to get it done up and step back to study at myself in the mirror. Even with my bra on underneath, there’s a lot of boobage (as Steph calls cleavage) happening. There’s no way Mum will let me out of the house on New Year’s Eve wearing this; I can already hear the lecture about respecting my body and dressing for my age.
The moment I imagine Mum’s voice, I feel guilty. Guilty that I’m having mean thoughts about her. Guilty that I’m out shopping with my friends instead of spending time with her. Guilty that I’m not looking after things at home like I promised I would. Guilty that I’ve got boobage and she only has boob.
“Have you got it on yet?” Vicky asks through the curtain that separates our cubicles. When I don’t answer she lifts the curtain from her side. “Fray?”
I lift my head from my knees, where it’s been resting since I slumped to the floor. I’m still clutching the too-sexy dress, wearing only my bra and undies, Dan’s plectrum necklace and Mum’s locket.
Vicky’s eyes widen. “I’ll get Sooz.”