Tuesday night Poppy put a scalpel through her hand.
She didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t an angsty teenage self-harm thing. Well, not entirely. She was being stupid though. Stupid and self-destructive. Unfortunately, she had never been great with blood.
She’d been sitting on the floor in the lounge room and using the scalpel and a cutting mat to chop up some old photos for an album she was putting together for her mum and dad’s anniversary. Her half-eaten dinner was on the carpet next to her – an open pizza box and a foil-wrapped stick of garlic bread. She was listening to the soundtrack from one of her favourite old films – Dirty Dancing – it was mellow enough to enjoy while she sipped on red wine and worked on the photos, but upbeat enough that Annalise wouldn’t start banging on her ceiling to tell her to cheer up. She was feeling good. The previous night they’d won another game of soccer. Elle had put Poppy back into goals where she felt at home again, while Annalise had been returned to striker and scored twice.
She took a break to scroll through Facebook on her phone and that’s when she saw him. Garret. It was his face that caught her eye first. Obviously, they were no longer friends on Facebook, so she wasn’t used to coming across his familiar features in her newsfeed. There was the initial shock just at seeing him again – his round, cheery face, beaming out of the screen at her. And then there was the slow realisation as she took in the rest of the photograph. The beige walls, the monitoring equipment. The hospital bed. She knew what this was.
And then she saw Karleen. Red-faced and sweaty. Strands of her curly hair sticking to her cheeks. A smile of pure unadulterated joy. Wrapped up in a pink-and-yellow striped blanket in her arms was a squishy, wrinkled baby. All scrunched up eyes and mottled skin.
Why? Was her first thought. Why I am seeing this! Why do I have to know that the baby is here?
It was because they’d posted the photo publicly and a mutual friend had commented.
Okay, so what is this that I’m feeling? Why does it feel as though my body’s just been coated in dry ice? I mean, it can’t be jealousy, can it? Because I didn’t want that. I don’t. And I don’t even want him anymore. I’m sure of it. I don’t! So why am I reacting like this? What’s wrong with me?
She started doing the calculations. What was the date today? Wasn’t it far too soon for their baby to have arrived? That was why she was freaking out – because she wasn’t ready. When did they split up? When did she arrive home to find the two of them waiting smugly at her kitchen table? How many months had it been? She counted on her fingers and her brain struggled to function, struggled to list the months in order. January, February, March. She chanted in that sing-song tune she’d memorised as a child when she was first learning the names of the months. But eventually her mind slipped into gear and she had her answer. Karleen was already pregnant when they told her. And she would have been far enough along to have known. In fact, she would have been close to four months along. Was she showing? Had Poppy been so distracted that she hadn’t even noticed a change to her friend’s lanky body? Four months. The exact amount of time Karleen had said they’d been seeing one another. So, he’d knocked her up on day one, had he?
How could they not have told her? Hadn’t they owed her that much? Hadn’t they owed her the whole truth?
She tried to pick up her glass to gulp down some wine and that’s when she noticed how much her hands were shaking. The red liquid sloshed over the edge of the glass and stained the carpet. She looked at the small pink marks and slowly, carefully, she got to her feet. She walked over to the kitchen bench and put down the wineglass. She searched through the cupboard until she found baking soda and then she took it back, got down on her hands and knees and shook it over the stains. At first it sprinkled. A light dusting. But then she shook harder, until several small mounds of white powder formed.
She stared at them. She dipped a finger into one. Watched the small pile crumble. Pressed her finger into it. Focused in on the sensation of the cool, soft powder on her skin.
She spoke out loud to the empty room. ‘But . . . but why do they have to look so happy?’ She hated the sound of her whingeing voice, but for crying out loud, they shouldn’t get to be happy, should they? They broke her heart. The both of them. They tore up her life, her world. They weren’t supposed to be all full of joy. They were supposed to be miserable. They were supposed to fight with one another. What happened to karma?
And what about trust? Shouldn’t there have been trust issues between the two of them now? Once a cheater, always a cheater, that’s what they say. They built their relationship on the back of deception. Plus! – and she was on a roll now – why didn’t they at least have the decency to play out their disgustingly happy life behind closed doors? Why did they have to flaunt it out in the open, right where she could see it? Right where they knew she’d end up seeing it?
And then there was wine. So much wine. All the wine. She gulped it down knowing she’d be vomiting in the morning. At some point, after the bottle was empty and her vision was doubling, she pulled up a chair at her dining table, opened up her laptop and clicked back through to Facebook. She went to her happy place, NOP. But this time she wasn’t looking for friendly cheerful posts with positive reinforcement about her life choices. She was looking for the opportunity to tell some hard truths.
Who the hell else is DONE with the mothers of the world thinking they run the fucking joint? I’m talking about the women who get to park right next to the entrance at the shops in those special ‘parent’s parking spots’ just because they have a bloody pram. And they lose their shit if you park there for two seconds to grab a bottle of wine from the bottle-o or whatever (which may or may not have happened to me the other day). Why on earth do they even need those spots??! Or the women who think it’s fine to let their kids scream in the middle of a restaurant when you’re paying good money for a nice fucking meal and all you want to do is hold a conversation with your friends. Or the women who you work with who think they have the right to use their kids as an excuse to prioritise their own time above yours. Because I’m totally fed up with it. I’m sick of being nice and understanding and putting up with them judging me for my life choices. Ladies, I am PISSED.
The comments rolled in. She’d struck a chord with a lot of other members.
Nicole – YES!! Me too. That’s why I love this group so much. Because it’s the only place I can completely escape all of that crap.
Catriona – Spot on. I’ve always wondered why shopping centres put in those ‘parent’ parking spots. I mean spots for people with wheelchairs I get. Spots for the elderly I get. But being a parent isn’t a disability, is it? It’s a choice. And my mum never needed a designated spot to get me and my brother out of the car and into the shops. Actually she always joked that having a spot far away was best cause that was her only chance at fitting in some exercise!
There were the odd comments where women weren’t quite as on board.
I don’t know, said Bette, I think you’re being a bit harsh? I think it is pretty tough being a mum. Just because I never wanted to be one doesn’t mean I don’t empathise with them.
While as usual, Jess only wanted to change the subject. Who cares! Seriously, there are more important/fun things to worry about than a bunch of mothers who have nothing to do with us. For example, I’m thinking of creating a NOP spin-off group for other creative, open-minded women who want to exchange amateur erotic fiction. Is that something others would be up for?
But for the most part, people wanted to pile on. They started to tell their own stories about dealing with the parents in their lives:
Marns – My area manager didn’t finish her work ’cause she left early to get her baby from daycare so I had to pick up the slack again this week. And she actually gets paid MORE than me.
Carla – Kid at my local cafe threw up on my shoes last week, the kid’s mum was too busy fussing over her poor little diddums to bother apologising to me. And they were expensive shoes!
Dianna – My gym has started letting mums bring their toddler into the morning yoga classes if they can’t get them into the crèche. It’s very nice for them and all – but it makes it a bit hard for me to centre my chakra when a high-pitched voice starts wailing that they’re bored and they want a milkshake.
The posts filled Poppy with cruel hard pleasure. She gulped down her wine as she relished in the hatred they were all sharing for these nameless women. She put up another post:
So why don’t we do something about it, girls? I challenge all of you to stand up for yourself next time a mother is using her ‘mum status’ to get away with something – you know, leaving work early, disrupting a yoga class or letting her kid ruin a nice pair of shoes or whatever. I want you to DO something about it! Don’t let the mum get away with that shit. Stand up for yourself! I dare you!
It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Later, when she’d run out of things to write on NOP, she came across a video on YouTube. She was mindlessly jumping from article to video to whatever mind-numbing thing she could find on the internet, trying to take her mind off Garret and Karleen, when she found it. It was mesmerising to her drunken brain. In the video, a woman had placed her hand on the table in front of her, spread out her fingers, and was stabbing the space between them with a knife. Slowly at first and then faster and faster.
Poppy knew it was a terrible idea to try it out for herself, but she did anyway.
The embarrassing thing is she hadn’t even sped up yet when she plunged the scalpel right between the knuckles of her ring finger and her middle finger. At first she just stared at it, the handle wobbling as it stuck out of the back of her hand. There was no blood, and for just a moment – no pain. There was only a strange sensation of pressure. And then she pulled it out.
For another few seconds, it still didn’t bleed. Then a small bubble of dark blood formed, and her brain caught up with her nervous system and there was a rush of pain. She panicked. The blood continued to bubble up out of the neat slice in her skin. It bubbled up and it dripped over. The more it flowed, the more her stomach turned. And the pain worsened. She had a bad feeling she’d hit something important. A vein? A nerve ending? An artery? She pushed back her chair and stood unsteadily. She ought to get something. A Band-Aid? Not big enough. A bandage then. But did she have any? She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that hung above her dining table. Earlier her cheeks had been flushed pink due to the alcohol. Now her face had turned sallow. There was a slick sheen of sweat across her brow. She tried to swallow but her throat felt as though it had closed over. The last glass of wine she’d downed at speed threatened to stage a return. Her brain clouded over and she reached out to grasp the back of the chair for balance but missed, her fingers closed around air. She tipped over, hitting the floor with a hard thud that jarred her shoulder. Her world turned black.
A few minutes later she opened her eyes to see Annalise’s face swimming into view above her.
‘Whatcha doing?’ Poppy asked curiously, her voice coming out thick and slurred.
‘That’s an excellent question,’ Annalise replied. ‘See, Tuesdays are my night to myself. So I’m not overly happy to be here. But I heard a loud noise from my ceiling. And at first I thought, whatevs, it’s probably nothing. But then I called your mobile and you didn’t answer and so . . . here I am. Checking on you. Glad you gave me your spare key. Honey, what the hell have you done to yourself?’
Poppy tried to sit up and take a look but a rush of dizziness forced her back down. Her head was heavy and her body felt sluggish. What did I do? She tried to remember.
She closed her eyes and an image of the scalpel sticking out of the back of her hand appeared. Ah, that’s right. She opened them again and lifted her arm so she could take a look at the damage. It looked like Annalise had wrapped the wound up in something. A rag? A tea towel? Whatever it was, it was stained red.
‘I think I fainted . . . not great with blood.’
‘I think we have to take you in to emergency,’ Annalise said. ‘Or at least the medical centre down the road. I can’t get the bleeding to stop, I think you hit something important. Your hand is shaking. Can you straighten your fingers?’
Poppy attempted to comply.
‘Two of your fingers are still bent. That can’t be a good sign. Can you sit up, slowly?’
‘I think so.’
With Annalise’s help Poppy managed to carefully make her way into a sitting position. ‘Hey, Lise,’ said Poppy as she paused to stop the room from spinning. ‘Why are you always the one taking care of me?’
‘Because I never need help.’
‘But you must . . . sometimes. Everyone needs help sometimes.’
‘How about we focus on the injured one just now? Come on, let’s get you up on your feet.’
Annalise put an arm around Poppy’s waist and supported her as they made their way out of the apartment. In the lift, Poppy tried again. ‘One of these days, you’ll be the one in trouble. And when that day comes, I want you to come to me, you hear me?’ Poppy leaned in close, attempting to make meaningful eye contact with her friend, but Annalise clapped her hand over her mouth, pinching her nose at the same time, and turned away. ‘Holy shit, Poppy!’ Her voice came out muffled and nasal. ‘How much did you drink? Your breath could start a fire.’
‘Couldn’t. Would need something to ig—ignite it.’
‘You know what I mean.’
The lift shuddered to a stop on the ground floor and before they stepped out, Poppy paused. All three walls inside the elevator were covered in mirrors, which meant Poppy could see both of them reflected, over and over. Hundreds upon hundreds of Poppy’s and Annalise’s, repeated forever. Each and every Poppy a drunken, dishevelled mess. Each and every Annalise a composed and capable friend, taking care of her charge. Poppy lunged away from Annalise and pressed her face against the glass. ‘In one of these . . . just one, I’m in there looking after you.’
‘Bullshit.’ Annalise took her by the arm and pulled her out into the foyer as the doors tried to close on them. ‘In every single one of them, I’ve got your back.’
They ended up cabbing it the short distance to the local medical centre, where the on-call doctor was irritatingly good-looking. It was humiliating to explain how she’d come to stab herself with a scalpel to a square-jawed, blue-eyed Adonis. And she was still a little inebriated, which meant her attempts at trying to sound sensible and sophisticated were failing miserably.
Luckily she had Annalise by her side ready and willing to humiliate Poppy for her.
‘So it’s like this,’ Annalise explained, ‘my girl here got herself sloshed, saw a pic of her ex on Facebook with the new partner, all happy shiny families in hospital with their new baby and she —’
Poppy cut her off. ‘I wasn’t sloshed first,’ she said, as though it was highly relevant. ‘I got sloshed after I saw the pic.’
‘Sorry, of course,’ said Annalise, ‘and then she decided to try the knife between the fingers trick. Why did you do that again?’ she asked Poppy.
‘Video of it came up on YouTube. Looked like fun.’
‘Fun?’ said the doctor. ‘Not my idea of fun.’
‘Yeah, well, we all got different ideas of fun, don’t we?’ said Annalise. ‘Maybe yours is dressing up in your wife’s knickers and bra and a feather boa on the weekend, but I wouldn’t judge you for it if it was.’
For a moment the doctor looked horrified, then he burst out laughing. ‘All right,’ he said, pretending to wave a white flag in defeat, ‘no judging here. And no, I don’t dress up in my wife’s knickers,’ he added, ‘because I don’t have a wife.’ He winked at the both of them. ‘But a feather boa sounds like fun.’
The rest of the consultation was a lot more relaxed, at least until he finished his examination and told Poppy he was concerned she might have suffered some long-term damage.
‘Long term?’ she asked. ‘Seriously? But I’m a goalie, I need my hands.’
‘It’s okay,’ Annalise interrupted, ‘Next Monday night is a bye for soccer, so you’ve got more time to recover.’
But the doctor shook his head. ‘Long term is well beyond a fortnight. There’s no way you’re using that hand to catch a soccer ball for the next few weeks, maybe even months. You’ve ruptured an extensor tendon and they’re not quick to heal. I can stitch you up now with a local, it’s a fairly straight-forward procedure with a small incision so I can locate the ends of the cut tendon and reunite them but it’s followed by a lengthy period of rehabilitation. How long? I can’t say for sure.’
‘Elle’s going to kill me.’