Chapter 4

Beth

‘Urgh,’ I grunted as we pulled away from my parents’ house. ‘Imagine thinking that redefining horoscopes would somehow change who we are as people.’

‘I know, darling,’ Gran sighed. She seemed tired.

‘Are you okay?’

I sometimes forgot that Gran was eighty-two and that slowing down was probably something that came with the territory.

‘Oh yes, sweetie,’ she responded, her singsong chime returning. ‘I’m fine. Just a little tired. Actually, that reminds me. Can we stop at the pharmacy on the way home? I have to get a script filled.’

‘A script? Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, pet. Everything is peachy.’ She swatted the air with her hand as if shooing away my concerns. ‘My doctor is just tweaking my blood pressure medication. Nothing to worry about; I’m fit as a fiddle.’

Indeed she was. She’d aged in appearance after my grandpa died, though; her face became gaunter, and her hair greyer. But she made a point of keeping busy. She increased her volunteer hours at the herbarium, made jam from every imaginable fruit and did a short course in silversmithing. She often referenced her favourite author, Gertrude Stein, who said, ‘We are always the same age inside.’ Based on that, I’d have said Gran’s inner self was in her mid-twenties.

I pulled into the car park of the small shopping centre that was halfway between our two houses.

‘I won’t be a jiffy, darling,’ she called back to me as she took off through the automatic doors while I was still climbing out of the passenger seat.

The centre was typical of those found dotted in suburbs all over the country. It had the standard line-up of shops: a bottle shop, pizza shop, bakery, beautician, supermarket, newsagent, chemist, barber and health food shop. It also had a multi-function shop where you could get keys cut, shoes mended or drop off your dry cleaning.

I meandered over to inspect the offerings on the discounted book table outside the newsagent. I thumbed through a copy of Cooking for One: cuisine for singles; glanced at Practising Pilates, which boasted a free stretch band; and smirked at the stack of untouched street directories. Who was upgrading their street directories these days? Then, the illustrations of zodiac signs and the Grecian-style font on the cover of Science of the Stars: the 12 zodiac signs caught my attention. I turned over the book to read the blurb:

Are we the masters of our own destiny? Is our future determined by fate? What does your birth date say about you? This is the must-have guide to understanding the 12 zodiac signs and how the planets impact our lives.

Too bad for all the people who purchased Science of the Stars, even at the discounted price of $19.95, as the entire book was now defunct if Jarrah was right about NASA’s ‘discovery’ of the new constellation.

I browsed through the magazines and decided to treat myself to a copy of National Geographic. See, Jarrah, I thought, I can be spontaneous. A magazine hadn’t been in that week’s budget, but I bought it anyway.

‘Do you want a ticket in tonight’s draw too?’ the elderly gentleman behind the counter asked as I handed the magazine over to be scanned. He pointed to a sign that was emblazoned with ‘$60 million jackpot’ and decorated with streamers and balloons.

My first thought was that surely everyone knew that the higher the jackpot amount, the more people who bought a ticket, so your odds of winning were actually lowered. My second was of Jarrah.

‘What the hell,’ I said, loudly enough to surprise us both. ‘I’ll take one.’

I paid, tucked the ticket into a pocket of my wallet and made a mental note to adjust my budget spreadsheet to reflect the unexpected purchases.

~

As I stepped over the threshold of my apartment after dropping Gran home, a wave of relief washed over me. It was good to be home. I felt safe in this space, away from the clutter and chatter of the world, where everything was exactly as I wanted it.

Where my parents’ house was eclectic, my house was ordered. Their walls were bestrewn with ‘statement’ art in various shapes, sizes and colours (some my mother’s, and others by artists they admired), while my taste in art was minimalist to non-existent. Their rooms were cluttered with odd bits of furniture from the side of the road; my two-bedroom apartment was sparsely furnished. The fabrics that covered my parents’ cushions, bedspreads and windows were a helter-skelter of patterns and colours. In contrast, I had chosen upholstery in neutral, calming tones and with subtle textures.

I’d shared a bedroom with Jarrah until I was about twelve, where I’d lived among her chaos and had a front-row seat to the spectrum of emotions she’d catapulted through daily.

The final straw came when a putrid smell materialised in our room and progressively worsened over several days. Jarrah poked around superficially to find the source of the pungent aroma, but failed to uncover it. After several days, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I delved into her piles of clothes. I found a partially decayed baby possum, which I assumed had been brought in by one of the neighbourhood cats Jarrah had befriended and encouraged to come into our house.

I picked up the possum in one of her T-shirts, stormed into the lounge room and, in between sobs and dry retches, announced to my parents I was leaving home to live on my own. I thrust the putrid possum at Mum, who then agreed to cordon off a section of the enclosed sleep-out veranda at the back of the house. I was delighted. Finally, I had my own room, away from Jarrah, her drama and her dead possums.

This was my sacred space until I answered an ad for a ‘clean and neat housemate to live with two responsible and studious engineering students’ in my first year of university. The shared house was within walking distance of campus, and I lived there for three years. My housemates – Tamara and Jess – lived up to their advertised promise, and we enjoyed a harmonious home life based on mutual consideration and cleaning schedules.

After I graduated and got a job at the council, I moved into a tiny bedsit. I lived there for five years while I saved for a deposit for my unit. Despite my ample salary, this involved a lot of scrimping and sacrifice; while my peers were enjoying brunches of smashed avo and overseas working holidays, I was living to a stringent budget. Admittedly, being fiscally conservative was made easier because my calendar wasn’t exactly overrun with social engagements. Having endured a lifetime of my parents’ parties, I was never keen to spend time or money on drunken nights and the inevitable hungover mornings.

In an attempt to pay off my unit as soon as possible, I had continued to maintain a tight financial plan. I budgeted for a monthly catch-up with my friends from university, who knew better than to include me in their schedule of buying rounds. And, occasionally, my colleagues from the council went for a Friday-night drink, but I made my exit after one or two beers, or when the twenty-somethings from waste management started talking about getting everyone to do tequila shots – whichever came first.

I could usually absorb other costs incurred due to socialising (such as dinners for friends’ birthdays, or wedding and engagement presents) in the $30 I allowed each week for ‘miscellaneous incidentals’. And while it had been eons since I’d dated, splitting the bill ensured I wasn’t left shouldering the cost of someone else’s meal if they’d opted to stray from the evening specials. Jarrah – whose money trickled through her fingers – accused me of being stingy. But I couldn’t have cared less, because when I was in my unit, which I could afford because I was stingy, I felt at home in my own life.