Hindsight Read online

  “Now, you can have your son back. As much as you fill my heart with love, I don’t want you filling my apron with what’s in that nappy, dear boy,” she says as she tickles his fleshy cheeks. He smiles at her as though she is Santa and giggles.

  Oh no! This is my first shitty nappy, my first cloth shitty nappy. Oh man, this is going to suck. We say our quick goodbyes as we walk out onto the street where she grabs his soft, squishy face in her hands and kisses him loudly. He bursts into more squeaky giggles and waves at her as we walk home, leaving a trail of poo scent behind us.

  My dreams tonight had better not be invaded by the sight of this pooey nappy. The only thing that saves me from vomiting is the knowledge that there is no one else to clean it up. Poo is one thing, but vomit and poo? Forget it. Soaking the nappy, as instructed by Lily, will, hopefully, return it to a pristine state without me having to touch it.

  After taking Cal for a quick shower, and feeding him a Vegemite sandwich and a cup of milk, my mind returns to the events surrounding my father’s passing. It’s a passage of darkness in my life. The only thing that is vivid in my mind is the day he died, like it was yesterday. It leaves me feeling as though I’m trying to tread water but being constantly dragged down by a lead weight attached to my soul. It was the day I learnt that a day that starts like any other can end up being the worst day of your life.

  Off on another regional sales tour, Dad wasn’t due back until the day after my tenth birthday, but had promised to finish his trip early in order to be home on my special day and to give me the new charm for my bracelet. The anticipation was crippling. I missed him like crazy, his warmth, his cuddles, his smile, his laugh. Each night he was home he would sit on my bed and tell me a bedtime story purely from his imagination. They were full of adventures, starring a little girl called Juliette who could fly with dragons, swim with mermaids and capture the heart of the bravest, most handsome prince in every kingdom.

  Even when he left the room, his aftershave would stay with me, wrapping me in a cloud of Dad. It was on my pillow and doona cover from where he would lay down next to me as we chatted about our day. Never once did he speak harshly to me or make me feel as though I had disappointed him. After a week of my mother’s objection to me, my father’s presence was a light from Heaven, allowing me to breathe deeply again, to be the colours of the rainbow. He made everything wonderful.

  I was very excited on the day of my birthday, not only because being ten took me into ‘double figures’, but because the first charm on my bracelet would soon have a companion. It struck me as odd when the headmistress came and pulled me out of class. Just wait until Mum heard about this, even more reason to dislike me, and on my birthday too. For the life of me, there was no memory of having done anything naughty that warranted the trip to her office. The relief at seeing Dash waiting for me was quickly replaced with confusion because next to her was my Aunty Jen, Dad’s only sister. She tried to smile, but her eyes were red and watery and there were tearstains in her makeup, leaving her skin streaky. My eyes shifted from her to Dash, who was also crying and it was clear in an instant that something was terribly wrong.

  Aunty Jen knelt down, took me in her arms and held me close as every muscle in my body stiffened, resisting her affection, erecting a wall between her words and my heart. In a hushed voice she said, “Juliette, I am so sorry, sweetheart, but I have something very sad to tell you.” Have you ever thought ‘This is the last moment of my life as I know it. After this person has finished speaking, my life will never be the same again’? She looked up at the headmistress, who was wiping tears away from her eyes, before she turned back to me. Please, let it be Mum, please. “Your Dad was in a car accident on the way home from Ballarat earlier today.” She started to break down and I could feel her body shaking as she cried quietly, trying to restrain herself for our benefit. My heart stopped beating. She took a deep breath that went on forever. “I am so sorry sweetie, but he died.”

  My whole universe crumbled at that moment. With those three words ‘but he died’, my life, my past, my present, my future all stopped. I tried to withdraw from her, but she held me even tighter. Her body was shuddering with grief. Having to tell her brother’s children that their wonderful father had died and they would never see him again must have been heartbreaking. Tears fell, cascading down my cheeks, but no sound came. My chest burned as the lump in my throat expanded and the hole in my chest, where my heart used to reside, grew. And still, I didn’t breathe or make a sound.

  A week later, after the funeral, Aunty Jen came to see us. She brought with her Dad’s belongings from the morgue. For me she bought a small blue velvet drawstring bag.

  “This was…from your Dad, sweetie. The doctors…they found it in his pocket.”

  My hand shook as I took possession of it, tears streaming from aching, burning eyes.

  “Would you like me to help you open it?” she asked.

  I shook my head, unable to speak. The item in my hand was the reason he was coming home early, the reason he was driving back from Ballarat, the reason he was dead.

  “I hope you’re happy now,” my mother spat as she walked out of the room.

  Aunty Jen knelt down and held me, wiping away my tears with her hanky. “How about I get this put on your bracelet for you, Juliette, then I’ll bring it back. Would you like that?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because I don’t deserve this. It’s all my fault he’s dead.”

  The little charm is still in its bag in the bottom of my jewellery box, unopened.

  It’s school pick-up time, which makes me glad to have something to think about other than my Dad. I wipe away the tears and shake off the sad memories. Cal gallops to the front door while I put my shoes on. We meet Lily and commence our walk to school.

  “Are you alright, lovey?” she asks.

  “Yes, I was just thinking about my Dad, that’s all. Gran had started to tell me the story of his passing this morning but Cal’s nappy interrupted us.”

  “Children are never convenient, are they?” she laughs.

  When we arrive home Lily comes in to give instruction on the washing machine.

  “And what’s that funny roller thing?” I ask.

  She’s probably going to tell me some off-the-planet story, like living next to a brothel or being an ex-Mafia wife on the run.

  “That’s a clothes wringer. You feed the clothes in from the washing machine and turn the handle, like this…” she demonstrates, “and it takes out the excess water so you can hang them on the line.”

  “No way! All the water spins out in the last part of the wash. What’s it really for, some torture device? For breaking knuckles?”

  She looks at me blankly. “No, it really is a clothes wringer. Only the newest washing machines, the twin tubs, have a cycle that drains the water. The rest of us have to use one of these until the money tree bears fruit.”

  She smiles at me. My facial expression must be communicating my feelings too well.

  “The actual washing of the clothes is the easy part,” she continues, “then you have to wrangle them out of the machine soaking wet, feed them through the wringer and then turn the handle like a strong man to wring the water out. Smaller items are OK, like nappies, but the bigger ones, like Chris’ overalls and jeans, will take a few goes through the wringer. It’s a good way to build muscles,” she says as she shows me her biceps. That explains the tone in my arms. “Just be thankful you don’t have to use a copper and old wash board. Now that is an ancient torture device. This is luxury in comparison.” God, I miss my own washing machine. Who would ever have thought that sentence would come out of my mouth?

  “Is there anything else you need retraining in, Jules?”

  “Probably, but nothing I can think of right now. Thanks again, Lily. The last couple of days would have been a awful without you.”

  “It’s a pleasure, honey. I’m just glad that you’re feeling
better. You can never tell with a knock to the head. I still get headaches.”

  “Mum, I’m getting hungry. What’s for dinner?” Will asks.

  Lily collects John and Rosie. “Actually, about tomorrow, I hate to ask, but I have to leave for work at seven-thirty. Would you mind feeding these two breakfast and walking them to school, please?” she asks.

  “Of course.” The thought of getting four kids ready for school terrifies me, but for Lily, already, I’d do anything.

  “Thanks, honey. We’re finishing off a big order at the factory and if it’s done by the end of the day we’ll get an extra day’s pay as a bonus. If I’m not at the school gate will you bring Rosie and John back here with you, please? I’m sorry to dump this on you.”

  “No worries. It’ll be fine,” my PR smile emerges. Internally, the ‘shitting myself’ button is stuck on go. Control the situation, don’t let it control you. How hard can it be to organise four young human beings and a teenager? The housekeeper on the Brady Bunch did it all the time. Mind you, she was fictitious, as were the children, but still…

  “Thanks Jules, you’re the best. I’ll drop them over a bit after seven. They’ll be ready to go other than some toast and a glass of milk. I’ll come and get them as soon as work’s finished, whenever that is.”

  My heart is doing a little rumba. Five kids? Jesus, I can barely look after two.

  Chapter 15

  That night after the kids are in bed, we talk about Chris’s day and what he does. It’s a type of engineering, so that’s beyond me to begin with. His explanation flies over my head like all things numbery or sciencey.

  Chris pulls out more photo albums and talks me through our life: our engagement, wedding day, births, baptisms, holidays, picnics and bushwalks and I am able to tell him the names of everyone, except the older couple in most of the shots. He is tall and lean, usually wearing a fedora, which casts shadows on his face, while she barely reaches his armpit, not only due to her height, but because she cowers. In each shot there is a distance between them, never do they have any part of their bodies touching.

  “Who are these two?”

  “Jules!” Chris laughs, “don’t tell me you don’t recognise them?” His eyes are fixed on mine, willing me to say their names.

  “Ahhh, your grandparents?”

  He pulls back and stares at me, his mouth open and eyes wide.

  “Jules? You really don’t know who this is?” He motions again to the picture.

  With the fear of an appointment with a psychiatrist in my near future I try to find a way out of this conversation and blurt out, “What’s that? Did you hear it?”

  “No, hear what?”

  “Something out the back…a…a crash or something. Can you check please?”

  He looks unsure, but eventually gets up and leaves the room. My fingers work fast to remove the photo from its corner holders and flip it over. My eyeballs nearly pop out of their sockets at the words on the back: ‘Doug and Sylvia, Christmas 1960.’

  You’ve got to be kidding. No way! That is not Chris’ Mum — my monster in-law. No way. I turn it over again and inspect her closely, so closely that my eyes cross. Sylvia? It just can’t be, she’s the exact opposite of…herself. But there she is, in tens of photos looking exactly the same, unless she’s holding a child. Then she looks as though she’s breathing again.

  My heart pounds with the reality of the situation: Chris’s mum resembles a creature scared of her own shadow, and Doug is actually alive. He died prior to Chris and I meeting and the family never talked about him much, but the feeling was that his passing was more of a relief than a tragedy.

  Chris re-enters the room. “I couldn’t see anything, maybe next door’s cat again. So, has your memory returned?”

  “Of course it has, they’re your parents. They just looked…” What? Him alive and her dead? “Different.”

  “Really? They’ve always looked like that,” he says as he takes a closer look. “Perhaps I’m just used to seeing her with a child, you know, smiling more.”

  Chris smiles and nods, “Yes, she’s in her element with the grandkids. I think she misses people needing her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She married Dad when she was only sixteen and had Rob soon after. She hadn’t worked prior to marriage, so being a mum is all she’s ever known. Now that everyone’s grown up, and Lauren is re-marrying…”

  A coughing fit hits me. “Lauren is re-marrying?” What’s going on here?

  His face has Mrs O’Shane written all over it.

  “I mean, yes, she’s re-marrying so your Mum…”

  “Won’t have her at home anymore, no. It’ll be a big loss for Mum, but I think Lauren is counting the days to be free of Dad again. Stavros is a nice fella. He adores Lauren and Anna. But you’ll see for yourself on Sunday.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes, it’s our turn to host lunch.”

  “It is?” I splutter, “How many are we hosting?”

  Chris does a quick count. “Fourteen altogether.”

  Another coughing fit, “Fourteen?” Help! Can’t breathe.

  “Jules, are you alright?”

  “Fourteen, really? That’s a lot of Vegemite sandwiches to make.”

  Chris laughs and then places his hand on my thigh. “Glad to see your sense of humour has returned, love.”

  The next day starts the same way, with me rolling out of bed and serving Chris burnt offerings, kissing him goodbye and then getting the boys ready for school. It’s Thursday today, and hopefully Gran will be able to finish off the story about Dad, just to see if it ends the same way. But that will happen only if these boys actually get ready for school on time.

  “Ethan, why aren’t you eating your breakfast?”

  He’s sitting at the table gnawing at the pace of a sloth — a dead sloth.

  He mumbles, “I don’t feel so good.”

  Sure he doesn’t. We’ve all pulled that one on our Mums, it even works sometimes. But not on me. Nope! His act is transparent.

  “Where don’t you feel well, sweetie?”

  He hesitates for a moment, “Ummm…everywhere. I just don’t feel nice.”

  Hmmm…sure.

  “You’ll be right, Eth. Eat your Weeties and I’ll check on you again later, OK?” I say, feeling very smug with my mothering abilities. God knows why. Maybe this life isn’t so hard? All these women do is cook, clean, look after kids, be good wives to their husbands. They don’t have to go to work or worry about running a business, they don’t have to take kids to hundreds of sporting activities, or worry about what they’re viewing on the Internet. There are no constantly ringing phones, no exotic children’s parties to organise or eternally full email inboxes. They don’t have to drive all day in horrendous traffic, missing out on lunch or dinner because of work. My life is so much more demanding than the one here. This will be a walk in the park.

  “You have to eat your toast, Ethan. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you can’t go to school and think clearly on an empty stomach.”

  “But Mum, I…”

  “No! Just eat your breakfast please, sweetie, like a good boy.” There’s a knock at the door.

  “But Mum…”

  I wave my hand at him and shake my head as Lily enters with the kids.

  “Good morning John and Rosie! How are you today?”

  “Well thanks, Aunty Juliette,” they both answer lethargically; they’re clearly not morning people either.

  “Kids, be good for Aunty Jules, I’ll see you both later today. I’ll be home as soon as I can, Jules, thanks for this, you’re a star!” Lily says as she kisses the kids goodbye and rushes out the door.

  “OK, toast coming right up for John and Rosie! “

  I spread the relatively un-burnt toast with jam, cut it up and put it in front of them.

  “But Mum…” Ethan tries again.

  “No Eth, just eat please Sweet.”

  “No, Mum, y
ou don’t ….”

  “Ethan Michael…please just eat your breakfast.” God, I sound so …motherly, so grown up, so in control. Go me!

  It’s time to get Cal out of his cot and give him some breakfast so that we won’t be late. I open the door, singing loudly, “Good morning Cal! Good Morning! Good….good…good God! What the Hell?”

  I scan the room, trying to take it all in, but it’s impossible to comprehend. The smell is horrifying. It hits my nostrils and knocks me off my feet, physically forcing me two steps backwards.

  “Callum, are you in here? Where are you, babe?”

  There is a brown mist in the room. If smell can be a physical entity then this is what it looks like. My eyes start to water and my respiratory system begins to fail. Through the brown haze there is a smiling baby standing up in his cot, looking very happy with himself.

  “Muuuummmmm!” he cheers as he waves his little hand at me.

  It appears that Cal has taken his nappy off and played with the contents. Although it appears that there was a lot of contents and that it was very runny contents, just the perfect consistency for finger-painting. This is an assumption because he couldn’t possibly make a normal poo spread that far across the walls, ceiling, every rung in his cot, change table, wardrobe, opposite wall and curtains.

  He has smeared himself from head to toe in poo and looks like a little gingerbread man. Even his normally blonde hair is brown, and hard and crispy, and standing up at odd angles like Sid Vicious.

  Stunned into paralysis, my brain attempts to re-start itself, but is stuck in a permanent state of flux by the enormity of the mess in front of me. The room resembles a crime scene; forensics should be here any minute. Calm, breathe, but not too deeply for fear of tasting the air.

  First thing is to get Cal clean, the rest can wait. We’ve got to get to school on time.

  “Kids, I’m just taking Callum for a shower.”

  “Mum, what’s that smell?” Ethan asks from the kitchen.

  “Cal had a….ummm… a…” Had a what? An arse explosion the size of Mount Vesuvius, and his room is the new Pompeii? “He had a dirty nappy, Eth. Nothing exciting.”