Art Ache (28 page)

Chapter 35

Two months later. The back deck. Moving out.

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Seneca.

The house is almost fully packed. Mum and Dad have been here all day, helping put things in boxes and do a final clean. They’ve gone home exhausted, in desperate need of a warm bath.

As the removalists load the final few boxes, Patrick, Jack, and I sit down for an impromptu fish and chip dinner on the back deck. Jack has been happily chatting with the removalist. He has one final question.

JACK

What’s your name?

REMOVALIST

Tom.

JACK

That’s my daddy’s name!

REMOVALIST

I thought your dad’s name was Patrick?

JACK

No, he’s not my daddy, he’s my stepdad.

We smile to ourselves, happy that he’s in a place where, unlike Cinderella and Hansel & Gretel, a stepparent is an okay thing.

ME

Tom needs to move those heavy things, Jack. And you need to eat your dinner.

Jack joins us and fills us in on all the interesting information he’s learnt from Tom the removalist. Tom doesn’t have any children, unlike us. We have two, Jack proudly informs us. Well, one and Wriggle. And he, Jack, will always be the older one. And apparently Tom USED to have a wife, but he doesn’t like her very much anymore. She made him sleep on the floor.

ME

What was her name?

JACK

I dunno . . . I forgot to ask.

Before we can stop him he’s calling out at the top of his lungs.

JACK

TOM! What was your wife’s name?

Tom the removalist laughs and calls out.

TOM

Teresa. Although I had a few other names I used to call her, too.

PATRICK

Come on, mate. Eat up.

JACK

(calls)

Thanks Tom! Now I’m eating my dinner with my stepdad. And my mum. And Wriggle. He’s in my mummy’s tummy.

TOM

(calls)

Okay, mate.

Jack’s grins from ear to ear.

JACK

Patrick, I just called you my stepdad!

PATRICK

I know, mate . . . I heard.

JACK

Is that okay?

PATRICK

You can call me anything you like, just not late for dinner . . . now, sit on your bottom and eat yours!

JACK

Okay. I’m going to call you stepdad, but only when I talk to my friends about you. When I talk to you about you, I’m still going to call you Patrick.

PATRICK

Sounds good.

JACK

And you can call me Jack.

As we eat our takeaway fish and chips, we watch Tom the removalist and his work mates load our possessions onto the back of their truck. They went to Patrick’s house first and are now filling the rest of the truck with my stuff. And Jack’s. And things for Wriggle. I feel relieved. I’m downsizing. I’m tree-changing. I’m getting real and lowering the bar. I’m no longer a member of the “Gen X You Can Have It All” club. I find myself wanting to shout at those who are still members—
stop trying so bloody hard.
Give it up. We’ve all failed! That’s the truth, really. The expectations were so high for Gen X, but when you weigh it all up, we’ve all failed at what we set out to do, to a greater or lesser degree. And that’s okay. None of us is brilliant. None of us is amazing or world beating or extraordinary or beautiful or breathtaking, or even particularly innovative. It’s actually a huge relief.

I’ve picked up my shattered self-esteem from the polished wooden floor onto which it was smashed when Tom uttered those inimitable words:

HIM

I no longer want to be married.

It was smashed into a thousand pieces and then sent into orbit by his next statement.

HIM

You don’t do it for me anymore.

But Persephone, embodiment of the earth’s fertility, simultaneously Queen of the Underworld, has put the pieces back together. Well, no, let’s be frank. Persephone has thrown the pieces in the wheelie bin and started again. Tom played ball in the house and broke my vase and then Patrick broke it again. Oh well, it was probably time for a new one anyway.

I took a journey through that life, a life I no longer recognised. And I came out the other side with a new vase in hand. It’s not Carol Brady’s vase. It’s my vase. And it’s beautiful. Superficially, it’s not as beautiful as the old vase but all in all, it’s much a better package. And I’m taking my new vase, wrapping it in bubble wrap and rather than letting the removal guys load it onto the back of the removal truck, I’m putting it in the car with me.

ME

Time to go.

PATRICK

Come on family, let’s move it on out.

I reach out and touch Patrick’s hand.

ME

I love you.

The words hang in the air between us.

PATRICK

Thank God for that.

He squeezes my hand and winks.

PATRICK

Come on, little mate. Let’s get you in the car.

I throw our fish and chips paper in the bin, give the removalists their final instructions, and we set off on our exciting new adventure.

My sparkly new vase is safely strapped into the front seat and doesn’t budge as I reverse out the drive of my old home to embark on the fifty minute drive southwest to our new home in the country. I take a moment to reflect that as a member of Gen X, I was led to believe I could have it all. Well, I don’t know if I’ve managed to achieve that, but I do know that I’ve got myself, Jack, Wriggle kicking the daylights out of my belly, my lovely sparkly vase, of course, all my worldly possessions in the removal van, a message from my new agent saying I have a meeting with a theatre company about a commission for a new play, a gorgeous diamond ring on my finger, and Patrick is following in his beat-up Toyota Corolla. Life is good.

Fade to black.