Drip Dry (7 page)

1.15 pm

‘What excellent timing!'

I turn around from locking my car in the Angliss Hospital car park to find my mother and her fiancé, Harold, beaming merrily at me. Well,
Harold
is beaming merrily and my mother is wearing her usual sardonic semi-smile.They actually make a rather compatible couple in a visual sense. My six-foot-two, well-built father always looked much too large for Mum, who is just a shade over five foot and weighs the equivalent of my daily calorie intake. Harold, on the other hand, is only slightly taller than she is and his plump little figure and tonsured white hair make him look like a rather jolly chap. Which makes her look almost pleasant by association. As usual they are both rather formally dressed, despite the increasing heat.

‘What a surprise!' I attempt to beam back as a rather unwelcome thought hits me. ‘Are you finished in there or are you just on the way in?'

‘Oh, we're finished – the twins are simply beautiful.'

‘That's great!' I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Well, I'd better get going then.'

‘Not so fast.' My mother frowns her disapproval of my unseemly haste. ‘We were actually on the way to your house – and what
is
that dress you're wearing?'

‘You were?'

‘Yes. The cake, you know. We thought we'd drop it off as we were in the area, and you said you were
so
busy. Although, now that you don't
have
to make a cake, things should be more achievable, surely.' She manages to make it sound as if I couldn't organise a chook raffle in a pub, and that she is coming to the rescue.

‘Thanks, Mum.'

‘Harold, could you fetch the cake, please. And do be careful.'

‘Thanks, Harold.'

‘Darling! Have you
looked
at the bonnet of your car – it's putrid. Look, it has possum . . . uh – leavings all over it! Do you never wash it?'

‘Of course I do!'

‘Really? Fancy that. I don't like that dress at all – it makes you look frumpy. Now, I was so excited about Diane when I called you last night that I forgot to ensure that you got my message.'

‘Message?'

‘Yes. On your answering machine. Which, as you well know, I don't like using but you weren't home so I was forced to.'

‘When did you leave a message?' I ask with some confusion as I try to remember when I last looked at the damn thing.

‘Yesterday. During the day.' She looks at me
suspiciously. ‘Don't tell me you don't check it? What's the point of having one of those infernal things if you don't even check it?'

‘Of course I check it!' I reply with exactly the right amount of umbrage as I make a mental note to play back my messages as soon as I get home. ‘And I got your message as well –
sure
I did!'

‘Excellent. Are you positive you'll be all right with the cake in the car, darling? Perhaps we
had
better take it all the way.'

‘It'll be fine, Mum,' I say through clenched teeth as I unlock the putrid car in preparation for its precious cargo. When I stand up again, Harold is already on the way back carefully carrying a foam esky. I manage to take it from him and place it on the back seat without doing it any undue damage.

‘There are some ice-blocks in there, but you'd better not be too long.'

‘Heaven forbid.'

‘Well, we had best be going, hadn't we, Harold?'

‘Oh yes. We had. Is that right?'

‘Yes. The rector is expecting us at two o'clock precisely. Goodbye, darling.'

I say my goodbyes and watch them stroll hand in hand over to Harold's midnight blue Volvo. Perhaps she has discovered that he has a shady past and is threatening him with world exposure unless he agrees to take her hand in marriage. There
must
be something. I mean, would anyone
voluntarily
commit themselves to an unspecified number of years with a short malevolent bully? I turn and hurry into the hospital (
and
it's air-conditioned – oh, what bliss)
before they drive past and see me standing there. After all, it is still more than possible for her to change their minds and suddenly decide to visit me after all.

Not that I'd mind a visit from Harold. In fact I would quite like to have a chat with him
without
my mother riding shotgun. I must admit that, when I first heard about my mother's plans for yet another marriage, I was absolutely horrified. But now I am beginning to realise that life may well be a lot more pleasant with her firmly attached. Elsewhere. Plus Harold seems to have slightly mellowed her rather abrasive personality, and he certainly seems to keep her busy. She doesn't drop in or telephone nearly as much as she used to. I only hope she doesn't manage to kill him off. Because she hasn't got a very good track record.

I step out of the elevator into the coolness of the maternity ward and head past the brightly coloured murals straight to the large glass window further down the passage. But there are only a few babies in residence and these are not doing anything particularly interesting except looking cute . . . and defenceless . . . and totally adorable.

‘God! Wipe that stupid look off your face, will you!'

‘Diane!' I whirl around to see my sister standing in the doorway of a nearby room. She is nattily dressed in a red quilted dressing-gown and moccasins.

‘Do you want to see the babies?'

‘Of course. Did you think I came here to see you?' I follow her into the room where two perspex
baby cribs are balanced on top of chrome trolleys parked side by side in front of the window. Both cribs hold an identical mound of motionless pink bunny-rug, each with a generous thatch of dark hair sticking out of one end.

‘Congratulations!' I exclaim heartily. ‘Can I hold one?'

‘Look, do you mind waiting a bit? I just now managed to get them settled again after Mum's visit . . . I think it was a bit much for them.'

‘I know precisely how they feel.' I look with heartfelt sympathy at the two pink lumps.

‘Actually, you just missed her. She only left a few minutes ago.'

‘No, I didn't miss her.' I sit myself down in an extremely uncomfortable green chair. ‘She trapped me in the car park.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘Yes. Listen, why do most men die before their wives?'

‘I don't know, why?'

‘Because they want to.'

‘Ha, ha.' Diane sits gingerly down on the bed. ‘Poor Harold.'

‘Anyway, enough of her. How are
you
feeling?' I examine Diane thoughtfully. Usually
this
sister and I resemble each other quite strongly (it's our youngest sister who doesn't look like she's really related – unfortunately that's because she's slimmer, taller, and generally better-looking all round), apart from the fact that Diane wears her hair longer and has lately taken to dying it a darker brown. To be
honest, I was expecting her to look rather haggard and drawn but instead she doesn't look like she has given birth at all, let alone to twins. She looks flushed, and pink, and healthier than I have seen her for quite some time.

‘Hell's bells, you look great!'

‘And I feel it too!' Diane smiles happily at me and stretches luxuriously out on the bed. ‘In fact, I feel so full of energy I could do a marathon.'

‘I wouldn't recommend it. Pelvic floor and all that.'

‘No, of course not. But I don't know what it is . . . probably relief, or hormones, or something. Whatever it is, I want more!'

‘So do I!' I grin back happily. ‘And the babies look gorgeous too! I am really
so
pleased for you.'

‘Thanks. Hey, I don't like that dress much. It makes you look –'

‘Frumpy?'

‘Well, I wouldn't go
that
far, but it doesn't do much for you at all.'

‘Okay, let's get off my dress.' Which is exactly what I'll be doing as soon as I get home. ‘How much do they weigh?'

‘In kilograms or in pounds?'

‘Pounds, please. Kilos mean nothing to me for babies.'

‘Well, they were a tad over six pounds each. Which is apparently
very
good for twins.'

‘I'll say!'

‘Listen, how did CJ like the Barbie we got her for her birthday?'

‘Loved it. She's added it to her collection.'

‘And did you get the subjects you wanted last week?'

‘Yep, sure did,' I reply as one of the pink-swathed bundles starts to mewl in that certain way peculiar only to very,
very
new babies. ‘Oh! She's awake, can I hold her?'

‘Sure.' Diane gets up and hobbles over to the trolley. She picks up the bundle carefully and hands it over to me. I nestle it cautiously in my arms and peer down at the little face. She
has
got a generous crop of hair and is all wrinkled up with the effort of making those shrill little sounds. She is also very, very red . . . almost puce, in fact.

‘She's beautiful,' I say to Diane as I gaze down at the little red face and button nose. ‘Absolutely gorgeous.'

‘Yes,' replies the proud mother with a self-satisfied smirk.

‘Do you know, I'm almost feeling clucky.' I rock the bundle within my arms and it mews appreciatively. ‘What is it about babies that does it to you?'

‘I don't know.' Diane leans over and gazes adoringly at her daughter. ‘But it's not too late, you know. You can always have another one.'

‘Immaculate conception is
so
last century,' I comment. ‘Besides, it
is
too late. Between Ben and CJ, I would have loved another child or maybe even two, but now – no.'

‘Yeah,' says Diane, looking at me sympathetically. ‘Life's like that, I suppose.'

‘Besides,' I add thoughtfully, ‘I don't think I could
go through all those night feeds and nappies again. I'm too into me now.'

‘Well, I'll lend you a baby whenever you feel clucky and you can get over it that way, how's that?' asks Diane as the baby within my arms begins to whimper. ‘Then again, I don't think she likes that idea.'

‘It's all right, it's all right,' I whisper in a singsong voice, and the baby gradually stops her crying and settles in for another sleep without even opening her eyes. ‘Look, Diane! I did it! She's asleep!'

‘That's Robin,' Diane whispers back as she touches her daughter's rubescent face gently with one finger.

‘Robin? Actually, I like that. Where did you get it from?'

‘Well, David was singing her that song – you know, the one about the red robin and the bopping along. So I asked him why he was singing that. Because he'd never sung it to the boys, you see. And he said it was because she had such a red face, which she sort of
does
, and then we both just looked at each other and said, “Robin! That's it!” So now she's Robin.'

‘Well, I like it.' I look down at Robin who, although seriously cute, does have an
extremely
red face. I hope she outgrows it.

‘Yes, it really suits her.'

‘What about the other one? Has she got a name too?'

‘Yep, she's Regan.'

‘I like
that
, too . . . but wasn't Regan the possessed
girl in
The Exorcist
? The one who was really a demon and whose head swivelled around and had green vomit and all that?'

‘Could be.' Diane has a rather sheepish look on her face.

‘Don't tell me you actually named her after
her
!'

‘Okay.'

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

‘All right, do tell me then.'

‘Well, it isn't
really
like we named her after her. It's more that we named Robin and were trying to think of another girl's name that
went
with Robin. And that's when the baby, who was in Evan's lap, suddenly sort of twisted her head straight around and vomited right down his jeans. And one of the boys said that that was exactly like in the
The Exorcist
, and another one, I think it was Michael, said okay, let's call her Regan! And they all laughed because they thought they'd made a joke, but David just grinned at me because, well, she
is
a Regan – just look at her!'

I obediently lean over, trying not to disturb Robin while I peer at her sleeping sister. Well, one thing is for sure, Regan has a much better colour. Whereas her sister's skin is a ruddy red, Regan's is that uniform pale pink shade found on particularly beautiful roses. While I am gazing at her, suddenly the baby's slate-grey eyes flick open and she stares levelly back at me for a few seconds with absolutely no change at all in her facial expression. Then she closes her eyes again just as abruptly and goes back to sleep – I think. I keep looking at her for a few
moments in surprise because that was
really
weird, and a trifle unsettling, then I turn back to Diane, who is still smiling at me but in a more questioning way.

‘Well, yes,' I say rather shakily, ‘she
is
a Regan, isn't she?'

‘Yes, she is. And it's really got
nothing
to do with the damn exorcist, has it?'

In a pig's ear, it hasn't. Because what has shaken me is not that I think this child is heading straight for possession in a demonic sense, but that I recognised something when she opened those gimlet eyes and gazed straight at me. Something that has followed me all the days of my life, that can strike unerringly straight to my soul, and which I have never found the inner strength, the courage, or the fortitude to stand up to. Something I last ran into only half an hour ago in the hospital car park. Little Regan, young as she is, already has the distinct, unmistakable look of my mother. And
that's
why Regan is such an appropriate name, because my mother knows all about possession, and she is very, very good at it.

I look at Diane to see whether she has noticed the uncanny resemblance, but she is now gazing lovingly at both her daughters in turn. Ah, love
is
blind. Well, I daren't tell her. Why sully her happiness? But on the other hand, all sullying aside,
surely
she's noticed?