Odd Socks (19 page)

Instead of answering, my mother puts her finger and thumb together and runs them across her lips as if she is closing a zipper. Then she holds the pinched digits out in front and, after making sure that we are both watching, flicks her hand to indicate the throwing away of a key. I shake my head and sigh.

‘Hell, Mum. How old are you?'

‘Old enough to keep a secret,' replies Mum, obviously forgetting her lips are supposed to be zippered, ‘and I
won't
tell you, honey, so please don't even try. Because it's not my secret to tell.'

I watch her narrowly as she transfers her attention back to the baby and starts singing a soft, low lullaby that I remember dimly from my own childhood. Sherry looks at her great-grandmother with a daft expression on her face and a thin trickle of milk threads its way from her open mouth and down her chin. Actually, the daft look makes them look a lot like each other, except that the baby's eyes are beginning to cross ever so slightly.

Bronte nudges me and, when I look at her, nods towards my mother before shrugging and raising her eyebrows at me questioningly. But I've got nothing to tell her because I don't know that much more than she does. However, if there's one thing I'm determined on, it's that I'm going to find out. Even if what it takes is getting my mother alone in a dark room with a swift application of some truth serum, perhaps a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream, or even an electrified cattle prod. One
way or the other, I'm going to find out what the hell is going on. And soon.

Username?
Diamond                
Password?
                                

The message flashes at me impatiently while I rack my brains attempting to recall what on earth I
did
use as a password. I take a sip of my hot chocolate and stare at the computer, willing it to tell me – but it remains stubbornly mute. Just flash, flash, flashing. So I chew my lip and tap my fingers on the desk in irritation as I try to remember. Unfortunately, it was quite some time ago and there have been a lot of passwords under the bridge since then. In fact, it often feels like everything I do requires either a password or a PIN number – or both.

I distinctly remember the technician leaning over the desk after setting up the internet for me, and directing me to enter a username and password. I distinctly remember him mainly because he had an extremely well-rounded butt. I type the word ‘butt' in the password box and hit enter, and then wait with my fingers crossed.

The password you have entered is INCORRECT
Please enter your correct password _____________

Bugger, bum, bitch. I take a deep breath, lean back in the study chair and play with my ponytail while I try to empty my
mind. The theory being that if the brain is a blank, then the password will just light up centre-stage and obligingly blink on and off until it can be memorised. But the only thing blinking on and off is me. So, while I take another sip of hot chocolate, I go through the laborious process of refilling my mind. Then I type in the word ‘Teresa', and hit enter.

The password you have entered is INCORRECT
Please enter your correct password _____________

I enter ‘Terry' and ‘Bronte' and ‘Sherry' and variations of my address. Then I try the name of a pet dog I had as a child, the name of the base I was stationed at during my RAAF years, the name of my first boyfriend and, for good measure, the name of the guy I lost my virginity with. I even, in sheer desperation, try the name ‘Dennis'. After each attempt I hit the enter key and hold my breath as I watch the screen.

The password you have entered is INCORRECT
Please enter your correct password _____________

My brain's now thoroughly racked, I get up and walk around the study, straightening a few books and idly running my finger over the shelves to check for dust. Then I readjust the curtain folds and align Bronte's framed VCE certificate. I end up in front of the filing cabinet and, hit with sudden inspiration, pull the drawer open and remove the file marked ‘computer'. I flick quickly through the contents in search of a password, any password – but all that's there are bills, receipts and an old school project of Bronte's called ‘The Perfect Computer Design'. It seems Bronte's perfect computer was coloured three shades of pink, with enormous speakers and a mouse shaped like a high-heeled shoe. Or, at least, that's what it looks like.

I
could
ring Bronte at the hospital and ask her what the password is but, judging by the way she looked earlier, I wouldn't be all that surprised if she was already asleep. And she's going to need every bit of rest she can get. So I sit back down and, with my chin resting in my hands, send various ESP messages through the flashing screen and straight to the hard drive. Some of the messages are polite, and some not so polite. However, after a few minutes concentration, I'm rewarded by an image that flashes onto the blank slate of my mind so, after I examine the vision from all angles, I lean forwards and type the word ‘Richard' on the keyboard.

The password you have entered is INCORRECT
Please enter your correct password ______________

Well, so much for ESP. I try kicking the side of the computer in frustration but, even with the threat of further torture to all its bits and bytes, it still doesn't buckle under pressure. Instead the phone rings so, with a baleful glance at the computer, I flick my ponytail back and answer it instead.

‘Hello?'

‘Hello yourself!' Cam sounds particularly upbeat and jovial. ‘I've been trying to ring you all day, where've you been?'

‘Well, let me see –' I reach out, turn the computer screen off, and settle in for a chat ‘– I played tennis this morning, then I went shopping. Actually, I ran into your sister as well.'

‘
Which
sister?'

‘Diane. She was out with the twins. Anyway, then I was here the rest of the afternoon so you couldn't have tried too hard.'

‘No, I went over to visit your daughter this afternoon. That's why I was ringing, I thought we could have gone together.'

‘So what did you think of the baby?'

‘Cute,
very
cute,' Cam sounds enthusiastic, ‘and she looks like you and Bronte, too. Made me feel all clucky.'

‘Why, because she looked like me?'

‘No, in
spite
of the fact she looked like you,' Cam laughs. ‘But I thought Bronte seemed a bit tired.'

‘Yes, I did too,' I agree readily. ‘Reality must be starting to hit. Did you hear she's bringing the baby here for a week?'

‘Yes!' Cam laughs again. ‘But I don't see why. Doesn't she know what you're like with babies?'

‘Hey!' I exclaim, stung. ‘I'm perfectly fine! Besides, I don't have to
do
anything; she's just coming home for the company. You know, some support.'

‘Hmm, interesting concept. Oh, and thanks for the note!'

‘What note?' I ask, puzzled.

‘The one you left on my pillow that CJ found,' replies Cam evenly. ‘The one that she thinks is proof I have a boyfriend named Rudolph who sleeps over. And the one she showed her father to
prove
that I have a boyfriend named Rudolph who sleeps over.'

‘Oh, that note!' I say merrily. ‘No problem.'

‘Hmm. Anyway, what're you doing tomorrow?'

‘Let me see. I've got some carpet cleaners coming in the morning, then I've got a doctor's appointment, and Bronte's coming home at some stage but I'm not sure of the time yet. Oh, and then I might pop in and see my mother because I need to ask her something.' I narrow my eyes as I briefly envisage the coming interrogation. ‘Which reminds me, Cam, when you've finished telling me why you want to know what I'm doing, just say the word ‘Rose' so that I remember to tell you the
very
interesting thing that happened at the hospital.'

‘It sounds like it involves my mother,' says Cam suspiciously. ‘Does it?'

‘Sure does. Now, what's up tomorrow?'

‘Well, I've had this free gym membership for months now, and I haven't activated it because I haven't had time, but I thought I might go tomorrow. That is, if you want to come along?'

‘You mean because you know I used to belong to a gym, I can show you the ropes and you won't look such a dingbat?'

‘Exactly!'

‘Okay.' I smile to myself. ‘How about I pick you up around two?'

‘Sounds good. But . . . um, I'll drive. And now–Rose!'

‘Well! There I was, visiting Bronte, when who should arrive but your mother and mine. Oh, and Harold. Anyway, after the usual stuff about the baby and all, your mother pulled me aside and asked me for Joanne's phone number.'

‘Is that it?' asks Cam, sounding disappointed. ‘She asked me for that the other day as well.'

‘Yes, so she said. But she got terribly excited when she thought I had it, and then when I remembered that all I had was the old one – I swear she nearly fainted!'

‘Fainted?' Cam sounds disbelieving. ‘My
mother
?'

‘Yes! Harold had to prop her up. And my mum turns around and says, “Rose, just tell her” – meaning me – “what's going on because it's
nothing to be ashamed of
and you've done
nothing
wrong.” There! What do you think
that
means?'

‘I don't know,' replies Cam slowly, ‘but something really strange is going on.'

‘Yes. And I'm going to find out.'

‘How?'

‘Well,
my
mother obviously knows so I'm going around there tomorrow to torture her. I'll let you know the end result at the gym.'

‘Excellent. Because it's got me stumped. I was talking about it with Diane and Mum hasn't ever
been
to Tasmania. So how on earth would she know him?'

‘I don't know. But she does.'

‘Yes, she sure does. And, speaking of him, what was the deal with
you
the other day?

‘What do you mean?' I ask defensively.

‘You know! That was some extreme reaction!'

‘It was your coffee, that's all.'

‘Will everybody
stop
blaming my coffee!'

‘Okay then,' I laugh agreeably. ‘And, yes, I did have a rather odd reaction. But I worked it all out later. Do you remember my father?'

‘Your father?' repeats Cam with confusion. ‘Well, yes – vaguely. But I only ever met him once or twice.'

‘See, my father was very similar in looks to Richard,' I explain earnestly. ‘Same body type, same eyes, same sort of aura. Do you know what I mean?'

‘No, but continue.'

‘You do so. Anyway, I suppose I miss my father. That is, I
know
I miss my father, and I think when I saw Richard I just reacted to the resemblance, that's all.'

‘Well, that makes sense,' says Cam sarcastically, ‘and it explains perfectly why you wanted to jump him on my kitchen floor.'

‘I did not!'

‘You did so!'

‘Did
not
!'

‘Did –' Cam stops, and starts laughing instead.

‘It's not funny,' I say sulkily.

‘No, it's not,' she agrees with a smirk in her voice. ‘It's actually a sign you need therapy. And soon. I can recommend a good one, if you like.'

‘Yes, I saw how together
you
are the other day!' I say nastily. ‘Together with
Santa
, that is.'

‘Terry –'

‘Didn't the antlers get in the way when you –'

‘Two o'clock,' she interrupts shortly, and hangs up.

I put the receiver back into its cradle and resume staring at the computer while I play with my ponytail. How dare she mock my theory? It's a perfectly good theory and I'm sticking with it. I lean forwards and switch the screen back on. Then, simply because it feels appropriate, I type in a four-letter word beginning with ‘F' and hit enter.

The password you have entered is INCORRECT
Please enter your correct password _______________

If only it were that easy. If only
life
were that easy – if life itself had a password, and all you had to do was type it in your own personal console and everything would be revealed. In easily understandable language that you could then take and apply wherever necessary. So that nothing was awkward, nothing difficult and nothing incomprehensible. You'd just coast along, changing programs at will.

And each key on the keyboard would have an appropriate purpose – like ‘delete' for those people who are particularly annoying, ‘alt' for when you want to live outside the square, ‘shift' and your new house is all set up, and ‘backspace' to erase that really stupid thing you just said. Escape, control, home, insert – they would all have a specific use much more in keeping with actual life. And all you would need is your password.

But then again, what would be the use? I'd probably forget it, anyway.

Handy Household Hint No III:

Never forget that the sooner you fall behind, the more time you'll have to catch up.

‘I didn't wake you up, did I? Because I'm just so
bored
, Mum! Like, I've been up for hours because I'm
so
excited about getting out and I've already packed everything and Nick's not going to be here to pick me up till about four! Oh, and Mum, he'll be grabbing my V-dub from the front of your joint sometime today. But you should
see
all the balloons and crap I've got here! You know, where are we going to
put
them all? And, Mum, Sherry played up so bad last night that I almost tore my hair out. She just wouldn't settle, didn't matter what I did – fed her, sponged her, changed her, I even gave her a massage at two thirty! Like, I'm
so
looking forward to getting home, giving you this baby and having a sleep! Mum, I
can't
thank you enough!'

THURSDAY

‘No way known, I'd only be robbing you, lady. Because, I'm tellin' you, that there stain's set in bloody concrete. Although, hmm – I shouldn't be telling you this coz my boss'll kill me if he hears I've been giving work to the opposition, like. But the only guy I know who might have a chance with this 'ere is my cousin. He's bloody amazing with stains. I've seen carpets I wouldn't have given a chance in hell of comin' clean, then in walks Matt, and afore you can scratch yourself – bloody beautiful. I'll give you his number. Great bloke, bald as an egg, bit plump, always on a bloody diet . . . if he can't get it out, no one can.

‘So we're grandparents! Unbelievable! I only wish I'd been there – you always get
all
the good stuff, Terry love. But hey! Don't feel bad about it, I'm sure I'll get to see a lot of the little tacker, too. Now, we'll – I mean,
I'll
be back in town tomorrow morning. Just need to pop into the office for a bit then I'll come straight over to your place to see Bronte. Hey, I know! Let's have lunch together. What's on the menu? How about some of those chicken vol-au-vent things you used to do? Maybe with some risotto, and some scalloped potatoes? I tell you, I'd
love
something simple after all the stuff I've been eating for the past week! Unbelievable!'

‘Hi there, Terry my love. I was thinking that I might be getting a call from you last night? Ah well, never mind. Now, I just thought I'd better be letting you know that I'm up at Daylesford for a couple a days to help a mate out with some work. So you can think of me as I'm tasting the spas and dabbling me toes in the magic water! I would've been asking you up here with me but . . . um, of course! You've got the lass and the baby to be looking after, to be sure! And I know all about the partying to be taking place on Sunday – so I'll be there with bells on. And you'll be after me bringing you some of this here fountain of youth, so I'll fetch as many bottles as you'll be needing, and a couple more! Never you mind about that!'

‘Well, that's it! All done, Mrs Diamond, and sorry we're running a bit late today. But I told you it wasn't so bad, didn't I? You only made it worse by being silly and clenching yourself up like that. Now, up you pop, get yourself dressed and I'll send this off to the lab. You'll be getting the results pretty soon and next time you come in for this, just remember to relax, all right? These procedures don't
need
to hurt at all. Okay, now –
hey
! Watch your foot there! You're going to knock the slide off the –
damnation
! Look what you've done! See? Now we're going to have to do the whole thing again. Come on, come on, I can't do it with you standing way over there, pop back up on the bed and remember – just relax.'

The same old guy is out in his front garden next door, watering his now-planted daisies, as I walk up the path to my mother's front door. Despite his best efforts, a gusty wind keeps redirecting his water spray so that the only things around that remain dry
are
the daisies. He pauses in his endeavours to give me the once-over and then turns away, obviously recognising me as a non-criminal type who intends no harm to his neighbour. If only he knew.

I open the security door and use the lion's-head knocker on the front door. While I'm waiting, I pull my coat around myself tightly and hop up and down to keep warm. A few
seconds later the door opens wide and my mother, dressed in a long-sleeved midnight-blue caftan, beams up at me.

‘Teresa, honey! How lovely!'

‘Hi, Mum. Just thought I'd drop in to say hello.'

‘You look like you've been out running,' my mother says, looking at my outfit, which even I've got to admit is rather weird. I've got my black calf-length coat over a big red tracksuit jacket over a snug black tank-top and three-quarter length lycro hipsters. Odd combination – but I'm planning on going straight to Cam's house after I finish with my mother. With or without Mum's body in the boot.

‘Not yet,' I reply, peeling off my coat. ‘First I'll have a coffee with you, okay?'

‘Of course! What a treat!' She stands back and, after I manoeuvre myself around her, shuts the door behind me. I hang my coat and my shoulder bag on one of the brass hooks by the door before following my mother into the kitchen. She heads straight for the kettle while I sit down at the rectangular formica table that has been here since I was a baby.

The kitchen is of a country design. Square and huge, with benches and cupboards all around the perimeter and the table and chairs in the centre. There is a large, old-fashioned window covered by white net curtains, which match the tablecloth hanging almost to the floor over the table. Framed photographs and children's drawings cover every available bit of wall space, behind which can be seen wallpaper of an orange and brown, pots-and-kettles design. You can't
buy
wallpaper like that anymore – with good reason. Every counter in the kitchen is cluttered with plants, canisters and assorted bowls of fruit. And the whole feel is homely and comfortable – an excellent place to unwind and tell secrets. I rub my hands together in anticipation.

‘Cold, honey?' asks Mum as she pours hot water into a coffee mug and looks up questioningly. ‘Sugar?'

‘Warming up now, thanks. And just one sugar, Mum,' I reply, reflecting on the fact that I've
always
had one sugar. It'd be nice to come around here just once and not have to explain how I have my coffee.

‘Milk?'

‘Just a tad.' And I've always had just a tad of milk. Never mind, there are more important things than a retentive memory. I decide to make some polite conversation to lull her into a false sense of security before I move in for the kill.

‘So, what have you been up to?'

‘Oh, this and that.' Mum moves over to the table and puts my coffee in front of me with a plate of fat, heart-shaped biscuits. ‘Bit of gardening, bit of bingo, bit of yoga. Have a biscuit.'

‘Yoga? Really?' I say, slightly taken aback because I've never heard her mention yoga before. ‘What's it like? Tell me more.'

Mum sits down opposite me with her own coffee. ‘Well, it's down at the scout hall. Go on, have a biscuit, honey.'

I wait for a minute or two but she's obviously not going to add anything, so I take a biscuit and, while I eat it, gaze around the kitchen for inspiration. Almost immediately I notice a new set of drawings from my five year old niece tacked to the wall by the stove. The subject seems to be something resembling a pink and grey horse – but with several more appendages than one might expect, that may or may not be legs.

‘I see that Amy is still doling out her daughter's pictures to unsuspecting relatives. When did you get those?'

‘Oh, only last week,' replies Mum, following my gaze and focusing on the set of drawings. ‘Aren't they just wonderful? I think Bonnie's going to be quite the little artist one day.'

‘Really?' I ask doubtfully, putting my head on one side and looking back at the pictures to see if I missed something. Some
portent of greatness, perhaps. Nope, just a six-legged male pink-grey horse thing with large teeth. I take a sip of coffee and then try another of the homemade biscuits. ‘Yum! These are really delicious, Mum!'

‘Aren't they? Mr Hood next door bakes every Wednesday and brings me over a container full of the most wonderful things. You should have come over last week: I had éclairs and profiteroles.'

‘Wow!' I make a mental note to drop in more often on a Thursday. Why can't I have neighbours like this? All I get is a guy who has my taste in men and who faints at the sight of birthing babies.

‘Have some more, honey.' My mother pushes the plate over towards me. ‘I always get too much for just me.'

‘Thanks, I will.' I help myself to another couple of biscuits and decide that, as soon as I finish stuffing myself, I'll launch the attack. In the meantime, I let my glance wander over the walnut-framed photographs hanging by the door and home in on the one of my father. Grimly staring slightly off to the side and with one hand resting majestically on his lap, he is in full court dress complete with wig. And, yes, the resemblance is quite striking. I spare a condescending thought for Tuesday's me, imagining that she was falling in love with a man she'd only just met and then behaving like a complete pillock. Well, next time something like that happens, I'll simply take advice from my subconscious – it's obviously more in control than the rest of me. I finally finish my biscuits and, brushing my fingers off, regretfully decide to leave the others on the plate. It's time to crumble my mother's pitiful defences instead.

‘Mum, about yesterday –'

‘
Teresa!
'

‘What?' I reply, startled. ‘What is it?'

‘Look at the time!' Mum points to the wall-clock. ‘I'm
terribly sorry but you'll have to go, honey. Because I promised Mrs Carstairs from two houses over I'd go for a walk with her. Poor thing, she needs the exercise. She's got a wall eye.

‘You need
exercise
for a wall eye?' I ask, astounded, ‘Why?'

‘Why what?'

‘Why do you need exercise for a wall eye?'

‘Is this a joke?' asks Mum, looking at me quizzically. ‘If so,

I don't think it's in particularly good taste, honey.'

‘No, it's not a joke,' I say, exasperated. ‘
You
said that Mrs Whatever needed exercise because she had a wall eye.'

‘No, I did not,' replies Mum emphatically.

‘Yes you – oh, doesn't matter.' I take another sip of coffee and reflect that should my mother ever get dementia, it'll probably be quite a while before anyone notices the difference.

‘Well, it was lovely to see you.' Mum stands and starts to clear the biscuit plate and coffee cups away. ‘Always a pleasure.'

‘Hey! I hadn't finished that!'

‘Oh, honey, it's cold. It'll give you indigestion.'

‘Cold coffee gives you indigestion?'

‘Yes, of course it does.' Mum tips the remaining biscuits off the plate and into a canister. ‘Everybody knows that.'

‘Well, what about iced coffee then?' I ask smartly. ‘
That's
cold.'

‘Oh, iced coffee's different, of course.' She lifts out a step-stool from next to the fridge and, after unfolding it, clambers up to put the canister away into a top cupboard.

‘Different how?'

‘Because it's never
been
hot. It's only coffee that's
been
hot and then gets cold that gives you indigestion.' She clambers down off the step-stool and folds it back next to the fridge. ‘So there you go.'

‘There I go?'

‘Yes, because now I have to leave for my walk.'

‘You're kidding. Right now?'

‘Yes, I just
told
you – Mrs Carstairs is expecting me and I still have to get changed. Do you know, sometimes I think you don't take in a word I say. See, we go up the trail out the back to the national park and then walk to the water tower and down again. It takes about an hour but it's very refreshing, especially in this brisk weather. You should try it sometime.'

‘But, Mum, I wanted to talk to you!'

‘Oh, I
am
sorry,' says Mum apologetically as she walks towards the door. ‘I tell you what! Why don't you join us?'

‘I can't. I'm going to the gym for some exercise.'

‘Ah! The great indoors versus the great outdoors. Well, there's no competition, is there?'

‘No,' I mutter crossly. There goes my interrogation. Straight up the trail to the water tower and down again. I push my chair back roughly, get up and follow my mother, who is already at the front door holding out my coat and bag. After I take them from her brusquely, she opens the door wide and stands there beaming at me.