Spin Cycle (11 page)

CJ has departed for kindergarten, complete with footy thingy monies and clad in a rather vulgar Wiggles beanie and scarf set featuring Dorothy the Dinosaur. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, Dorothy and the Wiggles have long replaced Barbie as her all-time favourite. I was rather glad to see CJ go. Not only because of the repetitive way she kept murmuring, ‘But how did Grandma
know
I lubbed Wiggles the best?' and ‘She must be
really
magic!', but also because she kept insisting on helping me collect pieces of broken glass.

Anyway it's all done now, and I have the house to myself. I turn the heater up, prepare myself a cup of tea and make a start on my list of VIPs – Very Important Phone Calls. Well, I can cross Diane off the list, that's been sorted out until Friday. I can also cross Mum off, as there's no way I'm ringing her now until she rings me first. Barbara Sullivan also gets a line through her name. I don't see the point of ringing the library back until I find out what's what tomorrow. Ignorance can be bliss.

I can't ring Terry, she's off experiencing unbridled passion with Dennis, her ex-husband. I shudder at the thought. The man is such an egotistical creep
that I can't believe she is doing what Bronte says she is doing. One thing is for sure: if they do effect a reconciliation, then our friendship is probably doomed. He can't stand me, and she'll start to remember all the bitch sessions we've indulged in at his expense. Never mind that she did most of the talking, it'll be me who shoulders the blame. Anyway, married people tend to hang around other married people – safety in numbers, I expect. Selfishly, I hope Bronte has got it all wrong. Anyway, for now I cross her off the list, which is a bummer as I would have loved to discuss Diane's predicament with her and get some neutral advice.

At this point the timer on the stove rings to let me know that the washing machine needs to be manually clicked over to the next cycle. The machine's internal timer gave up the ghost over a year ago but it is well down the list of things I can afford to do. Even further down now that I have managed to break the lounge-room windows. I hoist myself up from my seat and go off to the laundry to flick the dial over to Spray Rinse, and then reset the oven timer.

Back in my seat, I pick up the list and examine it. Okay, well this is turning out a lot easier than I expected. Only halfway through my cup of tea and I have already been able to cross off four names! Next is Bloody Elizabeth, but I only wrote her down in case I couldn't get on to Diane or Mum. So I cross her off as well. Hell's bells, I'm veritably speeding through this list! Efficiency in action. If the library does let me go, they won't know what they're losing. Fatalistic, my foot!

Now here's a name I can't cross off – Maggie. I need to ring her to establish the facts about this real estate purchase of Alex's. I still don't believe that he would want to live next door to me. Not even
I
would particularly want to live next door to me. The oven timer rings again shrilly and I jump. Bloody washing machine. I get up, flick the switch to Deep Rinse, reset the timer, and return to the task at hand. Which is to ring Maggie. I take a deep breath and make the call, but just get that rather odd recorded message again. This time I hang up and dial again so that I can listen to it properly:
‘Hello! You have reached Mary Magdalene at “Pleasant Mount Personal Services” and our motto is “please come again”. Our hours of operation are 5 pm till 3 am, no appointment necessary. If you would like to leave a message please do so after the tone …'

I stare at the phone as I sit in thoughtful silence. Now, I have never rung a brothel, but that is exactly how I imagine one would sound –
not
that I spend a lot of time contemplating answering machine messages for brothels, of course. And Maggie does live on the corner of a Pleasant Avenue and Mountview Road – but Pleasant Mount? What the hell is a Pleasant Mount? And what about ‘please come again'? Could I have been
that
wrong all these years? No, it's impossible. I categorically refuse to leave a message after the tone. Maggie must have changed her number since I last called. The oven timer shrieks at me again and I resolve to question Samantha and Ben a little more closely about their last visit – and in the meantime put it firmly out of my mind.

The washing all completed, I ring the number again and listen to the message.

No, impossible! But, Pleasant Mount? I mean to say,
Pleasant Mount
, for god's sake? And I'm not even religious but Mary Magdalene? It almost seems sort of sacrilegious. And what sort of motto is ‘please come again'? It's not even close to subtle!

I press redial. My uptight, prudish lesbian sister-in-law a lady of the night? A madam? The person who called
divorce
morally reprehensible? No, impossible.

I press redial.

I mean, she's older than I am!
And
she looks like a constipated Shetland pony!

I don't need to press redial, I now know the message off by heart.

It occurs to me that everybody is getting sex
except
yours truly. It appears Maggie is getting it regularly, Diane has obviously had it recently, Terry is getting it right at this very minute, and my mother … no, cancel that thought.

But this observation does bring my mind back to the source. And I think that the evidence is mounting for sex as the main contender. Or to be more succinct: a root is a root is the root. So perhaps the problem is that I have a sexual blockage and
that
is what is causing the heaviness inside. Like a plumbing build-up that needs some sort of release. After all, it's been a long, lon
g
time – since Keith, in fact. As he pops into my head I reflect on the fact that at least my therapist brought me a long way from the days
when I couldn't even mention his name without a range of conflicting emotions making me feel ill. For a start, she said that I didn't need to forgive him to come to terms with how he had slowly chipped away at my self-confidence. But even if I didn't
ever
forgive him, I had to forgive myself. And take back control.

I stare out of the kitchen window at the thick ridge of trees blocking the horizon and run that thought back through my mind again. Take back control. Take back control. And then suddenly – it hits me. You know when a couple of thoughts are just mulling around in your mind, and then a reasoning or two happen to intersect, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, a thought comes screaming out of left field and wham! The fallout from the resulting collision causes the nucleus of a revelation (this is known in some circles as the big bang hypothesis).

Well, as I stare thoughtfully out of the kitchen window, this is
exactly
what happens to me. And my revelation is that instead of taking back control, I am trying to relinquish it. Even on Monday night when I was thinking the whole thing through, I kept wishing for someone to tell me what to do and what direction to head in – someone to pick up my life and shake it. Well, for god's sake, that's not taking back control, that's trying to pass it on to someone else! And perhaps
that's
it. That's the source! After all, I have always had someone else that I have been able to relinquish control to – first my parents, then Alex, followed by Keith, and then even my therapist, and now – well, maybe I'm still waiting for someone
else to take control for me – and it's simply not that easy.

I think I'm right. I really think I'm right.
I
need to take control, take responsibility – and not feel guilty about it either. And I need to have more faith in myself. After all, I've been coping quite well so far, haven't I? Now I just need to stop biding time, to take that extra step and stop waiting for someone else to step in and take over. Because the chances are that, even if a knight in shining armour
did
turn up, Ben would spirit the horse straight off to the garage for medical treatment and I'd end up spit-polishing a set of spurs. Yes, it's my life and
I
need control. Diane was right. If I'm not happy, it's up to me to change it. I mean, other people seem to turn their lives around on their lonesome. Look at Maggie, for example! With this thought, I lean over, pick up the telephone and press the redial button again. After all, if someone like Maggie can turn her life around so drastically, I damn well can too.

I'm still sitting by the wall-phone in the kitchen, mulling over my revelation, musing on the vagaries of life and idly hitting the redial button every now and again, when Samantha arrives home. I can hear
her schoolbag hit the far wall in her room and then she arrives in the kitchen, out of breath.

‘Mum! What happened to the window?'

‘It's okay, just an accident. I'll get it fixed in a couple of weeks.'

‘Oh,
good
. When I saw it I thought we'd been, like, robbed or something.' Samantha moves over to the stove and puts the kettle on before rummaging through the cupboards in search of something to eat.

‘No, just an accident. Listen, Samantha, you know your Aunt Maggie?'

‘Well yeah, of course.' Samantha pauses in her foraging to look at me. ‘Why? What's up?'

‘Oh, nothing's up. It's just – has she changed her phone number?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Well, what number did she leave the other day?'

‘A mobile number. Why?'

‘Oh, I thought I might give her a call, that's all.'

‘Why?'

‘Oh, no particular reason. It's just that I haven't seen her for ages so I got to thinking about what she's doing nowadays. You know, like what she's
up
to.' I give Samantha a hard look to check for any furtive signs, but there's none. ‘Is she still teaching?'

‘No, she gave that up ages ago.'

‘Well then, what does she do now?'

‘Why the sudden interest? I thought you two couldn't, like, stand each other.' She is looking at me curiously so I shrug and feign nonchalance.

‘No special reason, just curious. So, where's she working?'

‘Nowhere – that is, I think she works from home now.'

‘From
home
! What sort of business? Who does she work with?'

‘God, Mum! You sound
sooo
totally like the FBI or something. I don't know what sort of business. I think she said something to do with entertainment or whatever. And she works with Aunt Ruby, and a couple of others who just come in now and then. What is this – twenty questions? Ask
her
if you really want to know. Anyway, I looked at belly-button rings today and I think the flower, like, makes more of a statement, you know? Who ate all the biscuits?'

So it's true! How
could
I not know? My ex-sister-in-law is some sort of madam! She
has
turned her life around – and drastically! Now, what do I do with this information and what do I say next time the kids are invited over? For the first time I am actually feeling relieved that Alex is coming back. I can dump this information in his lap and let him decide what to do. After all, it's
his
sister. Still, I just can't imagine Maggie … do madams wear leather? Maggie wouldn't look at all good in leather.

‘Can I have one of those?' Enter Benjamin, addressing his sister, who is lavishing Nutella thickly over several slices of bread.

‘Make your own, I'm not your slave.'

‘Hi, Ben! How was your day?' I say brightly.

‘Yeah, lousy. Who ate all the biscuits?'

‘Sam?' I turn back to my daughter. ‘What did your father have to say this morning?'

‘Nothing much – and it wasn't addressed to
you
anyway.'

‘Hey! No need to be rude, thanks. I just wanted to know if there was anything I needed to know, that's all. For planning stuff.'

‘Oh yeah, really?'

‘Yes – really.'

‘Well, there's nothing.'

‘And did you open it
with
your brother?' If she's going to act so shirty, then I'll just have to indulge in a little revenge. ‘Ben, did you see the letter your father wrote – to
both
of you?'

‘No! I didn't!' Ben drives the knife into the Nutella jar and turns furiously to face his sister, who is glaring at me. ‘Did you open it
without
me?'

‘You weren't there.'

‘Then you should have waited!'

‘So?'

‘So you shouldn't have opened it! Give it to me. Where've you put it?'

‘You'll have to wait.'

‘I want it now! Where is it?'

‘In my room – and you can't go in it!'

At this point I hear a car horn sound. This is the signal that CJ has arrived home so I leave Sam and Ben to sort out their differences and go outside to wave a combined thank you and goodbye to the fellow mother who has provided transport. I remember just in time to look suitably frail.

CJ flings herself in the general direction of my knees.

‘Hi, sweetheart, how was kinder?' I bend down
and pick her up. My god, she's become heavy in the last couple of years. I settle her on my hip, right on top of the fresh bruises I received in this morning's little mishap. She nestles in, arms around my neck and kinder-bag hanging down my back.

‘It was berry good. Tyler kicked Caitlin and got in lots of trouble but I didn't and Banessa was the helper today and we couldn't go outside coz it was raining all day, and anyway you forgot my jacket but –'

‘I did
not
! I put it in your bag this morning!'

‘Well, it's not there now. Maybe Tyler stole it. He's really naughty and gets in lots of trouble all day. He kicked Caitlin right on her leg and she cried so Mrs Ban Buren cuddled her and yelled at Tyler but he didn't care, he said so, and Mrs Ban Buren said she'd tell his mummy that he was so naughty all the time. And Banessa was the helper but she got all wussy so I helped and now I hab a helper sticker – see? So after it rained we –'