I printed it out twice and forwarded it to Lydia by email in case she tossed the printed version in her bin.
Two hours later, Philip and I lay side by side staring at shadows on the bedroom ceiling.
‘Where do you think she got the airfare from?’ he asked.
‘Her father, probably. Hang on. Remember that money we gave her for her twenty-first?’
‘You mean the study trip to China that never eventuated.’
‘She’s not going to Sri Lanka. I’m forbidding it.’
‘Impossible,’ said Philip, the frustrating voice of reason. ‘She’s over eighteen.’
‘I’ll hide her passport.’
‘That’s not going to get us anywhere,’ he sighed.
‘She’ll get herself killed !’ I said, tugging the sheet into my neck and turning over to face the wall. It was all very well for Philip, I fumed. He hadn’t carried her in his womb for nine months and nursed her with milk from his own body. He wasn’t even her biological father. That was an unworthy thought, however. Even though he was Lydia’s stepfather, there’d never been any dividing lines in his affection. His was as devoted to her as he was to his biological daughter.
Still, I thought, anger rising again, why couldn’t he put his foot down and stop her?
Silent accusations hung in the darkness.
I blamed myself. If Lydia’s father and I hadn’t split up, she wouldn’t be so reckless and defiant. On the other hand, if we’d stayed together one of us would probably be dead by now and the other in prison.
I blamed Lydia. The cheek of it; sneaking off to buy airline tickets.
I blamed the monk. How dare he lure our daughter away to his war-torn island?
I blamed television travel shows that present the Third World like a theme park offering endorphin highs along with extreme sports, booze and everything else Generation Ys crave.
But I said nothing. Neither did he.
Even though Philip remained silent, he probably had accusations of his own to make. After all, whose fault was it for introducing Lydia to the monk in the first place?
He started making the whooshing noises that meant he was falling asleep. I was furious he could drop off so peacefully.
Thoughts spiralled as I lay awake. I remembered vowing I’d never behave like Mum when she’d tried to stop me going to England. Yet here I was in a similar clash of wills with my own daughter: me, convinced she was about to ruin her life; Lydia determined to go ahead and do it anyway.
Then again I shouldn’t have been surprised. Lydia sprang from a long line of headstrong women who’d found ways to upset their mothers. Before she’d married, Mum had been ‘engaged’ to another man and there’d been a scandal. Her cousin Theodora went to Paris in the 1920s and returned to live in sin with a German at the beach. Great Aunt Myrtle had smoked a pipe and advised me to do anything for love. And her mother caused ructions marching down the street of her country town demanding votes for women.
On the rare occasions Lydia’s friends had confided in me about struggles they were having with their mothers, I’d always said the older generation had to give way. The younger woman must be free to carve her future. It’s nature. In a pack of animals, the older ones lose pace and are devoured by predators. For the species to survive, youth must triumph. Confronted with the real thing from the old animal’s perspective, I hated it.
Mum taught me how to deal with a woman whose strength matches your own. Yelling doesn’t work. To handle another powerful woman you sometimes have to avoid confrontation and be stealthy. Rather than share information, it’s better to make your own mind up and go ahead and do what you want. That’s what I did when I wanted to get married too young. And exactly what Lydia was doing now.
I reached for the earplugs in the bedside drawer and willed myself to sleep.
Visitation
Good comes from good
What does a good man do when he’s worried about his wife freaking out over her daughter going to Sri Lanka and being her son’s self-appointed wedding planner? He takes her to a wellness retreat in New South Wales. Even though Philip would’ve much rather have been in a tent fending off crocodiles, he agreed to succumb to several days of detoxified living with me.
The wellness retreat was everything I’d hoped for: a combination of luxury, nature and nurture. Grimy after a day’s travel, we climbed the steps to a marble foyer that gleamed wholesomeness. We’d made a pact not to talk about weddings, Sri Lanka, or in fact any of our children for the next few days. This was a perfect environment to forget all that.
New Age didgeridoo music mumbled over the speakers while fountains chattered over volcanic stones. Staff flashed smiles that implied we too would be young, tanned, slim and beautiful if only we could be disciplined and sensible.
I sucked my stomach in and bared unwhitened teeth in a middle-aged, overweight, city living way.
Those health freaks didn’t fool me. I knew the self-loathing it took to look like that. The exhilaration of losing ten kilos a while back had been obliterated by the defeat of stacking them back on again, plus a few extra kilos I didn’t have when I thought I was fat.
Then there was the revelation that I didn’t actually feel that much better when I was thin(ner). In fact the ‘thin’ version felt worse because I lived with hunger clawing my stomach all the time, and in fear that I was going to get fat again. After years of neuroticism I’d finally understood those who loved me would continue to put up with me fat or thin, and those who didn’t ignored me. As a middle-aged woman I was pretty much invisible anyway. To pass unnoticed through an image-obsessed society is surprisingly liberating.
Refugees from the land of meat-eating, coffee-drinking and wine-swilling hedonism, Philip and I were made to promise we hadn’t stowed any caffeine or alcoholic contra in our bags. I immediately wished we had.
The wellness retreat was famed for its week-long boot camp involving dawn to dusk physical challenges interspersed with soul-searching workshops.
Personally, I couldn’t think of anything worse than a twenty-year-old Bear Grylls clone shouting me through an obstacle course. I wouldn’t have gone near the wellness centre if it hadn’t offered the alternative ‘individual’ package, where you could take part in workshops if you felt like it, and spend the rest of the time being massaged and aromatherapied to a pulp.
Bands of pink and orange stretched across the sky as our suitcases kerplunked over the gravel path to our villa. Spacious and modern with views over a valley, it was perfect. Oh yes, and the toilet paper was folded into a point and the towels were extremely fluffy. Opening the doors on to our deck, we let the warm night breeze comb our hair.
A group of kangaroos preened themselves before hopping lazily out of sight. I’d learnt to love the Australian landscape with its giant skies and ancient, crumpled hills. The red earth and silver trees that had once seemed ugly and foreign now possessed unique beauty for me. No longer threatened by the emptiness of this land, and its potentially deadly wildlife, I savoured the scent of eucalyptus gum on hot dry air.
Is it all right to mention here that we kissed? Not in a creepy, please-don’t-go-there-old-people way, like when an old walrus of a Hollywood star lunges at a cosmetically renovated diva and makes the entire theatre cringe over their popcorn.
This was simply the kiss of a man and woman who’ve known each other for twenty years, during which time they’ve spent most of their waking hours putting other people first. Who were just grateful to spend time alone together and have a conversation without someone else listening in and offering an uninformed opinion. It was bliss to lie in bed between Egyptian cotton sheets and use two towels each after a shower – none of which had to be put in the washing machine later. Not by me, anyway.