For the first time in a long, long time, I let myself weep.
Night descends and I sit in the white plastic chair outside my room. Hold myself. It’s serene. After being utterly disconnected, so out of it, I now feel like I’m in my body again. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way.
The grandmother walks by. She stalls suddenly. Looks at me.
I nod and she gives a warm, open smile then she continues on.
I sit there in a trance but notice everything; frog song, the whir of flying insects, far-off children’s laughter. The balmy air is perfumed by night blooming flowers – jasmine, honeysuckle. The leaves in the courtyard sway slightly, rhythmically, making soft hushed oceanlike noises. I eventually go inside, fall into a deep unbroken sleep.
In the morning, I stretch noisily and feel my blood flow. The day is being rinsed with clear sunlight.
I get up to open the door and let some fresh air into the room. On my doorstep, a misshaped palm leaf basket with a few grains of rice, some frangipani petals, a cracker and a single smouldering stick of incense.
Eyes Down
Sunlight guzzles the walls as I step out of the shower. The A/C is broken in the bathroom. It’s like a sauna. The mirror is fogged up and I’m grateful for that as I towel-dry my hair. I slap shea butter on my stretch marks, bumps, humps. Lady fucking lumps.
Dolores’ surprise sixtieth is on in the evening. It was already arranged by the time I got to Darwin from Bali. When Bruce told me about it, he warned me that Dolores was not to find out.
‘I understand the concept of surprise parties,’ I assured him.
I walk around my dormer bedroom in a towel, gathering what I’ll wear to the party. A floral print dress with a lot of give at the stomach, pink open-toe heels. I hang the dress on the back of my door and drag a brush through my hair. It gets stuck. With extreme force, I wrestle it out, and lose a small clump of hair.
I massage my head and add some argan oil to detangle the knots before I attempt combing it again. My hands are slick.
The doorbell rings downstairs. I wipe my hands but my fingers are still too oily to go rooting through my wardrobe touching clothes. I ignore the bell and look around for a T-shirt or something to put on over the towel.
It rings again.
I sigh.
A third time. Fourth. The buzzer is pressed without release now.
‘Okay, I hear you,’ I say.
I tamp downstairs on the lush cream carpet; my footprints leave wet dents. Through the peephole I see Bruce’s thick silver hair. He mutters to himself as if practising in advance what he’s going to say. I tighten the towel around myself and clock in the code. I hope oil doesn’t drip into Dolores’ high tech alarm equipment and blow it up. The door opens automatically and I stand behind it as I greet him.
‘Is she here?’ he asks. The morning air outside enters the house.
‘Nope, she’s at yoga.’
‘I knew she would be. Great,’ he says and claps. ‘Is everything alright on your side? For the party?’
‘Yep,’ I say.
He tries to step in but I keep the door firmly where it is. The sky is a sharp blue with hefty white clouds lingering. Monsoon season is coming soon, or the ‘green season’, as Dolores calls it.
‘I’ve all the pieces from home rounded up, will put them on a USB stick now. Or when I get dressed,’ I say.
Bruce glances at the towel around me.
I grow uneasy in the silence.
‘Dolores knows nothing. She still thinks it’s going to be a meal for two. Niece – auntie bonding birthday meal.’
He claps again. ‘And Keano’s people? He was organizing the Irish contingent.’
‘I’m yet to meet the mysterious Keano. I haven’t heard from him, have you?’
Bruce tuts and tightens his hands. ‘That pipsqueak, all guns blazing about organizing this party then being messy about it. He raises my blood pressure.’
‘It’ll be fine, Bruce,’ I say, in defence of Keano. The praise I’ve heard Dolores heap on him has given me a confidence in the lad. ‘He won’t let us down. How many people are going to be at this thing?’
‘I reckon thirty, at least.’
‘Thirty?’
‘What? Why have you that face on?’
‘Most of them will be strangers to me. I’m not so good at these big crowds.’
I’m worried, and excited, about the food. Bruce has organized a buffet. What if I eat myself stupid with the unlimited servings?
Bruce blinks slowly. ‘It’s just as well tonight ain’t about you, Natalie.’
His comment catches me off guard. I step back. The door opens fully.
He flicks a look up and down me. ‘I better let you get dressed.’ Then his eyes move slower over my towelled body. I feel red creeping.
He shakes his head suddenly as if remembering himself. ‘See you in The Gardens at 7 p.m. I’ll bring the cake.’
He walks in a sprightly way towards his house across the road.
‘It’s just as bloody well, mate,’ I say imitating his accent and shut the door.
I sit on the couch with my laptop open and watch the clips of my Irish aunts; they seem old-fashioned with their mullet perms and comfortable clothes. All their complaining about aches and pains make them seem even older.
Dolores is different. She’s lived in Australia for over half her life. She works as a corporate consultant for sustainability, speaks fluent French and is now learning Chinese.
I pick up one of her copybooks from the coffee table. I enjoy looking at the symbols, trying to decipher what the characters might mean. She showed me a few before, how they were drawn from six strokes inside an invisible square. The scratch with his arms out meant sky, day and heaven amongst others. These are the closest thing to our English letters. She says it’s complicated, but like anything, you try it, make mistakes, learn from them and repeat. Keep practising until it’s automatic. At some point, your brain understands and it becomes a natural process.
I save the clips to a USB and go online to look up how to prevent buffet bingeing.
1. Sit far away.
Would the bus stop outside be a sufficient distance?
2. Use smaller plates and glasses.
Making your hands look fatter.
3. Chew food twenty times.
Lockjaw will render it impossible to eat more.
4. Put your knife and fork down between mouthfuls.
Sure why not go for a jog in the meantime too while you’re at it?
I shut the laptop and switch on the TV to the celebrity entertainment channel. They discuss who wore what and how they wore it to a glitzy event.
The beep of the door’s code being entered from outside makes me sit up in the chair and straighten myself out. I put the USB stick into my pocket. The door opens and Dolores’ bright energy enters the room before her. I should probably go with her to yoga sometime, to try it out. I’d love to know what it feels like to have that afterglow, but I’ll have to drop a couple of kilos first.
Armed with her navy yoga mat and a tote bag with leafed groceries bulging out of it, Dolores turns to smile at me.
‘G’day, kiddo. Everything okay?’ she asks. Her usually sleek black bob curls outwards at the bottom and her fringe sticks to her forehead.
I nod.
She tidies her mat away in the closet under the stairs and hums as she presses playback on her answering machine. In the kitchen area, she empties the bag, placing green vegetables and glass jars of honey, jam, pickles and other colourful textures onto the kitchen island’s black marble top.
‘There’s this fab farmers’ market by the studio Thursday mornings,’ she says, opening a jar. She walks over and offers me black olives floating in a green garlicky oil.