CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
Desiree drove Trudy on to the cracked concrete driveway and through the industrial chain-link fence of her mother’s property in Balga.
All around it she could see the signs of progress. Freshly laid roads led to areas where buildings were being upgraded or even knocked down to make way for more modern and convenient homes. She had looked around her as she drove through the suburb, duly impressed by the obvious effort the council was making to improve the area. She wondered if the improvements had stretched to where her mother lived.
But with Trudy purring as they braked to a stop, Desiree was disappointed to see that her mothers’ poor old clapboard house seemed even more dilapidated than the last time she saw it, which was not even a year prior. At Christmastime, she had spoken to her brothers about looking after it, obviously they had found better things to do. She couldn’t blame them. She hadn’t exactly been around to tidy things up either.
It had never crossed her mind growing up, but as an adult she had realised that the house she grew up in had always been an eyesore, from its squat, square construction through to its mint green paint job. The painted windowsills were constantly cracked and flaking, and the roof tiles were covered in moss and bird shit, the broken down and rusty gutters probably doing more harm than good.
A twinge of guilt passed through her, which she quickly quashed. She was here now. She would do what she could.
She stopped Trudy’s engine and got out of the car. A new concern came to mind - what would she do about Trudy? Leave her there in front of the house where anyone walking past could deface her, or steal her?
Then she chastised herself. She had lived in the area for many years and, while there was crime, it wasn’t that bad. Only a little worse than the surrounding suburbs. Which meant that ninety-five percent of the people in the area were completely law-abiding.
Still, she locked Trudy up tight before walking over to the concrete steps leading up to the concrete porch, both of which had been painted at one time, but which now were worn and cracked.
Desiree’s heart pounded as she rapped on the door. She didn’t know what she was going to say to her mum. What did a daughter say to her mother when she found out she was dying? And she wouldn’t be surprised either if her mum took one look at her and tossed her arse back out on the street.
The door opened, and Desiree noticed two things immediately.
First, the expected choking cloud of cigarette smoke and smell didn’t appear.
And second, her mother looked old - much older than Desiree expected. And she looked thin. And sick.
With a sob, Desiree cast herself into her mother’s arms.
“What the fuck?”
Desiree laughed through her tears. There was the Mum she knew. Foul mouthed, and taking no bullshit.
Stepping back, Desiree said, “Hello, Mum.” It seemed so banal, so pointless when there were so many other things to say.
“Desi. Well, I didn’t expect to see you.” It wasn’t very promising, but her Mum hadn’t sent her on her way, so Desiree pressed on.
“Can I come in?”
Her mother nodded, and turned, leading the way into the house, through the dark corridor and into the equally dark living area. The windows on the house were insufficient to let much light in, but it seemed that Desiree’s mother preferred it that way.
She levered herself into an old, tattered armchair, while Desiree perched on the edge of the worn couch. It was the same furniture that had been there for years.
“So, I suppose you found out I have cancer.”
It was a bit of a shock to hear her mother say it so easily, like it was the flu or a broken fingernail.
“Yes, I saw Aaron in Subi and he told me.”
Her mother nodded, but didn’t say anything else, her frowning gaze unnerving Desiree.
Desiree’s mother had been similar in looks to Desiree in her youth, and her gaze was still as bright as ever, despite her sunken eyes and gray skin. She wore jeans and a jumper, even though the sun shone brightly outside, and the temperature was expected to be more than 30 degrees. Her clothes didn’t match her surrounds. She had always insisted on nice clothes, no matter how disheveled and overgrown her house became. Her hair was done, and she wore a slash of lipstick. Desiree looked at her fondly, remembering the times as a teenager she had despaired that her mother insisted on wearing similar clothes to hers. It was then that Desiree had decided to go all black - something her mother could never have done. She enjoyed colour too much.
“When did you stop smoking?” Thinking back, Desiree was pretty sure her mum was still puffing away at Christmas.
“When they told me I was dying. Not sure why I stopped. Not like it was going to kill me more.” Desiree always told her mother to give up the fags, every time she saw her. She hated to sit in the lounge room, trying to see her mother through a thick haze of smoke, and trying not to breathe it in second-hand.
“It’s actually nice in here, without a blue haze.” Her mother just shrugged. “Can I do anything Mum?”
As soon as she’d said the words, Desiree regretted them. Her mother’s eyes lit up with anger and her painted lips turned down in a look that Desiree thought was disgust. But her words were even and without emotion. “Haven’t needed anything from you up ‘til now. Can’t imagine what you could do.”
“I could help…”
“Help with what? I never needed your help before. I sure as shit don’t need it now.” The impact of the words was drowned in a coughing fit, which Desiree watched in silence. She ached to jump up and help, but she knew whatever offer of assistance she gave would be waved away.
“But you’re sick, Mum.”
“Fat lot you care.” Her mother wiped her streaming eyes and dabbled at her lips with a handkerchief she pulled from inside her bra. Dimly, Desiree remembered that she had always carried one there - just in case.
“I do so care.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit.”
“So, how come you didn’t visit me before now? I got this death sentence in March. How come I haven’t seen you ‘til now?” The accusation in her mother’s words stung, but Desiree knew it was deserved.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“It’s only because you won’t even call me.”
“I’m busy. Most of the time.” Even as she said it, Desiree knew the excuse sounded lame. She wasn’t that busy. She just didn’t want to. “And you could have called me.”
Her mother sniffed. “What, and get, ‘Can’t talk now, Mum, off to the opera? Or the ballet? Or the fucking art museum?’ No, I know when I’m not wanted.”
Desiree scowled. While her mother’s words were true - except the bit about the ballet and the opera; what the fuck? - Desiree knew she was being manipulated into a position where she would be forced to agree that she was a sad excuse for a daughter. And she didn’t like it.
“Jesus, Mum, I’m here right now. What more do you want?”
“Just would have been nice to see you more before I die.” This time Desiree rolled her eyes as her mother tried another guilt-inducing tactic, pushing all the forlornness into her voice that she could. Desiree knew she was the master of making her children feel guilty. But not this time.
“Well, here I am. And I’m fucking going to hang around until you drop off the perch, so you’ll soon be sick of me.”
Her mother chuckled suddenly, and said under her breath, “Sick to death of you.” The humor was so black and so unexpected that Desiree let out a bark of laughter.
“Yes. Exactly.”
Her mother sighed and looked on Desiree pityingly. “You are so much like me, you know. Tarred with the same brush.”
“I know.” Their similarities were more than just physical. They had clashed over and over again as Desiree grew up, purely because they had the same stubborn, prideful personality. She couldn’t help but smile, but her brows drew together.
“Mum, I really don’t want to argue, hey. I kind of want to make some happy memories.”
“So you can dredge them up when I’m gone, and tell yourself what a good daughter you were?”
Desiree shrugged. “Maybe.” There was a long silence before her mum spoke again.
“We had happy memories, you know. Before Dad left.”
“Really? I don’t remember.”
“Nah, I don’t suppose you would. You were only what, seven, when he left?”
“Six.”
“Six.”
“I do remember him a bit. But just around, you know. Hanging around. Not in any happy or sad way, just, I dunno, there.” She reflected for a moment. “I’ve always thought of him as a bastard who ditched his family for other women.”
“Yeah. He did do that, but only once things got really bad. It wasn’t always like that. Grab me that album off the table will you?” Her mum pointed to a photo album on a side table, and Desiree retrieved it for her. “Sometimes when I feel like life sucked in the biggest way, I go back and look at these, and remember some of the good times.” She patted the arm of her chair, and Desiree perched there, looking over her mother’s shoulder as she opened the album.
The first pictures weren’t photos at all, but clippings from various newspapers with notices of all of their births. With each notice was a picture of Desiree’s mum, looking in various stages of exhaustion, but proudly holding a little bundle with a scrunched up face. Desiree found her own birth notice: ‘JACKSON, Lyall and Kerrie are proud to announce the birth of their daughter Desiree Ann, born 23 November 1976, weighing 6 pound, 4 ounces. A little sister for Neville and Aaron.’ As a newborn she had a shock of dark hair, and that was all you could see of her outside the swaddling that the nurses had rolled her into.
Her mother turned the page. The faded photographs showed four children playing on a beach. They all squinted into the camera with enormous smiles on their faces, their noses and cheeks red. The smallest of them sat with a spade dug into the sand, but the other three stood beside a crooked sand castle, strewn with twigs and seaweed.
“Do you remember that?” Desiree’s mother asked, and Desiree shook her head from side to side.
“When was this?”
“You must’ve been maybe four or five there. We all went to Busso for a holiday. Was only a few days, but you kids were on the sand from sunup to sundown.”
Her mother turned the page again, and Desiree gasped. “That’s you and Dad!”
“Yep. Taken on the same holiday. I think we gave Aaron the camera.”
“But you look so happy Mum.”
“We were happy, Des. For years and years. But sometimes these things don’t last.” Her mother shrugged fatalistically. “So you move along and you keep your head above water. I’ve had plenty of time to forgive him for what he did. Now, I just remember the good.”
“It’s sad.”
“It’s life. You just live it.”
“What a shit way to think of it.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s so much more to life than just living.”
“Oh, here we go. Desiree telling me about all the fucking beauty in the world.”
She swallowed her irritation at her mother’s caustic remark. “No actually, I wasn’t going to. I was going to say about other people. And how they can make your life so much better, if you let them.”
“Shit, listen to you. It’s like you’re in love or something.” Her mother’s eyes may have dulled, but they glinted as the glimmer of a smile crossed her face.
“I am in love,” Desiree replied, a little colour in her face. “And its fucking brilliant. He’s an engineer, and he has three kids who are also all awesome.” She stopped for a moment, then continued, “Listen, Mum, can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly have the most normal upbringing, and we aren’t exactly the most functional family.”
“Understatement, but go on.”
“I just don’t know if I’m doing it right. You know, looking after the kids. Because I never had that when I was young.”
Desiree’s mother scowled. “Are you saying I didn’t look after you well enough?” Before Desiree could shake her head, she continued. “I did all that I could for you lot and it was bloody never good enough for you was it? Little miss prissy pants, fucking nose in the air.”
“No, Mum. Stop, fuck. I know you did all you could. Jesus, don’t be so touchy.”
A spot of colour appeared in her mother’s sunken cheeks, and she said gruffly, “Sorry. I s’pose I do get a bit sensitive about that stuff.”
“Maybe just a little bit.” The words came out more sarcastic than Desiree wished, and her mother again glared at her. “I just wanted to ask you. With all of the shit that went down, do you think I’ll ever be a good mother?”
“What’s a good mother?” Desiree’s mum sniffed disparagingly. “I thought I was a good mother to you lot. I worked hard to put food on the table and clothes on your backs, even when your dad didn’t pay the child support. I made sure you went to school. Wasn’t my fault Nev wagged as soon as my back was turned.”
Desiree snorted a laugh. She had forgotten about her brother’s serial absences from school.
“So, is a good mother one who can buy her kids everything they want, but who is never there? Is that a good mother? Or is it more about the time she spends with her kids? Cos if that’s the case, I was the shittiest mother ever, but only because I had to work to look after you kids. Did that make me a bad mum?”
Desiree shook her head. “No. But surely there has to be some, I don’t know, happy medium, where you know you’re being a good mum and not spoiling the crap out of them?”
“Nope.” Her mum shook her head. “All you can do is whatever you think is right and if your kids come out the other end pretty well adjusted, you can tell yourself you did a good job.”
“So this second guessing myself about everything is going to continue until any kids I have are grown up?”
“That’s how it goes, Des. Welcome to being a mum.”
“Well, shit.”
“I know right.”