Rebecca Addison's Blog, page 4

4. Dear Morning

Dear Morning

The way I feel about you, Morning, could be summed up in two words starting with an F and a U – but since I’ve agreed to write this letter as part of our therapy, I will try to be more specific.

First of all, what’s your problem, anyway?

Sorry. That’s not a good start.

I know, I know – I agreed to this process. And you’re right, we do need to communicate better if this is ever going to work. I do get that, Morning. I know how toxic our relationship has become. It’s just really hard to be nice to you when you’re such a dickhead.

No name-calling! I know. I know the rules, okay? This isn’t our first session.

From right this second, I promise I’m totally into working this through.  After all, you’re not going anywhere, are you? You’ve made that abundantly clear. And I can’t pretend you don’t exist anymore. Not with the children around.

You’ve asked me not to be so antagonistic. To focus on I feel statements. So here you go:

I feel angry whenever I realise you’re in the room.

I feel like ignoring you.

I feel like you and Breakfast are ganging up on me.

And sometimes, Morning, I really feel like leaving you for Noon.

You’re attractive – physically-speaking, I give you that. And when I do make an effort, I have to concede that the times we’ve spent alone together have been kind of nice. But looks and feels aren’t everything, Morning. They’re not enough.

We were asked to write down three things that we feel need to change in this relationship if we’re to go forward. I saw yours earlier. I know  – I shouldn’t have looked, but seriously, you left it right there on the table when you slipped out the door at 11.59am.

You think I spend too much time with Evening and Late Night. You think this affects our relationship. I see you’re also bringing up Caffeine again. I have to say that I’m hurt. I thought we’d already talked about that.

Here’s my list, Morning. You’ll note that I’m not bringing anyone else into it. Unlike some people.

Be quiet. I hate it when you crash in and yell and make yourself known. Don’t play guitar around me, either. It’s not a good look on you. Afternoon and Evening do it so much better.
Be warm. When you’re cold it hurts me. I spend so much time trying to warm you up and then I just get angry with you when you take your time about it. It’s like you do it to spite me.
Don’t rush me. Seriously, you knew this about me when we met. Don’t get all up in my grill with your clock and your schedules. I will get there. You know I’m almost never late.

That’s my list.

See you next week for the Intimacy Workshop. I’m looking forward to it.

*Image from GAGirl Designs

 

 

3. Dear Feet

Dear Feet

I admit that you and I haven’t always been close. I say this now before I really begin this letter because I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. The truth is, I don’t like you very much. I mean, I’m thankful that you’re on the ends of my legs and everything, it’s just that, well, as a rule, I find your kind a little repulsive. I’m sorry. I know that was cruel.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I do actually have some good things to say about you.

First of all, is there any other body part as hard working as you? Maybe the mouth, the tongue – but really, those things don’t get shoved into shoes and stomped on all day, do they? We use you to kick things. We force you into uncomfortable, unnatural positions when we wear high heels. We give you blisters. Most of us don’t look after you enough and when we do, we cover parts of you in paint. You work hard. You don’t complain much. As a body part goes, you’re a team player.

Secondly….

I’m trying hard to think of something else I like about you. Really trying.

Look, don’t feel bad, okay? It’s not you, it’s me.

Cheer up! A quick look on Instagram proves how loved you are. Feet in sand. Feet in fancy shoes. Feet in Autumn leaves / snow / on a city street. In a puddle. Feet! They’re everywhere.

And let’s not forget that you have your own fetish for Pete’s sake!

The fact that I had to put a chef’s hat on that bottom (bottom – get it?) picture after searching for #feet is the reason my daughter will not be getting an IG account anytime soon, even if that makes me “so unfair”.

 

There are even spas dedicated to making you look good. Who else can say that? Is there a special place where we pay money to buff our elbows? Paint our chins? No. That’s all you, feet.

Well, you and hands.

So this is me saying thank you for holding me up and walking me around all of these years. Thanks for not getting any horrible diseases that would cause me to hide you from my sight for the rest of my days, for not smelling, for having normal toes and being an okay shape. I also appreciate that you’re not ticklish because that fact annoys my ticklish husband.

Now that I’m done, I’m not sure that we can call this a love letter.

Let’s just call it a… well, ummm..

Cheers.

 

 

 

2. Dear Home

The Caravan

*** Some sweary words are featured in this piece ***

“Jesus Christ, Liam, will you just get in the damn car.”

His words come out quiet, even though they’re mean. I take two steps toward the passenger door and stare at the rust spots on the chrome handle. He’s already settling himself in the driver’s seat, the beige striped fabric hanging off the back of it like its skin is too big. He crouches a bit and looks at me through the window as he puts on his seat belt. I see him mouth the words Get in but I’m thinking about my mum’s car and how it was sky blue and didn’t have any rust spots on the handles. We wait for a bit like that, him inside the car staring at me from underneath the rim of his blue baseball cap and me outside looking at the handle. He takes a big breath in and blows it out slowly and then he punches the steering wheel with his fist. I look at the back of the car, where the caravan is hooked up to the tow bar. The caravan is dad’s house. It’s old and used to be white with a mint green stripe down the side and words on the back but now it’s dirty with mud and mildew and the words are too faded to read.

I don’t look back at the car when I hear the driver’s door swing open, or when he walks around the front and is facing me. I keep looking at the caravan. I don’t like caravans because they’re not real houses.

“Liam.” He says my name like “Leee-ym” drawing out the first bit and saying the last part with his mouth almost closed. “Listen, kid.” He lifts his cap and rubs a hand across his forehead. “Are you getting in that car or not? Because I got a job down the coast starting in two days. That’s the only job I got.”

I lift my face to him just as he bends down to look in my eyes. His eyes are brown but not brown like mine. His are toffee brown with bits of yellow and green in them. And the whites aren’t bright like mine are; they look like off milk. His nose has squiggly red lines on the top and sides. When mum was here, she made me wear sunblock every day. Even in winter. My skin is white and there are no lines. I don’t think dad’s mum gave him any sunblock.

“No job, no food. Got it? Jesus. What’s the problem? Do you want to sit in the back? I can make Lu get up front.”

I look at Lu, her big hairy face hanging out the open back window next to me. Her tongue is falling out of her mouth and big blobs of spit are dripping onto the concrete. She’s got grey fur that used to be black and she smells like wet wool jumpers and Nan’s garage. I don’t want to sit where she’s been sitting.

Dad looks at his watch and says, “Shit!” then he touches that rusty door handle and flings it open hard. It groans and gapes like a yawn. Then he puts his hand around the top of my arm and pushes me.

I say, “No no no no no no,” but he pushes harder until I’m inside the car next to the seat with the too-big skin. I don’t want to be in the car but he’s already sitting next to me and has started the engine. I’m scared of falling out of a car that’s moving so I stay still.

In front of me is an ashtray and it has twisted up cigarettes in it and one of them is still smoking a little. It smells bad and I can’t stop thinking about the rusty car handle and about mum’s car with the sky blue paint and the grey upholstery. Her car was always clean and it smelled like coconuts and flowers because of the cardboard palm tree hanging from the mirror. I can feel the hard rectangle of my notepad in the front pocket of my shorts. I could take it out and write some words on the white paper with the blue lines. But mum isn’t here anymore so there’s no one to read my notes.

Dad is rubbing his hand up and down his face. He’s wearing a red shirt and jeans and his shirt is wet under his arms. He smells like cigarettes and sweat and fish because he’s a fisherman and it doesn’t ever really wash off. He rolls down his window and adjusts the cap on his head. I don’t say anything. The caravan is bumping behind us along the road and we drive for a long, long time.

The motel has a big car park with painted lines telling you where to park your car and the building is long but all one storey. There’s a line of doors starting at 39 and going all the way to 55 and I wonder where the doors are for rooms 1 to 38. The walls are brown and covered in something that looks like millions of tiny crushed stones and it sparkles in the sun. The doors are painted white and the numbers are made of metal and nailed on. There’s an office with a red flashing sign that says “Office” and that’s where my dad is now. I’m sitting in the seat where I haven’t moved for hours and hours and Lu is in the back and she’s whining and barking. The sound is horrible and it hurts my ears so I take off my t-shirt and roll it up like a sausage and wrap it around my head. The sound is quieter but I can still hear it.

I can see my dad walking back to the car and he looks angry and I know it’s because of me. I didn’t want to stay in the caravan because it’s not a real house and I wouldn’t have a proper bed, just a bed that’s made from taking the couch apart. I wouldn’t get into the caravan when it was night time so he said a bad word again and now we’re at the motel.

There are two beds, and both of them are double sized which I like because I’ve never slept in a big bed before. But then I wonder if I’m going to like it because it might be too big and I might not be able to feel where the edges are.

Dad throws his bag down on the bed by the door and sits on the end. He takes off his boots and puts them by the door and puts his hat on the table. His hair is brown and grey and his forehead is white up the top from where his hat has kept the sun away.

“Liam,” he says. “I know this is all different for you, mate. But the caravan is your home now. We can’t afford to stay in motels every night.”

I nod once to show him I heard but that’s all. My legs ache all down where the bone is and a mosquito bite tingles on my elbow. Lu walks up to me and sniffs around my shoes. I kick at her face but I don’t hit her because she turns her head at the last second.

“You’re sixteen now, Liam. When we get to the coast, you’re going to have to pull your weight with me on the boats.” He pulls up the leg of his jeans and itches his hairy leg as he says it.

I think about telling him that I will not be working on the boats but then I remember all of the places we’ve been today and my lungs get tight and my under my hair feels hot and prickly. I’m thinking about my hands and how there will be 10 million bugs on them by now and the thought of them crawling over my knuckles and under my nails makes me gag a bit.

“Oh for fucks sake Liam. Get into the bathroom. Hurry!”

He pushes me toward the bathroom but there are tiles in there and this is carpet so I can’t go across it without tapping S-O-S onto the wall. I’m still gagging so it makes it hard to tap properly and a bit of vomit comes up into my mouth. It tastes like the orange juice I had in the car and I look at him. Because I hate orange juice.

The way his face is makes me swallow the puke. His eyes are wide and he’s shaking his head.

“I can’t do this,” he says. His hand presses flat on my back and then he pushes one more time, hard, so that I go through the doorway almost tripping.

After I look around, I take my notepad out of my pocket and tear off a page. I write I miss you lots and lots of times on it and then I fold it up into a square that’s small enough to hide in my hand. Dad is banging on the door and when his banging stops, I can still feel that he’s outside. I think he’s listening through the wood, maybe with his forehead leaning on it the way I used to do when mum was in the bathroom. I didn’t like it when she locked the door.

I fold my fingers over the paper in my hand until the sharp corners hurt my skin. When he’s gone from the other side, I put the note down next to the sink and unfold it. There are squares all over my words. In my head, I say, I miss you. At the top of the paper, I write, Dear Home.

My thanks to Susannah Conway for these prompts.

1. Dear Love

Dear Love

We’ve gotten to know one another well haven’t we, these past three years. Once, you were a notion – something difficult to pin down or describe. A feeling. But now that we spend so much time working together – crafting stories, figuring out what role you’ll have to play, I’ve been forced to examine you under my writer’s microscope. What used to be abstract is now concrete.

Of course, like all of us, there are different facets to you.

When we first meet you, for example. You’re quite different then. We may not even recognise you at first – you can be sly like that, when you want to be. But when we do see you, when we know you for who you are – suddenly everything about our world changes.

The beginning.

Love, we think about you all the time. When we’re driving to do the shopping. When we’re lying awake at night. We wonder what you’re doing, who you’re with, whether you could possibly feel the same way about us. Our stomachs tighten when we’re close to you; our eyes can’t stay away. We feel conspicuous whenever you’re around, wondering if our clothes look okay and if our hair is right – silly things, things we’re embarrassed to be worrying about. Whenever we speak to you our tongues feel thick in our mouths. The words stumble forth. Afterwards, on the walk back to our car, or at home as we go about our lives, we go over and over what we said to one another, looking for hidden meaning. Our minds are flooded; we are greedy, desperate for more of you. More time. More attention. We can’t eat. We feel slightly ill as our hearts beat too fast and our mouths go dry. We hide our shaking fingers whenever you’re near.

Love Sickness is a real thing.

Our bodies want to be closer – we dream of the brush of a hand, a fingertip slipping a strand of hair behind an ear. We dream of more, too. Much more.

Sometimes we stop here.

And it hurts. A wrenching apart, as if what drew us together is torn, thin as it is. Like tissue paper.

But other times, Love, we go onward.

It can be easy. Slow. Tentative.

Or it can be explosive. Hot. Consuming.

We decide this together as we work and sometimes, you show me a side of yourself that even I have not yet seen. I like that.

And after a while, even in the hottest and most consuming of loves, there is a softening.

This is your other side, the side that you keep hidden until much later, until you’re sure it’s safe to reveal it.

We laugh more now – not just because we think we should laugh when you tell a joke, but because you’re so funny and you think I’m funny too. We move easily around one another – when we walk, when we cook. You pass me the wooden spoon without me having to ask; I hand you the salt.

We know things about each other. When we’re with other people, you give me a gentle look when someone brings up a topic that you know I don’t like talking about.

You say, It’s okay.

You say, I understand.

We no longer long for an accidental touch, but, oh – your palm around the curve of my waist as I set the table. Your lips on my temple.

Dear Love. Dearest.

I’m so thankful that we get to spend so much time together. That we have so much more work to do.

 

My thanks to Susannah Conway for these prompts.

 

 

30. A menu for my last meal ever.

I’ve been waiting for this one. No embarrassing story. No personal details. This one is so easy!

First of all, since this is fantasy-land, can we just make it so that everyone in my family can eat anything they want and not get sick? Grand.

Let’s get started then.

You’re walking into my home, and since this is my last meal, I will be ninety-one (see my obituary here). My house is a beautiful, rambling old cottage nestled into the forest. You’ll be greeted by two cats at the door – Adelaide and Newton, who will keep you company until I can shuffle my way there. I’ll show you inside, take your coat, exchange pleasantries about the weather, your drive there, then we’ll go into the dining room, where a crowd of people circle a long, wooden table. The room is golden, the light moving over faces, creating dark spots in corners for private conversations. I insisted we use only candles when we eat when I was around the age of eighty-three.  Now, you’re being introduced to the other guests – my husband, my children, grandchildren, fellow writers, local artists, and musicians. Music is playing softly, something acoustic and unusual. I’m saving the more upbeat stuff for later. For the dancing.

On the table lie three platters. Seed crackers with salt. Cheeses. Grapes. A selection of cold meats. Small bagels with cream cheese, salmon, and dill. Wine flows. On the other side of the room, an old friend starts making cocktails.

We sit down. The chairs are comfortable; the table the right height. Behind us, the french doors are open, allowing a cool mountain breeze to tickle the backs of necks and ruffle the tablecloth.

The main courses are brought out: chickens, cooked with lemon and thyme; fresh pasta with mushrooms and parmesan cheese; fried chicken with soft, mashed potatoes and gravy. Pickles. Big, vibrant salads. None of it matches. I’m ninety-one. I don’t care.

We eat, passing around the food, pouring more wine. At one end of the table, two people who met for the first time this night are laughing quietly, their heads bent together. Next to me, an artist explains her latest work. Someone shares a poem.

The plates are cleared and we stand to our feet to walk the terraces. I kick off my shoes and step onto the cool earth. We pass my fruit trees, heavy with apples, and I pluck one from a branch and pass it to the person behind me. The air is mild, the sky inky black and the stars iridescent above our heads. There are night-sounds – crickets, quiet rustlings in the bush. I can smell eucalyptus from the forest, perfume from the pennyroyal my guests crush underfoot.

Back inside. Five musicians decide to play. They reach for their instruments, smiling, and set up in the corner of the large room. Two men argue over who should sing first.

The desserts arrive. Lemon meringue pie, like my mother used to make. Chocolate tart – the taste of it bitter and sharp on my tongue.

Some of the candles have burned out. It’s late – so much darker now, and the musicians switch to slower, more seductive songs. We tell stories and drink more wine and then we dance, enclosed in one another’s arms until sunrise.

The music plays on.

And on.

29. I ask advice.

Let’s talk characters.

I’m starting to think about the third book in the series now that The ‘Ohana Tree is almost out (2 days to go!) and in my little moments of musing and dreaming, I’ve been focusing on characters.

I’ve been asked a few times about how I come up with my characters. I usually vary my response depending on who asked because the honest truth sounds a little nuts. The more I get into this book making stuff, the more I realise that there is a side to it that I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. To say it plainly, it can be spooky.

Since I am confessing here, I’m going to go with the 100% honest, Rebecca is a crazy woman, version.

When I’m writing, I try to silence one side of my brain and allow the other side to do its work. The side I’m silencing is the one that says things like, What time is it? I’m hungry. This is terrible. Gah. So cliche. I wish I could write like her. Is this a silly book? Should I be writing serious literature? And on, and on, and on.

It used to be hard work to shut this side of myself up, but the more writing I do the better I get at putting a lid on it. One of the strategies I have for this is routine and discipline. In a writing phase (as opposed to an editing, or just about the release a book freak-out phase) I write every morning for 3 – 4 hours. It becomes a habit and I find that as soon as I sit down, I slip easily into a creative space.

So now I’m ready to work. In my first draft, I write quickly without much conscious thought, and this is the spooky bit – I don’t feel as though I’m in the driver’s seat. My characters come to me strongly and they’re fully formed – their names, appearance, fears, mannerisms, likes and dislikes – they’re all there. I learn the way they speak by writing down what they tell me. For example, there’s a nickname in the second book that appeared on the screen early on, and I had to sit back and look at it for a second because it surprised me so much.

The even weirder thing is that sometimes my characters will reveal something of themselves later in the book that feels completely new to me, but when I read back over what I’ve previously written, I see that there are details and clues about this seemingly new revelation already in the work. This happened in both The ‘Ohana Tree and in the second book in the series.

They also wake me up at 2 or 3 in the morning and tell me new things about themselves.

I know they’re not real people. But they feel real. The experience of being deeply involved in writing a long book is a consuming one, and it often feels like I have voices in my head or there’s a movie playing that I can only see in my mind’s eye.

So there you have it.

Now for the advice. I thought I’d turn things around and ask you about characters.

What do you love in a character? What do you hate?

Who are your favourite book characters of all time?

What kind of characters do we need to see more of in books?

 

28. 5 things I’m loving right now.

Spotify

I feel like Spotify was made for people like me. People who love music, but struggle to name a genre they like, or who their favourite band is. My favourite features of Spotify are the “Mood” section and the “Related Artists” section. Being into music is a sort of new thing for me. I’ve always liked it, but I haven’t always known how to find the sound I loved. Now all I have to do it tell Spotify what mood I’m in, and it chooses a playlist for me. And the Related Artist bit has helped me to discover so many singers and bands I would never have heard of otherwise. Spotify has encouraged me to diversify my tastes and even see more live music. Love you, Spotify. You can stay.

Summer in the middle of Autumn

I got some highlights put into my hair this morning. I’m loving the look of sunshine in my hair, even if the days are growing colder. The only problem is, I feel like I should be packing my bags for a holiday on a tropical island and instead I’m just doing the school run! Oh well.

Rockport Flats

Due to a chronic pain issue with my pelvis and hips, I am always on the lookout for comfortable flats. It has been suggested to me, more than once, that I try “orthopaedic shoes”. While I appreciate the leaps and bounds such special shoes have made in terms of fashion and design in the last five years, the progress is not quite where I need it to be in order for me to wear them. These flats are the perfect compromise – they have some cushiony bits in them and they’re ridiculously comfortable. When I found them, I bought three pairs in different colours on the spot.

Finding Surprise Selfies

Every parent loves this. We love it so much we might even show them to you, even if you’d rather not see them. This is one photo in a series my son took one night in his room. I have no idea why. Love it.

Pretty Trees

I love this time of year. It’s cold enough in the morning for a dressing gown but warm enough in the afternoon for short sleeves. And the trees! Everywhere I go there is orange, rust, cherry red, and sunflower yellow.

 

What are you loving at the moment?

27. What I’m dreaming about.

When I can’t sleep, which is often, I like to wander in my mind. I have my favourite haunts – Paris at night, the sandy streets of Jaisalmer, Worser Bay Beach. But lately, there’s a new place my mind likes to visit on those long, silent nights when sleep refuses to come. This wandering is called Marewa Road.

We parked alongside the small clay bank covered in scrubby plants. Through the windscreen, I could see Poppa’s Ford Fairlane parked in front of us, wide and settled into the road like a boat. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat in it, but I knew the way the woollen blanket that covered the back seat felt on the sensitive skin behind my knees, and how I felt when I rode in it, like a princess, crawling through the city in the back of a limousine while my driver whistled and drove slow enough to annoy the people behind us. I picked at the Fraggle Rock tattoo I’d stuck to the brown vinyl seat in our Nissan Sunny then peered through the window and up to where I could just see a glimpse of the boxy off-white house high above the road. It had white paint covering the concrete exterior. Like icing on a cake.

We got out of the car and walked up the small path to the letterbox. The path was on an incline but not too steep. It was the warm up before the big climb. We all wanted to get to the letterbox first. Bringing Nana the post was a good job. It meant she didn’t have to make the trip down the steps and back and whoever handed it over would be rewarded with a warm, soft hug and a broad smile. My sister Kerryn got there first that day, swiping the small bundle of envelopes and a circular with a smug smile. She raced ahead, taking the first steps two at a time so that she would be able to hand over the mail in private. Claire and I exchanged a look. We weren’t going to run up the steps. We knew by then to pace ourselves.

I began the climb. I’ve forgotten now how many steps there were, but I must have counted them fifty times or more. I can almost hear my child-voice, muffled as if speaking through a door, reciting one.. two.. three…twenty-nine.. thirty.. thirty-two. There were things to look at along the way, little treasures deliberately placed to catch the eye and distract the climber from their rising heart rate and laboured breaths. A plant with delicate pink flowers, tucked between two rocks. Downy sage green leaves that we liked to stop and stroke on our way past. The small flat lawn in front of the house passed by on our right. We didn’t stop, but mum did. She turned around to look at the view of the sea and a passing Interislander Ferry, bound for the South Island. She pressed her hands to the small of her back and leaned back with a sigh. Kerryn was only two steps in front of us now. She’d slowed her pace around the middle of the climb, those short legs of hers unable to keep up with her enthusiasm.

We all made it to the top. Mum bent down to admire a plant and I knew we would stop here again on our tour of the garden later. Nana would pull out a sharp knife and slice off a piece of it, pressing down on the wooden handle with her thumb. She would wrap it in damp newspaper and tie the bundle with twine, telling us the story of where she’d found the plant as she worked.

At the door, we huddled together on the porch. A camellia flower the colour of cotton candy floated face up in a ceramic bowl Nana had made herself. I touched the tip of my finger to the silky petals and nudged it, sending it sailing across the surface of the water. The door opened before we had time to knock. Nana was there with an apron on; good smells were making their way out of her kitchen to where we stood. We lined up for hugs as we walked through the doorway; her blue knit cardigan soft against my cheek.

“Hello!” Poppa called out from the living room. We bounded in. He was in his chair with his feet up, a book open on his lap.

“Hello!” we sang back.

The kettle was already boiling and upon hearing it, mum made her way into the kitchen to help set out cups and arrange the assortment of treats on plates. I was secretly hoping for date loaf and Nana’s sultana cake – my favourite. The three of us sat nicely at Nana and Poppa’s house, carefully choosing what we’d like to eat from the plate she passed around, trying our hardest not to argue with one another. Sometimes, we had a milky warm tea to go with our Full o’ Fruit biscuit or piece of shortbread.

After tea, it was time to explore. I walked the length of the huge window that covered one side of the living room, stopping at Poppa’s telescope. The window wasn’t quite as big as the one at my house, but I could still see the ferries that passed by Nana’s window on their way to mine. Next, I went into the dining room and sat for a few seconds at the wooden table. I liked the spot next to the window, where I could see the steps and the garden stretching down to the street. The kitchen was next – a little dimmer than the front of the house, but nice and cool. I opened a cupboard and briefly regarded the pots and pans. I’d played them like drums the last time I’d visited and considered doing it again but then remembered the adults talking in the next room. I stopped in the doorway to Nana’s bedroom and looked in, but didn’t enter. There was a small wardrobe where Poppa hung his dressing gown and a chair in the corner. I liked Nana’s wide, flat hairbrush with the metal handle, and the smell of the things on her dresser.

The camphor blanket box was hard to open but impossible to resist. The top was carved with mysterious designs that looked exotic to my eyes and I ran my fingers over them before lifting the golden latch. It used to take my cousin Katie and I working together to open the lid but I was strong enough now to do it on my own. Inside, thick wool blankets awaited the winter. A smell – medicinal and sour made my nose wrinkle before I carefully lowered the lid.

Along this wall was the best thing in the house. I turned around and looked at it before tip-toeing over and bending down. We were not allowed to play with the laundry chute. Inside, was a deathly drop to the concrete floor of the laundry below. Throwing things in there and listing to the shloooop as it fell was one of the best things on earth. My sisters, cousins and I had spent hours yelling things to one another from either end. I ignored the chute for now and walked down the hall to the spare bedroom. There was a single bed next to the window, and a desk with hidden compartments. I liked this room because Poppa had written the heights of my dad and uncles on the wood next to the door, followed by the heights of all of the grandchildren. We marvelled at how tall our father was at our age and tried to imagine him as a small boy, even smaller than us.

Into the sunroom, the brightest room in the house. Poppa’s shirts hung over my head on hangers and Nana’s sewing machine was set up at one end. I opened the cupboard door to check on My Darling, the doll with the cracked head that we all loved. She was sleeping, her eyelids shut. Down the stairs on my bottom, bump bump bump. The wood under my hands was silky smooth. Perfect for sliding down. We had tried to make the trip on pillowcases a few times, and once, a sleeping bag. The cupboard at the bottom of the stairs was off limits, but sometimes Poppa would venture in while we waited excitedly by the door. There were shelves and shelves of special things in there. My favourite treasure was an old Mr Potato Head set. The bedroom at the bottom of the stairs was where we always slept when we stayed the night. No one wanted the upstairs room, and I can’t remember why now. There were two single beds. It was always a race to get the one by the window.

I looked at the toy box and the wooden mechanic garage with the ramp that sat on top. Playing with the cars, tractors, and metal soldiers was fun but I needed someone else to play with. I looked up at the staircase, hoping to see a sister making her way down, but there wasn’t anyone there, so I walked up the concrete steps at my side and opened the door.

The laundry was cool and damp; I poked my head in but decided not to go inside. The old washer with the wringer stood at the back. Every time I looked at the wringer, I heard Nana’s voice in my head, telling me that my fingers would be crushed if I ever put my hands near it.

I heard movement overhead, people walking around and a light burst of laughter. It was time for the garden walk. I raced up the steps to meet them just as they were at the door and we all walked into the sunshine together. First, past the camellias, then around the corner to the grassy area where we sat on Christmas morning, and then to the rock gardens that covered the bank. The adults walked the garden, stopping to look at plants, pinch off a dead flower or pluck a weed out of the soil. They were too slow for me, so I ran ahead and took the shady garden path, looping around the meet them on the other side.

It was time to go. Nana passed mum the cuttings she had taken from the garden, wrapped in newspaper, tied with twine.

Poppa put his hands into his pockets and whistled as he looked at a patch of flowers by his foot, his head down. “Goodbye Becca!” he said when I stood next to him and leaned into his side.

“Bye Poppa!”

“Take this, too,” Nana said, pressing a tin of biscuits into mum’s hands. “We’ll see you next weekend.”

“Bye Nana!” we all cried as we started down the steps, single-file.

They waited at the top until we disappeared from view.

 

26. What’s happening now?

I’m having a pretty good day. The kids are back at school, I got a massage and a manicure, I have the house to myself. My book is coming out in 4 days and I’m keeping it together. Okay, last night I did have a minor freak out, but mostly I’m keeping it together. The sun is shining but it’s not hot. The neighbour’s dog is quiet. There’s chocolate in the fridge and even though I’m not going to eat it (headaches) I like to know it’s there.

So, all in all, a good day. Lots to be happy about. Lots of be grateful for.

Considering how awesome my day sounds so far, the highlight of it may surprise you.

It’s this:

Some of you know about my son, Ben, and the challenges we’ve had keeping the kid healthy and growing. He was born with a liver problem but recovered after two weeks in special care after birth. We then had a blissful 8 months with him where he was healthy and chubby and doing everything he should. Even after he had a severe allergic reaction to egg and we discovered a long list of food allergies, he was still doing great. But at 13 months, everything changed when he came down with rotovirus, a severe tummy bug, and he never recovered. He couldn’t keep anything in for three weeks and he basically stopped eating from then on. He was already on a specialist prescription formula due to his allergies, and that kept him from starving to death for the next 18 months. On top of the food issues we were dealing with, he had endless ear and chest infections – one after another – and really bad stomach pain. We watched as those baby rolls disappeared and his cheeks hollowed, his stomach distended and he got dark purple shadows under his eyes. He stopped growing altogether so that between 13 months and 22 months he didn’t change at all. He was our talking, walking baby-looking toddler.

As you can imagine, as parents we were desperate to find out what was causing Ben’s pain and constant illnesses. We worked with a lot of Drs and Ben endured lots of yucky and painful tests, and to cut a long story short – he had to go off gluten.

I always said I could handle the dairy-free, egg-free, peanut, tomato, fish, soy-free as long as Ben could eat bread. I didn’t know what to do without it. I remember that first day after the results were in, driving to New World in Mana from the hospital and running in to get something for a late dinner. I paced the aisles, conscious of the fact that both kids were waiting in the car with my husband and they’d be getting cranky. It felt like there was nothing we could eat. In fact, I remember wailing internally, screaming, There’s nothing, NOTHING we can eat!

I got over it, of course. We all went gluten free for two years and that led to my husband and daughter discovering that they also need to be gluten free. Ben grew 6cm in 4 weeks. Over the course of a year, he learned to eat again and trust that food wasn’t going to hurt him. His skeleton is small, his teeth are behind.. he may always be a short kid – but he eats and enjoys food and he’s healthy. We’re thankful. When people hear that Ben is gluten and egg free with limited dairy, they usually shake their heads and ask me how I do it. I don’t know. You just do. You do it because you have to do it.

That’s not to say that it’s easy. Packing a lunchbox is very hard without bread. The gluten free bread I can source that is also egg-free is around $10 a loaf and usually hard as a rock. So I cook lunches for my kids, often early in the morning before school. Chicken drumsticks, sausages, meatballs. I bake everything. I improvise. Everything takes a long time. I don’t always want to do this. Actually, I never want to do this. But I get it done.

A week ago, we were in a deli in Blackheath that makes its own sandwiches. That’s not an ideal place to take a kid with coeliac disease and another one who’s gluten intolerant, but I had been there before with my husband and they were good. Amazingly, Ben was able to eat a ham and cheese wrap. His first ever wrap – at eight and a half years old. They even made it in a separate part of the kitchen for him. His face lit up when they brought it out and he talked about that wrap all the way until dinner.

From that day on, I was like a bloodhound searching for those wraps.

I found some today. Finding them and confirming they’re egg-free was better than a day off, better than a massage and a manicure. Better than a book coming out.

Because tomorrow, my kids are having chicken and avocado wraps for lunch. Like regular kids. For the first time in forever, their lunch will look like everybody else’s. That’s a huge, huge, deal for them.

I don’t mind at all that I’ll have to cook the chicken.

25. Something I’ve watched.

Last night I finished watching Season One of Outlander for the second time. The first time I watched it, I was alone – or pretending I was alone with the aid of headphones and a fierce glare for anyone who approached. But then it was added to Netflix, and after much deliberation, I decided my husband had to watch it too.

This required deep thought. I knew (knew!) that he would make fun of the theme song, he would groan about the bagpipes, and he would attempt a terrible Scottish accent at least once during each and every episode.

Despite my reservations, I really wanted him to see it. You know when you love something so much that you just have to share it with someone, even if it’s possibly not a good idea? I feel that way about the Outlander books. There’s no way my husband is going to read 8 huge novels about time travel and a red-headed Scot, so the tv series was the next best thing.

I love Diana Gabaldon’s books because they arrived in my life just when I was returning to my childhood love of reading. I read the first one in Hawaii and I remember that old feeling of being pulled into a story. Of not being able to put the book down. With so many books to read (and write!) it’s not often that I will return to a book I’ve previously read. Outlander is a rare exception – I’ve read them all more than once, and the first four at least 6 times each.

There’s so much that I love about the books. Claire – strong, self-sufficient, decisive. My children have her to thank whenever I come at them with a tincture or a cup of meadowsweet tea. I love the history, the clothing, the domestic details. And the love story, of course. There’s that.

With my passion for the books firmly entrenched, you can imagine how excited I was to see the tv series.

But because of this guy…

I spent most of the last two episodes with a pillow over my face. What I learned from watching the series, was that reading something is not at all the same thing as seeing something. I knew what was going to happen, of course, but when it did happen, I felt completely unprepared. That Jack Randall. What a sadistic monster. I really struggled with those Wentworth Prison scenes, more than I’ve struggled with any other tv series or movie I’ve seen. A round of applause for the actors.. but oh, gosh. It was horrible.

Because I know these books and these characters so well, seeing them on screen feels a bit surreal, a bit too real. I can’t imagine how Diana Gabaldon feels.

So that’s what I’ve been watching lately.. I can’t wait for Season Two (and neither can my husband).