A BIG DAY

This is a monologue best suited to a woman somewhere roughly in her forties.  It is a drama about mothers dealing with children with addictions –the strangers they become and and the terrible affect it has on families generally.  Fortunately, it ends on a positive note.  

_________________________________

It had been a big day for rain I remember.  I was just putting the kettle on when Nicola walked in.  The cat fled: he’s tuned in to her moods now.  She threw her muddy school shoes on the kitchen table, then slouched into her room without a word.
“Cup of tea?” I called.  No answer.  Not that I expected one.
I’m always making pots of tea…Vicki, that’s my friend at work, she reckons it’s my security blanket.  Says I must’ve been a Pom in another life.  I don’t know.  Maybe.  
Anyway, I looked at the shoes, lying there, crusted in mud, on our dinner table and I wanted to scream.  But I didn’t.  Ofcourse I didn’t.  I took a deep breath and walked over and picked up the shoes, and went outside and hit them very hard against a verandah post, and then put them neatly against the backdoor, where they’re meant to be left. Then I took a broom and shovel and swept up the mess, and was just putting it all in the bin when I heard some banging coming from her room.   Slamming cupboards, I thought.  Looking for it.

I looked out the kitchen window and stared out at the garden and took a few deep breaths.  That’s what Vicki does.  She says inhale for four.. exhale for eight..…and focus on something else. A Lovely Thought, Vicki calls them.  Always does it.  I’m getting tense just thinking about it.  So I stared out at the rain, and thought at least the garden’s always grateful for what I do.  And my eyes slid slowly down the fern leaves, and rested on the dark earth below, and I thought: Spring will be here soon.  This winter will be all over and I’ll thrill again to the soft buzz of insects as they weave through the sunlight...When suddenly it’s broken by her voice.
“WHERE’S MY LAPTOP?”  like that, all deep and commanding.  “Where?”  The voice came from her bedroom, but still made me jump.  I turned around to call out to her but she was already standing at the end of the bench, dark rings under her eyes, shaking demonically, hair standing on end, in small knotty clumps she seemed to have manifested in the three minutes since she’d got home.  I could see the muscles flex in her arms.  She does that sometimes.  It makes me nervous.

“I took it,” I said.

“You WHAT?” she said.  Just like that.

“The doctor said I had to restrict your- use of it.  For your own good.  He’s given me a timetable for when you can use it – see?”

I passed her his notes.  All handwritten neatly.  With that authority doctors have, which gave me confidence. “Seven to ten, you can have it back.  Okay?“

She was staring at me.  It was the first time I’d stood up to her in years. 

“And the rest of the time, he says, is for –“

She banged her fist on the kitchen bench and I jumped.
“FOR WHAT?” she boomed.

“Living.”  I said, “Living.  Talking.  Being.  With your family.”
I was stammering.  It was a giveaway.  So I decided to go for it.
“He says from everything I’d told him you are addicted to your laptop.  It’s not uncommon, he said.  Millions of kids your age suffer from it.”
She stared at me.  Then smiled strangely.  And threw back her head and released a noise – sort of like a laugh..but it wasn’t a laugh.  It was a strange loud noise that came from the back of her throat.  And she tipped her head sideways, as if I was a child, and said, “Better that than drugs isn’t it?”
“Ofcourse,” I said, “Ofcourse it’s better than drugs, but –“
And I stopped.  She was walking towards me now, flailing both her fists at me like a wild animal.
“So give me my - effing - laptop NOW!”
She never used to swear.  And she was leaning into my face now, really close.  I could smell her breath.  Acrid.  Angry.  
“You need to eat,” I said, gently.
“I want my life back,” she said.  “GIVE ME MY LIFE BACK!”
Then she sort of launched herself away from me again and disappeared down the hallway.
Everything went quiet.  So I started to fill the tea pot.  Then I realised I hadn’t boiled enough water, so I filled the kettle again.
I felt sick, so I did some more deep breathing, waiting for the next instalment.  I plugged the kettle in and listened to it for a moment, the strange little curling sound it always makes as it heats up.   Things were too quiet.  
Sure enough: suddenly she burst out of the hallway again like a creature in a horror movie, holding something now, smiling strangely, rolling towards me then veering out again, to the back verandah.
“What are you doing?” I heard myself say.
But I knew already.  It was one of her favourite ways of seeking revenge. She was holding little Jim’s laptop, his beloved new Apple...cords flailing out the side and the back. She lifted it above her head, looked up to see I was watching, then smashed it onto the wooden floor. It’s lid came away, she’d done the job alright, but she picked it up again and smashed it against the verandah post just for good keeping.
“That’s for hiding mine!” she said.  
And then she headed out to the garden and stared at me in the rain, as she stepped backwards on top of all the plants – plants her father and her and I had planted all those years ago..when she was young and sweet and still trying to please…and began to stamp…flattening their leaves, leaving them raw and snapped at the edges, like severed limbs…my beautiful darling grateful plants.

And the kettle started to whistle in the background.   I stood on the verandah, as if I would never move again, and watched my daughter at the end of the yard now, acting like a stranger.  She knew it was working.  She picked up my shovel and started to slash at the plants madly.  And then I heard her whimper.  As she hit and slashed at our darling garden…tearing the soft leaves of our beautiful cherished plants, my roses...anything…anything she could ruin or decapitate.
It took a while.  But I’m sure she was crying too.  And the kettle - the kettle was screaming the whole time. 

 Finally, puffing with the exertion, she just came to a halt.  The garden was a mess of flattened stems and crushed flowers, all around her feet.  At last, I thought, she’s done.  It’s over.  But it wasn’t.  Suddenly she was heading for me, stopping at the foot of the verandah and staring up at me with - with mad eyes, holding the shovel, and for a moment, I thought, “She’s going to kill me.  She’s going to attack me with that shovel and kill me.” But she just looked at me coldly and said, “I hate you.  I hate you so much more than you could ever imagine.”

And part of me wanted to say, “And I hate you back.  I do not even know how we spawned you. I hate your egocentric, vengeful, vicious, selfish, violent ways.  I despise you and want you out of this house forever.” But I didn’t.  Because I’m her mother.  And I’m terrified of her.  Instead, I did what any mother would do when they no longer recognise their own child: I turned around and went inside to turn off the screaming kettle.  
I’ll never forget that moment.  It’s burnt in my memory.  Seeing her distorted reflection in the  round polished chrome of the kettle…coming towards me.  I turned around quickly to face her. Flailing arms, screaming like a banshee.  And all I could think was, “Thank God she’s put down the shovel.”

**
Casualty said the bruising would get worse before it got better.  I didn’t even think to put any ice on it at the time ofcourse.  Jimmy arrived – thank God – just in the nick of time.  Not that he could do much. He’s always been slight for his age.  I hated him seeing me, crouching in the corner of the kitchen.  He put his hand on my shoulder, and kissed my head, and suddenly it was all reversed.  I mean I’m meant to be the parent here.  

It was the first time we’d actually called the police. I mean, I’d threatened to in the past but…They were a little rough with her.  Said they’d need her assessed in a psych ward or clinic of some sort.  I remember watching her as they pushed her into their divvy van.  The look she gave me.  Like it was all my fault.  Which ofcourse it was.  Somehow.  It always is when you’re the mother.

**

The bruising did get worse.  And I couldn’t exactly keep my sunglasses on in the office, could I? Vicki and I plied on some cover up, and hoped no one would notice.  Most of them didn’t seem to.  Well, they’re only interested in buying and selling real estate, they’re hardly going to notice what our eyes look like.
By the end of the day I was tired of Vicki’s sideways glances and said to her, “It’s alright love.  These things happen with addictions.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” said Vicki, “Not over a bloody laptop anyway.”

**
Had a few chores to do at the house before going out this afternoon.  Got Jimmy’s school jumper from the dry cleaners, picked up some of his favourite fried chicken for dinner, and left a note for the neighbours about that handyman I’d recommended, had a cup of tea, with the cat in my lap purring and prodding and dropping saliva drops onto the newspaper I was trying to read.  Then took off out down the South Eastern freeway to visit Nicola.  It’s not a long drive really – only takes about 45 minutes when the traffic’s good, and it’s a nice area…plenty of bushland and birds. I could smell the wood smoke today when I got out of the car.  Someone was burning off, clearing the leaves for the bushfire season ahead. Wasn’t far away now.  And the blossoms were out everywhere. Wisteria blooming up the wall of one of the sleeping quarters – so pretty against the wood.

I found Nicola out having a cigarette with some of her mates.  She was hunched over, wearing a beanie someone had knitted for her, and mittens.  She really feels the cold.  Like her father used to.  She was wearing an old brown jumper of his.  I could never bear to throw it out.  She loved it when she was little too.  Said she could smell him in the wool.  It’s gone now ofcourse.  The smell I mean. 

Introduced me to all her friends.  Some of whom I’d met a few times before.  Some of them know me by name now. They’re always very friendly, wave to me and offer me a ciggie.  I don’t.  All these addicts have to have something though, don’t they?  Nicola’s puffing away now – I don’t think she smoked before this place..
After about ten minutes of listening to them banter – Elizabeth called me in.  I looked at Nicola, she normally comes in with me, but she shook her head.  Asked if I minded going in alone.  Said she’d see me next time.  Suddenly it all seemed, I don’t know…contrived.  Planned.  As if they’ talked about it all beforehand.  I felt – I dunno – on the outer.  I hadn’t felt that before.   Elizabeth led me into her office and I sat down in the same place I did the first time I came here.  And she offered me a cup of tea, and I said, “No thank you. Just had one.  I like your hair style.”
“Thank you,”  She said.  And there was a pause. The kind of pause you get before something big happens.  And I found myself looking out at the trees and trying to smell the wood smoke .
“So.  Denise.  I wanted to tell you a little more about Nicola,” she said, “Things she didn’t even tell us for a while.”
Well! I didn’t say what I felt like saying. “Why would she admit something to you before telling me for God’s sake? ”
But I didn’t. Instead I waited as Elizabeth calmly referred to her notes.  

“Nicola had a difficult childhood.  Bill, her father, died when she was only –

She paused.  “THREE, “ I said, just like that.  “Three.”

“ - and she did help raise Jimmy” said Elizabeth.

As if I didn’t feel guilty enough already.

“I know I wasn’t always the greatest mother but –“  I was about to say “but they were loved.  I DID love them” but Elizabeth held her hand up to me, a little saintly, as if it were all a given, and suddenly said,
“Nicola has asked me to tell you as she doesn’t think she can.  We think you should know that Nicola was sexually abused by a neighbour when she was five years old.”
I don’t think counsellors, proper trained counsellors, are meant to give you information like that so suddenly are they?  I mean, they’re meant to break it into little bites or something, surely?

I remember sort of swooning, backwards, for a moment.
Then I remember saying, stupidly really, I said, “Are you sure?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Sexually abused by a retarded boy – Robert,” she said looking at her notes.
And I said, “But he was such a gentle giant of a boy -  he wouldn’t - he was -“
My voice trailed off as I remembered Robert as a smiling, pimply, grunting fourteen year old playing with her in the backyard. 

 Oh my God, I thought, Oh my God.

Elizabeth the All Knowing then explains that seventy eight per cent of people who’ve been sexually abused in their childhood become drug addicts.   So then I say, in some feeble effort at self defense, “But it wasn’t drugs.  It was laptops. She was addicted to her laptop!”

 I remember.. a tiny little smile flickers across her face, like one that you don’t mean to do, like the kind that happen when something inside says, ‘don’t smile now for God’s sake”.

“Denise,” said this child half my age, “Clearly we should have been clearer.  Nicola is in rehab for substance abuse.  I thought you understood.  Nicola used her computer case as a hiding place for drugs.  That’s why she was so concerned about it.  She felt it was the only place you’d never think of looking.”  
I was stunned.

“So, how long...?”
She looked at her notes.
“She’s been using valium and alcohol for about six years, and -.”
“But – that would take her back to age eleven.  Eleven for God’s sake!”
And I had a flash of the last time I’d ever smacked her. She was twelve.  I could smell it on her breath, after school one day.  Sherry and lemonade.  I’d stood up to her then. Well you can when they’re twelve, can’t you?   But thought nothing more of it really.  I mean, I thought all kids did that at some stage, didn’t they?  I thought that was – normal.  “God,” I thought, “What sort of a pathetic excuse for a mother am I?”
And then Elizabeth trumped up again: “Her biggest challenge now ofcourse, is heroin.”
I remember my mouth actually falling open.  But my mind was ducking and weaving, trying to find ways out.
“But how would she be paying for that?”  I asked, “They steal.  And she’s never stolen anything in her life. So.. how...?”
And I looked at Elizabeth in her smug office with her neat hairstyle and her expensive lilac coloured knee high suede boots, and she tried not to smile in that eerie way of hers, and I wanted to scream.  But I didn’t.  Instead I took a very deep breath.  And suddenly all those nights she was flouncing out, in some skimpy outfit, laptop case on her shoulder, telling me not to wait up for her, telling me she was studying in the library… suddenly they all made sense.
My little baby girl.

**

I couldn’t find Nicola to say goodbye.  In the car on the way home, suddenly out of nowhere, driving through the Dandenongs I had a memory flash - Nicola in a pink and orange play suit I once sewed for her, a fountain of hair sprouting at the top, eating Vegemite sandwiches in front of Play School with her little brother. And suddenly I felt so bloody angry - at Bill!  Bill of all people - for dying so bloody young. For letting all this happen, for leaving me to look after two small children, to raise them, and feed them and school them, all on my own, unsupported, unloved – unheld - for all these years.  And I missed him and wanted to hit him and I ached for him, really ached for him in my heart – I wanted him to hold me and say “It’s alright love.  It’s not your fault.”
But it was.   Of course it was.  It always is.

***

Jim and I drove out to pick up Nicola today.  Jim even gave her a big hug.  Not like him.  He’s more the still waters run deep type.  Like his father.  
It was a very huggy day actually.  Which sounds, I don’t know, shallow.  But it wasn’t.  It was very moving actually. They all stood in a circle and played all sorts of songs and Elizabeth came over and said they were doing a ceremony, for Nicola, to say goodbye.
We’d arrived early, so she suggested we watch from the door.
One of them stood up and said, “Thank you for your singing.”  I didn’t even know she could.  And another said, “Thank you for your sweet infectious giggle.” And I turned to Jimmy and we grinned at each other.
And another stood up and said “Thank you for trusting us with your story..”
And I thought, and that’s something I haven’t got yet.  Her trust.  And that’s something I haven’t heard..  And don’t particularly want to.  But have to.  And will.  Because I am her mother.   And then, as if he’d read my mind, Jim took my hand and squeezed it.
I was surprised by how moving it was, watching them all give their little speeches.  I could swear I saw Jim wipe a tear off his cheek, very quickly, before anyone noticed.
And then Nicola waved at us to join in, so we walked up and they all  - just hugged us.  
It felt a bit strange…all these lovely kids all standing around us hugging…A bit unreal or something.  As if deep down I knew some of them would never make it back.   But they wanted to.  I knew that for sure.  In that moment, in the security of that place, they all wanted to.   Desperately.   

We all formed a circle and Nicola stood in the middle and closed her eyes and beamed.   Then they all went round the circle, one at a time, and said something positive about her.  And she soaked it up!  Words like ‘friend’…’trustworthy’ and ..forgiving’.  Then it came to Jim and me and Jim said ‘big sister’ and she got all teary.  There was only one word I could say.  Strong.  I said it loud and “Strong!” like that. “Strong!”  And she heard my voice and burst into tears.  So did I.  

Then Jim laughed, embarrassed, and said he felt like he was on some kind of reality show and everyone agreed and laughed with him…but there was something very genuine there, and precious, this sharing of feelings, this connection we all had in that tiny moment in time. 

It felt strange and new and – a little bit scary mind you – sort of raw.  But safe.  And good.  And cleansing. 

Finally the three of us climbed into the car, and Elizabeth walked up and shook my hand and wished us all the best.  I quite like her now.  She’s even given me the name of her hairdresser.

And we headed off down the driveway, and Jim said something about just as well she was coming home because I was back playing jazz and classical in the kitchen again...and Nicola said something back to him, which made them both laugh.  And it felt like a family.  The three of us again. 

And then Nicola rolled herself one and lit up a bloody cigarette…told me rollies are better for you.

“As if that’s any consolation,” I said primly.  But it is ofcourse.  And in seconds the whole car was filled with her smoke.  So we opened the windows, and let the warm summer air fly around our heads, and I turned on the radio, and Nicola changed the channel and I was about to change it back, when lo and behold it was one of Bill’s favourites by The Band.  And we all began singing “Whispering Pines”. And I could swear he was sitting there in the car with us.   Right behind me.  Singing.  Happy.  Smiling at me in the rear view mirror.  It’s my Lovely Thought now:  a moment I think of whenever I put the kettle on and breathe deeply.  Our baby girl was coming home.