Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
I park the car and head for the house. Don’t expect her to make a fuss over you, I reason as I walk up the drive.
Remnants of a garden cluttered by Bunnings crap leads the way to the front door. Once inside the smell of animal hits followed by ear-splitting barks. Annoyed, I step over the pee mat on the kitchen floor and look for my mother. Who lets their cats and dogs pee in the kitchen? I am ashamed already and I haven’t even laid eyes on her.
She is in her chair, tea cup in hand with an oversized television on in the background. She does not get up. She says hello then her gaze returns to Eddie Mcguire.
I feel stupid for wanting her to welcome me. I need her to open her arms and smile in a way that creates laughter lines. It’s taken fifteen months, an interstate flight and a rental car to get me here. Instead I convince myself that it is reasonable for a mother to greet her child with no fanfare.
I ask her if she wants a cup of tea. Dutifully I walk into the kitchen and turn on the kettle. As usual the bench top is full of new plates and tacky shit from the two-dollar shop. Each time I come more clutter is forced into every nook and cranny. I don’t get it. In contrast to her, I loathe buying anything new.
I open the fridge. Next to the milk is my step father’s gin. It’s 5pm, an acceptable time to pour a drink. Besides, I’m in the tropics and a G&T is beckoning me. As I reach for ice cubes, I notice a piece of paper with my mother’s handwriting on it. I know what this means. She thinks she can freeze someone out of her life by placing them in the freezer. Bitch! It’s one of my sister’s names. The betrayal snaps any compassion out of me.
Just as I pour myself a drink my wife appears with our luggage. I can’t gauge if her eyes are judging me for drinking or giving me sympathy for being here. I just want to be wrapped up in her arms and melt away. Instead I make my mother her tea and feel obligated to unstack the dishwasher. The dishes aren’t mine but I am petrified of the accusation of being ungrateful for the free bed and feed.
I look at the clock. It’s late enough to chat for half an hour then find solace under the doona in the spare room. I sit in the unfamiliar lounge room and look at my mother. She is beautiful. Her hands have aged since I last saw her. Was she ever gentle or kind? I know a lullaby off by heart and once overheard my sister singing it to her kids. She must have been kind. We would only know it if she sang it to us.