Crazy, Busy, Guilty Read online

  Nina squinted. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means . . . It means I think it would be best if Pip and I lived alone.’ Fresh tears sprung from my eyes as the words came out.

  ‘What?’

  I nodded, trying to back my own decision. ‘Yeah. I think it’d be the best thing for all of us. You’re right, you do need to live your own life. Everything’s changed, I get that. But Pip needs stability, and to live in a house where she’s not woken up at 2 am by drunk –’

  ‘That happened once!’ Nina stood up.

  ‘Even so. I think this was probably a bad idea from the start. You need your space and Pip and I . . . we need ours, too.’ I stared at the floor.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Wow.’ Nina fell silent.

  ‘So I guess I’m moving out?’ she asked, finally. She didn’t sound hurt anymore – she sounded angry.

  I didn’t say anything.

  She sniffed. ‘OK. Well . . . you just tell me what’s going on and I’ll . . . I’ll get out of here, I guess.’

  I gulped. ‘OK.’

  She took another swig of wine and turned to head upstairs. When she reached the stairs, she turned back. ‘Do you really think it’s worth all this, George? Do you really think we can’t just work this out? Let’s just talk about it.’

  I sighed. And shook my head.

  She set her face in a frown and sighed. ‘OK. Just remember this moment, alright? I’m trying to reach out to you.’

  I couldn’t believe her. ‘Nina, I’ve been here. I’ve been waiting for you. It’s too late to reach out now. You just don’t get it, do you? You’re never here, and you don’t get it.’

  She laughed again, that bitter scoff, and shook her head. ‘Yeah, well, neither do you.’

  *

  The day we’d come home from hospital – me, Pippa and Nina – had been unusually warm for May. I hadn’t known what to dress Pippa in for the ride home. But Nina had brought a bag full of clothes for her – everything a baby could need, singlets and onesies and tights and the tiniest socks you can imagine. Like socks for a rabbit.

  She’d also bought me a bunch of nursing tops, which I’d had no idea I would need. There were so many things I hadn’t known about, so many gaps Nina filled for me. She’d picked up Lucas’s old bassinette from Ellie, lugged it over to our new place and set it up in my bedroom. She’d bought a tub of formula and a few bottles, just in case Pip didn’t take to breastfeeding. I had barely thought about breastfeeding, let alone the possibility that it might not take. Of course, she knew how to sterilise the bottles, too. She’d bought Sudocrem and nappies and a rattle. She’d set up the wi-fi and Netflix, knowing the long days at home I’d have ahead of me. Later, she bought me a pram, and over a bottle of wine built Pippa’s cot with Jase.

  When she first showed me everything, I was appreciative, but I didn’t have the experience to know just how much I’d use these things each and every day, or how grateful I’d be to have a friend who knew I needed them.

  Eventually, on that day we brought her home, I settled on a singlet and a short-sleeved onesie for Pippa. Babies were incredibly sensitive to heat and cold, the nurses told me. They couldn’t regulate their own body temperature very well, they needed help. Oh, I thought, terrified by my own ignorance. How could I not know something so simple? Every time I dressed Pip, I was panic-stricken at the thought of making her too hot or cold, horrified that my negligence or just plain stupidity might cause her harm.

  The whole idea of going home was terrifying, actually. In hospital, I’d changed Pippa’s nappies and simply thrown the cloth nappies into a bin outside my room for some poor nurse to deal with. I could call for help with the touch of a button. Meals were delivered and the empty trays were taken away, to be washed and cleaned by someone else, someone I’d never even see. The nurses had taught me so much in such a short space of time. This is how you massage your nipples after breastfeeding. This is why you should massage your nipples after breastfeeding. This is how to swaddle your baby. This is the football hold. There was so much I didn’t know. But I suspected that, even if I’d read all the books and watched the YouTube videos and consulted the experts, I’d still have been confounded by those early days. I felt like the new guy in the office . . . only, the office hadn’t been built yet and it was my first job and there was nobody else on my team.

  At home, I would be utterly adrift, I knew it. It would just be me during the day, nobody to call on if Pippa wouldn’t stop crying, nobody to help me get her latched on during a feed. As we drove to our new place in Redfern, I counted the minutes until we were home. Nine. That meant that, if the worst happened, if I couldn’t hold it together, I could be back with the nurses in nine minutes. I could handle nine minutes.

  But then, that night, Nina and I ordered a pizza and watched Scandal while Pippa slept. I had a shower and slipped into my own clean pyjamas and then between the fresh sheets on my bed. As I closed my eyes I started to think, if anyone can do this – even under these incredibly strange circumstances, even with the weight of grief and loss and lives turned inside out – it’s me and Nina.

  I guess that’s why it hurt so much that she hadn’t held up her end of the bargain. We’d promised. We’d made a deal.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Don’t hurry back – I’ll be fine,’ said Jase, as I opened the freezer packed with approximately 9000 small cubes of frozen organic purées.

  ‘Ok, well, there’s fruit purées here,’ I said, gesturing to the tower of apple and pear. ‘And veggies here. And these are little chicken nuggets. I mean, not real chicken nuggets, obviously –’ I laughed: it was 2016, no mother was allowed to feed her child actual chicken nuggets anymore ‘– they’re chicken, sweet potato and apple nuggets.’ Jase stared at me blankly; he didn’t get the joke.

  ‘Got it,’ he nodded.

  After his park epiphany, Jase had promised to look after Pip more often. The irony was not lost on me that Jase’s company had jumped at the chance to let him work a four-day week so he could take care of Pip, while Meredith couldn’t fathom the idea of me leaving an hour early. Still, it was a huge relief. It took away some of the guilt I’d felt about sending her to daycare five days a week. I’d had romantic visions of Pip thriving at daycare, making little friends all of her own and learning how to French knit and possibly even make baby art installations – my very own miniature Tracey Emin. But I had quickly realised that daycare was exactly what it said on the box – a day of care. There was no French knitting and certainly no art installations – unless you counted gumming on recycled paper towel rolls. I’d hardly been surprised when I asked the centre director, Subeta, how long she’d run the place and she answered, ‘Not long. We sold our hardware shop last year and thought we’d do this for a while.’ As though she was a backpacker picking peaches for the summer. Only, the peaches were my child. Right.

  But now Pip would only have to spend four days at daycare, not five. After failing to get my third – utterly redundant, if you ask me – column in after my argument with Nina, Meredith had written me out of her good books. Permanently, I feared. So when I’d half-heartedly asked her if I could work from home one day a week, she’d simply replied, ‘Why?’, as if I might be asking her to work from home so I could sunbathe or care for my axolotl. I had to explain the whole ‘I have a baby’ thing again. She looked like she had genuinely forgotten. When I’d finished, she simply said, ‘No. We don’t really do that.’

  ‘We’ll be fine, George, really.’ Jase gave me a reassuring squeeze and guided me towards the door. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. Honestly. Claire gave me lots of tips, and I know how to change a nappy now so it doesn’t leak . . . Really, we’re going to have a great day! We’re going to cuddle and read books and sing songs and . . . ahh, it’ll be lovely.’

  I took a deep breath. Of course Jase felt that way. It was the first time he had done this; it was all novel to him. He didn�
�t have to deal with days and days of repetition on loop. I doubted Jase would ever feel the bracing panic of wondering how he’d fill all the long hours stretching in front of him.

  I forced a smile. ‘Great! Call me whenever. It doesn’t matter. And all the emergency numbers are on the fridge. There’s Panadol upstairs. Make sure you check the side of the bottle to see the dosage. And there’s a thermometer – it’s digital – in case she has a temperature. And remember, Ellie’s home today so you can always just go over there, OK?’

  Jase shot me a simpering smile. ‘We’re gonna be fine. We don’t need Ellie to babysit the two of us.’

  I waved my hand dismissively. ‘I know, I know. That’s not what I meant.’

  Jase nodded. ‘That’s exactly what you meant. Now go!’ he said, pushing me towards the door again.

  I bent down and kissed Pip’s fat cheek, cool against my lips. ‘Bye, sweetie. Love you.’ And then I whispered, ‘You’ll be fine. I promise.’ Pip smiled back, a line of dribble making its way down her chin. I stared into her little face and prayed that Jase would be able to handle this. I remembered his words and repeated them to myself: it’ll all be worth it, it’ll all be worth it.

  I thanked Jase as he deftly pushed me out the door, and then began my daily run-walk-check-phone routine on the way to the station. I was like an Olympic speed walker – I didn’t need to look up, I knew exactly where to turn and stop.

  Which is why I didn’t see Nina until she was right there next to me at the traffic lights, tapping me on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, craning her neck to put her face in front of mine. ‘Hey, George!’ She’d been running; little half-moons of sweat had formed under her armpits. The last time I’d exercised was . . . well, did labour count?

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  We hadn’t spoken in over two weeks. Nina had come home a few times while I was at work to pick up her clothes, but organising that had been the extent of our communication. The rest of her things: her furniture, her books, the KitchenAid that was taking up all my bench space – it was all still there, reminding me of her every day.

  ‘How are you?’ Nina smiled her big, warm Nina smile and for a second I was pulled back in. Then I remembered all the times she’d let me down, all the promises she had broken. All the times she’d been my friend in name only.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s Pip?’

  ‘She’s good.’ I didn’t want to add, ‘She misses you,’ even though it was true. I’d caught Pip looking around, searching for Nina, a few times in the days after she’d left, though she was doing it less frequently now. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good. I’m great,’ she said. She looked great. She had the rosy-cheeked glow of a woman who’d recently orgasmed. Good for her.

  ‘OK then. Bye.’

  I went to walk away but Nina held my shoulder, looking wounded.

  ‘George.’ Her voice was soft, hurt.

  ‘Neen . . . I have stuff to do. I have to get to work. I can’t be late because I have to leave on time. OK?’

  She let go of my shoulder and nodded slowly, still looking hurt. ‘I just, um . . . look, I’m really sorry, George. I know why you’re angry with me, and I’m sorry. I’m still really upset that you want me to move out, but . . .’ she paused, shrugging, ‘maybe it’s for the best. But . . . I’m having this thing, in a few weeks, for Mum’s anniversary. It’s twenty years this year.’

  ‘Oh.’ The words hit me like a blow to the stomach. It was, too. Twenty years since Jan, Nina’s school-canteen-running, swimming-teacher mum had died. Twenty years. I felt tears spring to my eyes and I swallowed them back. Again. Everything in me softened. ‘Of course. Of course I’ll come.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you. It’ll just be me. Jill’s still in London and Dad said it would be weird . . . you know, with Leanne.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Jesus Christ, she’s jealous of a dead chick?’

  Nina cracked a laugh. ‘Oh my god, George. You can’t say things like that.’ But she was still laughing.

  ‘Sorry. You know what I mean.’

  She rolled her eyes, nodding. ‘Yeah, it’s true. She’s jealous of a dead chick. Anyway, I’m going to get some balloons and let them go near Bronte. She always liked to swim over there, so . . . I thought it would be nice. And if you wanted to bring Pip, well, I think she’d be into the balloons.’

  ‘They’re among her top five favourite round things.’

  ‘Great. I’ll text you the details.’

  ‘OK.’

  We both stood there for a second, not sure what to do next. Nina and I weren’t really huggers, but it seemed weird to just walk away. In the end I sort of patted her hand, the way you would with an elderly relative you were afraid you might accidentally squash.

  ‘Well, I should really go now.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ she said, nodding. ‘I’ve gotta finish my run.’

  I walked the rest of the way to the station more slowly than usual. Twenty years. Wow. I couldn’t believe Nina had been without her mum for so long. And I couldn’t believe I hadn’t remembered the anniversary until she told me. The date had always been etched in my brain. March 9. Usually Nina didn’t do anything to mark the day, but I always sent flowers and made sure she was with someone, if she wasn’t with me. How had I forgotten – this year, of all years?

  When I got to the office, Meredith sauntered out and did a little, ‘George is late – again’ comedy bit. She was developing quite the stand-up routine.

  ‘Helloooooo, George!’ she sang out, making sure everyone on the floors above and below us could hear her bellow.

  ‘Good morning, Meredith,’ I said, at a normal volume, like a normal person.

  ‘And what happened this morning, George?’ Meredith asked, a passive-aggressive smile plastered to her face. Don’t take it so seriously! I imagined her saying, aghast, if I actually had the nerve to call her on it. We’re all friends here! It’s only a joke!

  I was tempted to tell her what had really made me late. Well, I was showing my ex how to take care of my child, and he’s taking care of her because I suddenly realised – two months in, mind you – that her daycare attendants have actually spent the last ten years selling drywall, not taking care of children, as I had rather naively hoped. And then I got sidetracked staring into my child’s face, wondering if leaving her for nine hours of the day was actually worth it. And then I got delayed again when I ran into my former best friend and she told me about the anniversary of her mother’s death – the twentieth anniversary – and how her father won’t go because his new wife is still jealous of the old – dead, remember? – wife, and her sister lives overseas, so I’m probably the only person who’ll be there, apart from her. And maybe Jed. Who’s Jed? Oh, he’s her boyfriend. She had a husband, but they’re getting a divorce. They can’t have kids. And that’s sort of my fault. So that’s why I’m late.

  ‘Train was running late.’

  Meredith laughed. ‘Wasn’t it the bus that was late yesterday, George? Gotta keep those stories straight!’

  This was typical Meredith. When we were working together, she was great. She fired off ideas and listened to mine, and we worked as a team. She was demanding and exacting, but at least she had some respect for me. But in front of everyone else, she took on the role of bemused school teacher, and cast me as the naughty student. Yesterday, when the bus had run late, she’d said, ‘The bus! Nobody takes the bus, George!’ and rolled her eyes, as if I’d made the whole thing up. Or she’d casually mention all the ‘breaks’ I took. ‘Oh, you’re looking for George? She’s probably having a break,’ I’d overheard her tell Neil one day. This ‘break’ happened twice a day, when I needed to excuse myself to pump my boobs free of milk. Terrified of people thinking I was actually taking a break, I’d take conference calls or answer emails with one hand as I milked myself with the other.

  I sighed. ‘Did I miss stand-up?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no. I was ru
nning late, too, George.’

  ‘Huh? Really?’

  She nodded. ‘Wasn’t feeling well. Anyway, let’s start, shall we?’

  Behind Meredith, I saw Bea glance at me, a flash of worry on her face. Meredith was never sick.

  We flew through stand-up, which was also unusual. I made it back to my desk in record time, only to be greeted, once more, by Neil.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. In the past week, Neil had taken to popping into my office, unsolicited and unannounced. Most of the time he just said ‘Hello’ in a sort of teasing voice, and then I told him to leave. Which I was just about to do.

  ‘Hi, Neil. Listen, I don’t really have time –’

  ‘There’s a restaurant opening tonight. Binge. In Surry Hills. Come with me.’

  I raised my eyebrows and said nothing.

  ‘Free dinner. No strings. Wine.’

  ‘I don’t have ti—’

  ‘Yeah, you do. Come on. I never see you have any fun. Do you ever have fun?’ He was only teasing, but the answer was serious: no, I didn’t have any fun. Not anymore.

  I laughed, a trace of bitterness coursing through it. ‘Not really.’

  He smiled. Mmm. Neil had a nice smile. Not cute. Nice. He looked like a man. I suddenly realised I knew nothing about Neil the Food Writer, apart from the fact that he was obsessed with something called kombucha and would probably die a little inside if he heard my Mum talk about kwin-oh-ah.

  ‘Alright then. Come with me. We leave at six,’ he said, in the same way he might have said, ‘We ride at dawn.’

  I laughed. ‘Really, Neil . . .’

  He flashed a furtive look. ‘Listen, I’ll be there. I have to go for work. If you show up, cool. If you don’t . . .’ He shrugged.

  I paused, briefly considering whether to text Jase and ask him to stay a little later. Maybe I could go. After all, I didn’t have to do daycare pick-up. And it wouldn’t necessarily be a date. Would it?

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Neil held up a single finger. ‘It’s OK. You don’t have to decide now. But I’m fun, George. Just come and have a drink.’ And then he turned and left.