That Girl

I was stressed and nervous even though I had done this all before and the meal I was preparing was incredibly basic. I couldn't believe that my heart was pounding and I was worried about getting perfect timing for the toast and the baked beans. For God's sake it was baked beans!
Yeah but...
I took a deep breath and calmed myself as I stirred the pot.

My father sat in his chair puffing on the tiny cigarette that he had rolled earlier with some degree of difficulty; he was now increasingly frail and found it hard to do the things that had come so easily to him in the past. I thought he was watching the TV intently but then realised he wasn't focussing on it, he was just staring vaguely in that direction. Besides, he had never been into 'Neighbours' ever. Name an Australian soap and he'd have watched that but 'Neighbours'? No. I was too distracted to wonder what he was watching, or thinking.

My mother half lying, half sitting, sat on the beige sofa diligently reading the section of newspaper that she had been reading and then folding, then reading and folding almost all afternoon. It was like she was living in some sort of 'Far Side' cartoon - give her some pencils and she could amuse herself for hours. She would get the newspaper and for all intents and purposes she would look like she was deeply interested in the story. One day I overheard her reading out loud to herself as if trying not to miss a bit of information. It was only a whisper but I heard her read the same headline over and over; nothing was sticking. Nothing would stick.
One of her favourite things to do was to make her bed with every sheet and blanket in the linen cupboard or with sheets of newspaper, or alternatively, stuffing her pillows with whatever she thought was precious and needed looking after; jewellery, clothing..... the yellow pages.

I was buttering toast madly, panicking about the possibility of every thing going cold and the table not being set. Once I finished the toast, I hurriedly set the table the way my sister had set it the night before.

The table looked plain with the same barren quality the rest of this house had. I felt uncomfortable here with its lightly stained wooden panelling and the sheets of fabric on the windows trying desperately to be curtains but merely achieving sad. It was nothing like the home I had grown up in with its clutter, its photos covering the walls, its glass cabinets full of china, glass and knick knacks, its warmth, its memories.

My brothers had done the best they could; trying to keep things to a minimum with every thing easy to clean and nothing to dust. It was warmer than the little cottage they had been living in but the house had the kind of soullessness of a really cheap hotel.
The only visual stimulation in the place was the TV in the corner.

I kept it on to keep my parents and my self occupied. Morning TV with its infomercials, its chat segments with the vaguely interesting hawking their latest book, movie, album; ancient game shows or documentaries - it all distracted me enough to keep it together.
It kept my focus on the outside world instead of the sadness of the situation my family now found ourselves in. Our once vivacious mother, aunty, sister, friend fading away before our very eyes. The loss of a great friendship I had built up over years with her through strife, disaggreements and eventual unconditional love and respect.
Every time I thought of it, I was quietly devastated...Who's Charlotte got on today?... Oh look at how quickly that thing dices and slices, you could make a whole coleslaw in five minutes - Amazing!.... I can't believe what she is wearing....devastated.

“Come on Mum, Jim! Dinner’s ready guys!” I had two plates of steaming baked beans on toast that I was placing on the Indonesian placemats that sat at each end of the otherwise bare, mahogany Victorian table. An oblong carved wooden Cava bowl from Samoa sat in the middle of the table with three scraggy looking feijoa’s sitting forlornly at one end.

My mother was slowly getting up and was saying, “Come on Jim, dinners ready!” My father, though frail and much older than my mum was almost nimble in the way he got out of the beige chair that matched the sofa. My mum struggled on and sitting up started reading something she had just spotted.
“Come on Mary, your dinner’s getting cold,” my dad whined grumpily.
“Oh lovely,” she said, “What are we having?” She struggled up out of the seat.
She started folding the newspaper up into smaller and smaller pieces. She looked up at me as if asking me a question with her forehead then said almost surreptitiously, "We should ask her?" She nodded vaguely toward the corner.

“Come on Mum, come and sit down, it’s going to get cold,” my tone was a little clipped.
She looked at the baked beans as she sat down and said hungrily, ”Mmmm, looks delicious. Should we ask that girl if she wants something to eat?”
I was busy buttering my toast and was too distracted to notice the question fully.
“Where are you sitting love?” My mum asked. “Are you going to sit down with us?”
My father and I answered at the same time.
“Yes Mary.” "Yes Mum."
"I'll wait for you then," she said shooting an irritated look at my father who had picked up his fork.
Mum mumbled something that sounded like, ".. should ask that girl if she wants... thing to eat you know....years..", but it sounded too weird to register.
“I am just buttering my toast, you guys go ahead and eat.”
As I said it I remembered my sister’s instructions that Mum liked it when my brother said Grace.
“I’m just coming,” I said spooning the last of the baked beans on to my toast.
I plonked the plate down in front of me with a bang as I sat down. My mouth surprisingly started to water at the sight of what sat in front of me.
“Do you want to say grace, mum?”
“No you say it,” she looked nervously at my father, “You say it Jim”; he looked hungry and irritable.
“No Mary,” he whined.
“I’ll say it, “I jumped in. ‘We’ll never get to bloody eat otherwise’ I thought to myself.
“May god make us truly thankful for the food that we’re about to eat.” I didn't think it was long enough but it would have to do. “Amen”. I finished. Whew!

It didn’t matter to my Mum and Dad, they were off and eating.
My stressing about dinner had made me really hungry and I tucked into my own meal with the same gusto as my parents.
The TV was all that could be heard as we all ate.
My mother stopped eating and looked at me sheepishly.
“You know I feel so guilty eating in front that girl. We should have asked her to have something to eat with us.”
“Which girl, Mum?” I asked feeling perplexed.
“You know, that girl. We’ve known her for years.”
I hadn’t a clue who she was talking about. I thought she might be talking about a neighbour that visited every now and again who’s name Mum kept forgetting.
“You know that girl,” she said smiling. "She comes over all the time and we never ask her to eat."
“Nup, can’t think who you mean, luv,” and dismissed her as if she was rambling. I cut another baked bean covered triangle from my toast and shoved it in my mouth.
Mum mumbled, "Not even a cup of tea..." and carried on eating.

My dad had his head down and ate steadily. He saw me look at him and smiled his gummy smile at me saying, “Good dinner mate!” A stray baked bean slipped from his fork as he put it in his mouth and slid down his chin, leaving a red trail as it fell back onto his plate. He put his fork down and riffled about in his trouser pocket for his hanky, sniffing loudly as he leaned back from the table. Hanky retrieved, he folded it roughly into quarters and rubbed at his chin, looking to me to get confirmation that the sauce was gone.
“Down a bit, babe,” I said as he cleaned it up with one last wipe.
“Gone?” he said reminding me of my nephew when he was two.
“Gone.” I said and he pushed the hanky back into his pocket.

My mum ate quietly but looked as if she were intensely thinking about something. She finished her baked beans and pushed the plate away from her.
“I’m full. How was your dinner James?”
“Very nice thank you.” His mouth was still full but he looked to me and did the thumbs up.
“Lovely dinner son! Delicious!” Mum said emphatically. She sat back as my dad picked up the empty plates and flicked her nails as if she were cleaning them. She looked embarrassed as she said, “You know I still feel really guilty about not asking that girl whether she wanted something to eat.”
“What girl, mum? Who are you talking about, love?"
I felt full yet vacant at the same time like my brain had stopped working or I was about to fall off to sleep.
“That girl, you know she’s always here around tea time."
Nup, no idea.
"I’ve known her for years and I’ve never even asked her if she wants something to eat or even a cup of tea..... I feel so guilty eating in front of her.”
I didn't have a clue as to who she was talking about. My mind was running through all the possibilities without any luck.
“But what’s her name, Mum?"
"You know her."
"She's been coming to our place for years..." She gave me the 'Gosh, what a bloody idiot' look.
"I still don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“That girl!” she said annoyed now and slightly flabbergasted at my stupidity.
Finally she sighed her most frustrated sigh, “That girl!”
She pointed.
She was pointing at ‘Judy Bailey’.
The TV One Newsreader.
That girl we have known for years...
"Oh, love. That girl." That girl who's here every night at six.