alt="image"/>
The fourth time she was in bed with her husband. ‘Let’s try for another Ruby,’ he said to her. She didn’t want another Ruby. That’s when she suggested the pink Stetson and her high heels. ‘You kinky cow,’ her husband said to her. She smiled. ‘Put the hat on,’ her husband said to her. She did. And time stopped. That’s when she climbed off her husband’s erection and went to take those pills that he didn’t know about. That’s when she sat on the bed for days and days, making sure that those pills were in her blood. Then she needed to be satisfied and it was time for time to carry on.
The fifth time was on the day Ruby started school. She wasn’t ready for that change. ‘I’ll miss you today,’ she said to Ruby. Ruby smiled and twirled around in her brand new school uniform. ‘Shall I wear my pink hat to take you to school?’ she asked Ruby. ‘Yes Mummy,’ Ruby said. She did. And time stopped. That’s when she pulled Ruby to her and held her stiff little body as close as she could. She savoured every minute. Days passed. Then she missed Ruby’s warmth and it was time for time to carry on.
Then there was that last time. That time when she was lying in bed with him. Her husband thought she was out with her mates, another hen night that needed her pink Stetson. She wasn’t. That night she was lying naked in his bed. She was twenty-four then. She was old enough to know that she was in love for the first time. ‘I love you,’ she said to him. ‘I know,’ he said to her. That’s when she realised that his eyes weren’t looking like they usually looked. That’s when he told her. He said, ‘This can’t go on.’ She didn’t speak. ‘I’ve met someone who doesn’t have a kid,’ he said to her. ‘She’s not you but she’ll do,’ he said to her. ‘It’s easier,’ he said to her. That’s when she reached for her pink Stetson, when she pulled it from his bedroom floor. ‘Put your hat on,’ he said to her. She did. She put that hat on.
And time stopped.
I am in the doctor’s surgery again.
The woman opposite is holding a dog-eared magazine about celebrities. But she is not thinking about the celebrities, she is not even reading it. No, she is thinking, worrying, about the man who’s sitting to her right. She has looped her bag strap over her arm, to protect it. He intimidates her. It’s his head, it’s because it’s shaven and it’s because he’s so thin. She thinks he’s a junkie. Thinks that he needs to steal.
He, Shaven-head, is not thinking about stealing or about the woman. He is thinking about his cancer. He is thinking about his wife, and his children, and he is desperately trying to not cry. He is terrified and he is lost. He is drowning. He is playing a hopeful song in his head, drumming his fingers to its beat. He might survive.
A few chairs along sits a girl. So pretty and too thin. She hurts herself, starves herself. It makes her feel better. It is the only thing that makes her feel better – it works. And if her mother wasn’t outside, waiting for her in the car, then she wouldn’t be here at all. Her appointment will be a waste of time. She knows what she’ll tell the doctor. She’s a clever one, her. I like her. I smile.
She sees.
And she smiles back.
This is unexpected and for a moment I am stunned.
She looks away quickly. Too surprised to be embarrassed. She’s worried that I’m thinking she’s ugly, but I’m not. I like her. And she likes me – at least, she thinks she might. She doesn’t know. She’s scared. Confused. Feels fat.
I hear her turning it over in her mind. I can hear the static, the storm, the thunder of her worry.
‘If he smiles at me again,’ she says to herself, in her head, ‘then maybe I’ll stop. Maybe I’ll change. Maybe this person’s good. Maybe this is who I’ve waited for. Maybe this is who I need. Maybe. Maybe. I’m so scared.’
I hear the static in her brain.
‘I will look at him,’ she says, and even in her head her voice is shaky and weak. ‘I will be brave. I will take a risk. I will be strong. I need this. I want something. Maybe this could be good. I am so scared.’
I can feel her head spinning. I can feel her fear; it’s making a fist in my stomach.
She prepares herself.
Counts down. Starts at ten, then nine, then eight. She’s so scared.
Of course, I know when she’ll look, and I know what I have to do when she does.
So I ready myself. But I’m scared as well. I didn’t expect this.
I want to smile back. I want to smile at her.
I don’t want to let her down. This could be the start of something.
Be brave, I tell myself as she counts four, then three, then two. Be brave.
‘One woman’s freak show is another woman’s portrayal of courageous triumph over difficulty.’
I met her on a Saturday. Saturday the fifth of February 1994.
I was ill, too ill. They thought I’d be a danger to myself and so they locked me up in a place that was full of freaks. That’s where I met her, Sarah, she’d been locked up too.
I met her on my first night. ‘You look normal,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ I said and we both laughed.
‘What you in for?’ she asked.
‘Stuff,’ I said and we both laughed again, because it was okay not to want to spill out your guts and it was okay to be fed up with talking.
Turns out Sarah wasn’t like me, she was happy to talk. She said it made her feel better talking ’bout it, said that the more she talked ’bout it the less likely it was to disappear. I liked that. It made sense.
That first night, Sarah explained how the doctors and nurses had got it wrong ’bout her, ’bout how she wasn’t suicidal, not even slightly. Sarah told me that she liked to fly, told me how she liked the feeling of falling with her arms outstretched, how she liked to fly to the floor.
