require medication, and yes, most likely for the term of your natural life.
Doctor Wilson turns to you and smiles and you want to smash his stupid caring face into the computer screen. Instantly you are ashamed and look at the floor.
Where is all this is coming from?
To your horror, tears spring to your eyes and you fight them back until you are able to look up again, dry-eyed.
‘Depression is not a sign of weakness,’ the doctor says quietly. ‘It’s a perfectly normal response to a life-threatening event.’ You nod and wind up the consultation as quickly as you can, mortified by your emotional incontinence.
On the way home you pull yourself together and decide not to worry Wendy with these latest developments. Although there is one issue you cannot keep from her: your impending financial doom. If you lived in America you would probably be suing someone—Frannie Prager, or the man who painted the stripes on the crossing, or the company that built the road—for vast amounts of compensation. But this is Australia and those avenues of recompense are not open to you.
That night, as you’re watching a re-run of Wendy’s favourite TV show, you mention that Maxx can’t make the next payment for the book. In some stupid part of your brain you hope that the television will distract her from this news but all it does is spoil the show. Wendy wilts. You are about to suggest that maybe you should think about selling the house and renting something in the neighbourhood but the impulse dissolves into a metallic taste in your mouth.
Wendy says you can afford one more mortgage payment and that’s it. She can make enough money for food and living but not the mortgage as well. ‘Maybe I could get a weekend job,’ she offers. You know you should be the one with the weekend job so you say, ‘No, I’ll try to go back to the paper.’ There’s a long pause and Wendy says, without looking at you, ‘Maybe that’s for the best.’
Later, in the shower, you feel the weight of failure pressing down on you. It pushes you to the tiled floor where you sit watching the water sheet down the mildewed plastic shower curtain until Wendy knocks on the door and tells you she is going to bed.
‘Night,’ she calls.
‘Night,’ you call back.
You and Wendy sit solemnly at the breakfast table as Rosie hovers in front of you, wondering where to begin. She has made you promise not to interrupt her until she has finished what she wants to say. Catastrophes ricochet around your head.
She’s pregnant.
She’s pregnant and she got AIDS from the prison cells.
She’s going to have an AIDS baby.
‘I’ve decided to leave school and get a job. I’m going to start work at the chicken shop with Juan,’ says Rosie.
‘Is that all?’ you blurt.
Quickly concluding that you are going to be of no assistance, Wendy takes control. Assuming Rosie wants to leave school to avoid humiliation, she encourages her to endure the current scrutiny.
‘One day, sooner than you think, it will all blow over,’ Wendy assures her.
Rosie says yes, she knows this; things won’t be horrible forever. ‘I just wanna job, make some money.’
You point out that she’ll be able to get a better job, a higher paying job, if she finishes school.
‘We’ve always talked about you going to uni,’ Wendy adds, ‘doing vet science. You’ve always wanted to be a vet.’
‘Maybe later. Right now I just want to make some money.’
‘What for?’
‘I’d be able to help around here.’
‘With what?’
‘With money. I could help you with money.’
‘We don’t need help with money.’
‘Yes, you do. I heard you talking last night. You wouldn’t have to pay school fees—that would save a lot of money. And I could pay board. I know it’s not a lot but every little bit helps, that’s what you always say, Mum.’
‘Oh darling,’ whispers Wendy.
Those damn tears spring to your eyes again so you study the tabletop. Wendy puts her arms around Rosie
Doctor Wilson turns to you and smiles and you want to smash his stupid caring face into the computer screen. Instantly you are ashamed and look at the floor.
Where is all this is coming from?
To your horror, tears spring to your eyes and you fight them back until you are able to look up again, dry-eyed.
‘Depression is not a sign of weakness,’ the doctor says quietly. ‘It’s a perfectly normal response to a life-threatening event.’ You nod and wind up the consultation as quickly as you can, mortified by your emotional incontinence.
On the way home you pull yourself together and decide not to worry Wendy with these latest developments. Although there is one issue you cannot keep from her: your impending financial doom. If you lived in America you would probably be suing someone—Frannie Prager, or the man who painted the stripes on the crossing, or the company that built the road—for vast amounts of compensation. But this is Australia and those avenues of recompense are not open to you.
That night, as you’re watching a re-run of Wendy’s favourite TV show, you mention that Maxx can’t make the next payment for the book. In some stupid part of your brain you hope that the television will distract her from this news but all it does is spoil the show. Wendy wilts. You are about to suggest that maybe you should think about selling the house and renting something in the neighbourhood but the impulse dissolves into a metallic taste in your mouth.
Wendy says you can afford one more mortgage payment and that’s it. She can make enough money for food and living but not the mortgage as well. ‘Maybe I could get a weekend job,’ she offers. You know you should be the one with the weekend job so you say, ‘No, I’ll try to go back to the paper.’ There’s a long pause and Wendy says, without looking at you, ‘Maybe that’s for the best.’
Later, in the shower, you feel the weight of failure pressing down on you. It pushes you to the tiled floor where you sit watching the water sheet down the mildewed plastic shower curtain until Wendy knocks on the door and tells you she is going to bed.
‘Night,’ she calls.
‘Night,’ you call back.
You and Wendy sit solemnly at the breakfast table as Rosie hovers in front of you, wondering where to begin. She has made you promise not to interrupt her until she has finished what she wants to say. Catastrophes ricochet around your head.
She’s pregnant.
She’s pregnant and she got AIDS from the prison cells.
She’s going to have an AIDS baby.
‘I’ve decided to leave school and get a job. I’m going to start work at the chicken shop with Juan,’ says Rosie.
‘Is that all?’ you blurt.
Quickly concluding that you are going to be of no assistance, Wendy takes control. Assuming Rosie wants to leave school to avoid humiliation, she encourages her to endure the current scrutiny.
‘One day, sooner than you think, it will all blow over,’ Wendy assures her.
Rosie says yes, she knows this; things won’t be horrible forever. ‘I just wanna job, make some money.’
You point out that she’ll be able to get a better job, a higher paying job, if she finishes school.
‘We’ve always talked about you going to uni,’ Wendy adds, ‘doing vet science. You’ve always wanted to be a vet.’
‘Maybe later. Right now I just want to make some money.’
‘What for?’
‘I’d be able to help around here.’
‘With what?’
‘With money. I could help you with money.’
‘We don’t need help with money.’
‘Yes, you do. I heard you talking last night. You wouldn’t have to pay school fees—that would save a lot of money. And I could pay board. I know it’s not a lot but every little bit helps, that’s what you always say, Mum.’
‘Oh darling,’ whispers Wendy.
Those damn tears spring to your eyes again so you study the tabletop. Wendy puts her arms around Rosie
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