I eat healthy now. If you open my pantry, the shelves are filled with tins of legumes. Red lentils, brown lentils, kidney beans, four bean mix. I stir these through every vegetable combination I can think of and convince myself I am a liberal thinking new age person.
When I first switch on the light in my kitchen; the shopping bags on the floor catch my attention. Woolworths grey. Tins of chick peas and lentils peeping out of the metallic plastic.
The bags haven’t been put away and the light in the kitchen is still dim. Damn those new energy saving light globes. I look up, almost expectantly, palms turned outwards. I remember an old school teacher of mine used to do that when the students got too noisy. Lord enlighten us all, she would say. I utter the line out loud as the kitchen brightens, only to reveal its darker side.
A shaking mass which resembles my teenage daughter is huddled in the corner of the cupboards. She gently rocks in self-harming bloody pools of horror. A boxcutter lies beside her seeped in her own life force. My nose twitches at the bloodbath as if to verify its reality.
The cupboards which surround her are a creamy laminate. Cheap, nasty instalments, courtesy of State Housing. Already they show their lack of quality through uneven alignment. The jarrah wood floorboards are genuine enough. When we first came here to live, a teenage lifetime ago, they were polished. Now, they are scratched, grimy and ingrained with all manner of filth. A congealed record of our life.
I have never liked the word congealed. It makes me think of cold, lumpy jelly fat, which reminds me of the afterbirth I spat out. I stand in the kitchen of energy saving enlightenment gazing upon my child’s shaking form and realise I am the Mother of Pain. I birthed her. She wasn’t pink and bouncy. There was no hearty cry at delivery. Instead, I was presented with a puckered, yellow, rubbery bundle. A weak, half-hearted whimper echoed into the sterile room. I think I turned my head and stared at the green walls as the midwife cooed over her.
Let me tell you more about my kitchen. Smeared on the cupboards near the shaking child of pain is her lifeblood. The smears look like multiple Rorschach inkblot tests. Some are obvious. Butterfly wings in poetic flight. Unfurled from behind her fragile form to reveal deep, mysterious patterns. I spy my Father in them too. They move and breathe as I sway in the kitchen studying them intently. The bloody wing blots form into dirty old man hands. They protrude in 3D fashion as if they are groping and grasping at my underwear. Where is my safety net when I need it?
I put my bag on the oak bench, which is salvaged timber from Oxford University. Varnished to reflect the natural knots of time, its two hundred year history makes no difference when my daughter and her friends used it as a chopping board to slice and dice pizza toppings. As I contemplate the reckless damage she caused, I notice the bench cuts are as haphazard and mindless as the self-inflicted injuries strewn across her semi-clad body. Unfortunately, she can’t be stripped back to a former layer and re-varnished.
Along the base of the laundry door, I can hear snuffle, snuffle. Sniff, sniff. I can’t move while I study the patterns on the cupboard. Movement means there is hope. Hope that the universe will right itself. Balance is an important factor here. The kitchen scales glowing on the bench top will fortunately, guarantee that I produce the best angel food cake each time. Blessed scales of culinary justice.
The fridge which hummed so loudly in the background, suddenly stops. It’s as old as the child huddled in the kitchen. I remember when she had golden curls. It was then that we purchased the fridge with bonus money from the government. Later, its light went out so everything inside looked dark and unappetizing. She gradually turned morose, dyed her hair jet black so the world would know just how dark and tasteless inside she really felt. Light isn’t what I see when I try to open things up these days.
She trembles. ‘I c-can’t stay this way anymore’. The muffled words reach me and I nod my head too willingly. Too understanding. Nobody can stay the same. I have heard that before. Caterpillars turn into butterflies. My daughter needs to change too. Gosh! Is that all this is about? The wings say it all don’t they?
It’s okay’, I reply absently as I check that everything is in place. Shopping, scales, blood. I unbutton my coat as if I’m priming myself for action. ‘I’m here now sweetie so it will be alright, you’ll see’. There is a generation of distance between us. What way is it that hurts her so much? She is squeezing her forearms so tight, fresh blood splashes onto the floor. Her body shudders and the drama has a poignant quality. My eyes spill over with tears at her wretched state. Nobody truly appreciates her at this moment in the way that I do. My coat slips off the back of the chair into a heap.
I can hear her Dad call out a judgment from the safety of his armchair. Once, she bought him a stubby holder and he said it wasn’t what he wanted. She wept bitterly because she thought he didn’t want to see her anymore. She didn’t call him for a year. When she did, he said ‘About time, I’ve been counting the days till you rang, you selfish *****.’ She bought him a giant box of chocolates because she felt so guilty for withholding her love. He relented then and gave her a portion of his love as a reward.
The corner of the bench pokes into my hip. My eyes read the fridge magnet I am woman, I am invincible, I am tired. Haven’t I read it three times already? So I feel a little heavy in the dank atmosphere, but that’s okay. The dishes have not been done again. We had an agreement, the shaking mass and I that whoever came home first, would do the dishes and the other would dry. That hasn’t happened tonight. It has not happened other nights. We will have to talk about this. Regroup. Family meeting. There are only two of us living here for God sake! In the distance, I can hear sighing but I don’t know if it is me or my daughter. We are alike in so many ways but I can’t put my finger on anything in particular. Not right now. Not while I watch this metamorphosis.
The more I study the kitchen, the more I realise it is not my setting. I mean, it is familiar enough but it has been altered. The weetbix is still on the bench from this morning but really, everything else has been orchestrated by her. I guess I am tired. I have to admit, the scenery is strangely beautiful in this low wattage light. She keeps her dark head down so her piercing sapphire blue eyes don't lock with mine. That means for now, I’m safe. The blood spatter has a tragic poetry. Yes, I think as the heaviness set into my limbs, this really is her centre stage. It isn’t mine. My daughter, so full of pain has the starring role. I am the audience or at least, I am standing here, in the wings watching her chaotic theatre.
The chair behind me beckons. I don’t want to miss a moment of this dramatic performance. I hope, so hope it has a happy ending. I really, honestly do. As I take my rightful place, do you know what I decide to do? I applaud and cheer Bravo! to the figure in the corner. Why? Because I am her Mother and I love her more than any other person in this world.