ASSUMPTIONS

“Is she allergic to anything?” The doctor addressed the question to me and I froze on the spot. Tom shook his head. “No,” I responded, perpetuating the fraud.

Ms 8 fell out of the trolley while we were shopping. Tom was pushing the offending vehicle when one of the wheels caught on a rubber toy dropped in the middle of the isle. The trolley stopped suddenly, tilted forward and threw an unbalanced Ms 8 to the ground.

Ice, in the form of vegetables from the frozen food isle, was immediately applied and Ms 8’s crying stopped immediately. She grizzled for a while and as a result we spent two-and-a-half hours in the waiting room of Westmead Children’s Hospital.

I was sure nothing was wrong. Ms 8 was faking her injury for attention. I had seen her flexing her fingers when she thought we weren’t looking. But Tom appeared to be buying it hook, line and sinker. Still there was that nagging fear… What if? There was a lot of guilt in the room.

Tom was feeling guilty because he was pushing the trolley and hadn’t seen the offending toy that resulted in Ms 8 crashing to the floor. He felt guilty because he had let her ride in the first place. I felt guilty because we were wasting the time of some talented and dedicated professionals all because Ms 8 was thriving on the attention. I even felt guilty about feeling this way.

“Has she ever been admitted to hospital as a result of illness?” The doctor kept looking at me and I was watching Tom for a sign so I could give the appropriate response. Tom shook his head again. “No, nothing like that,” I responded.

Knowing nothing was wrong with Ms 8 I felt the urge to justify our presence. I told our tale as convincingly and motherly as possible.

“Basically our concern is that the injury is more serious than it appears. Bruising came up almost straight away and the first thought was that it was broken (that was until the icy water her hand was soaking in when we got home washed away the dirt). So we put her hand in icy water and the bruising went away but it was still a bit swollen.” Seriously, I should have been an actor.

The doctor nodded his head. “You did all the right things.” I wanted to jump up and scream – justification but instead I focused on a squirming Ms 8. “The problem with injuries like these is that it can cause a bone chip that isn’t that painful but can cause a lot of complications down the road. So I’m going to send you for an x-ray.”

The four of us – Tom, Myself, Ms 8 and Mr 10 – squeezed into the x-ray room. Ms 8 perched on the table and the radiologist halted Tom, Mr 10 and I at the door. “Mum’s not pregnant is she,” the woman directed her question to Mr 10 and he shook his head. No denials, no defences. He too was going with the night’s assumptions.

And there we stood behind the panel as Ms 8 had x-rays taken of her arm (which were – surprise, surprise – all clear).

It’s a funny but at that moment we suddenly feel like a real family.

CATS AND ZOMBIES, OH MY

The greatest problem in my life right now is cats.

Cats crawl through my dreams turning them into nightmares. They warn, I’m told, of a female power gnawing away at my happiness. A power that is taking and taking and not giving anything back.

In my dreams the cats are pretty much everywhere. There are some simply lazing about. There are some watching my every move. There are some taking swipes at me from their lofty pearches in trees and from the tops of cars. Some boldly nip at my ankles and bare feet.

Why am I the target?

There are other people in my dream, eerily going about their business without taking any notice of the hundreds of creatures moving around the street and rubbing against their legs.

I, on the other hand, can’t take my eyes off them. The sensation is one of sheer terror as I realise they’re all around, sucking the life from every one of the mindless drones as they scrape their way through life.

But I can see them and I’m alone in this vision. I have the responsibility to point out to everyone in sight that this isn’t right, these creatures don’t belong here.

I am Cassandra. No one will listen. No one will believe me. Instead they trudge past, their skins turning greyer and greyer.

What is the point of this?

At night my mind does what it wishes. It shuffles the daily drudgery and gives my fears a physical form.

My greatest fear, at this time in my life, is that I am becoming a cat. That I am being selfish about my needs and draining people rather than just interacting with them. I quiz people until I have the answers I need. I rattle their cages until I get what I want.

Once upon a time I feared being the drone, feared being the zombie. Now I fear that my new life wide-awake comes at a greater cost than I ever anticipated.

I am, at times, stuck between the living and the drone. Not quite the cat and not oblivious enough to get on with my life. That’s why I’m content here. I’ve found the balance.

I just have to keep one eye on the cats and another on the zombies.

My life just keeps on getting interesting.

ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL

There are times I am not here. My voice prattling on and the keyboard clicking before me are indications of physical presence but it’s not me. It’s automated.

On these days I pray for a personal answering machine. When people talk to me in the lift I wish I could turn to that annoyingly perky person chatting to me and respond.

“Hi, I’m sorry but Boswell isn’t in right now. She's preoccupied with wedding plans and the perils of becoming a step-mother. She’s also a little concerned about the fact her job hasn’t turned permanent yet. So if you could just leave a message, or leave her alone, she’ll get back to you when her brain feels like functioning in the present.”

Instead I fake it. I talk to people only half hearing what they have to say. I find the time to respond although I’m insecure about any response at this time because I know there’s no thought behind it.

I wonder how many of the people I am speaking to are on the same course. Their automatic pilots making it possible for them to function in the real world even though they’re not connecting.

Driving from home to work I don’t remember the trip. I don’t know how I managed to make my way here without a major accident.

Then I am elsewhere, in this mental ether, wondering if I did make it or if I’m dead and this is my heaven. A man who loves me, a wedding that’s coming together neatly and without a hitch, children, a job.

If I’m not here, where am I and why am I so content to stay?

HELPLESS

The situation for the kids is abysmal. There isn't one visit to Tom's ex's place when Ms 8 and Mr 10 don't have tears in their eyes or aren't getting screamed at. But there's nothing we can do. We bide our time for the only conclusion we can come to is that sooner or later Tom and I will have to make a move if they're going to have anything resembling a happy life.

So this is what I have to offer. For now.

Dear kids,

I’m sorry. It’s not as though we don’t care it’s just that sometimes it’s too hard to think about what you’re going through (there are times it drives your father to tears).

We stood on the front step on Friday night while you (SD) were looking for your shoes. From the bedroom we could hear BM screaming at you and had to fight back every urge we had to run in there, pick you and your brother up, and run from that house – never to return. She had no right to abuse you. You deserve better.

And SS we know that you’re carrying the weight of it as well. We see your eyes welling with tears and know that you have a horrible time dealing with the constant abuse. We know that you’re scared and you’re afraid we will forget you. We haven’t, we never will.

But there was nothing we can do right now without starting World War Three. That time will come. Please know that our inaction is not because we don’t love you. It’s not because we don’t care or we don’t want you around. And it’s not because we think it’s your fault (that something you mustn’t think for a second).

It’s because we’re making plans.

Knowing that we’re working towards building you a proper home is the only thing that holds us together, the only thing that keeps us from doing anything rash.Please hold on.

Please don’t feel abandoned. We’re coming. It’s just going to take some time. Until then know that we love you and that every day we’re thinking about you and praying that you’re defences are strong enough to hold.

Love Boswell and Tom.

HALF-ASSED

Sharon emailed me after more than two years of silence. Well, not so much silence on her part. Regularly she would send group emails, updating us on her life as a jet-setting Reuters reporter living in England.

But her first two questions are the questions all long-time friends ask. What happened in Canada and Where are you working.

Here’s my reply. In all honesty I undersold Canada. I failed to tell her so much. All the things I haven’t told you. All the things that don’t have words yet. Not to mention an entire period of psychosis that I don’t remember.

This is the best summary of the past two years I had to offer and it seems so incomplete.

Hi Sharon,

Well the past two years is a very, very long story but I’ll try to make it brief.

Canada: My trip actually began in Hawaii where I visited pearl harbour, took island tours and walked up a volcano after a long flight in a creaky little plane. Then I hit Canada where I bought a car in Vancouver with the express purpose of following my bliss. And that’s what I did – I drove from Vancouver to Revelstoke where I picked up a woman staying at the hostel. She needed a lift to a small town called Canmore. I hadn’t planned to go there at all and stayed for two days (on my first night there everyone bought me a beer and I was incredibly drunk without spending a cent). I moved on to Edmonton but hated it. Took a bus to Yellowknife, flew up to Innuvik (where I saw the Aurora and where they gave me my own husky to take for an hour walk – it was silent there, I mean blissfully silent. Glorious). Then I drove the hotel’s 4wd up an ice road for four hours to Tuk where I got to touch the beaufort sea.

But I couldn’t get Canmore out of my head and as soon as I made it back to Edmonton (where I saw my ice-hockey game) I drove back and lived for two months with the woman who I had given a lift and her three flatmates, surrounded by the rocky mountains, and worked at the local fast-food store. This was a town where we slept in a house that didn’t have locks on the doors and left our keys in the ignition of the car so we knew where they were.

After that I decided it was time to move on and drove for three days straight through two provinces and ending up in London, Ontario. It was so beautiful. Sasaskatchewan was flat as anything, Manitoba had small rolling hills and then you hit Ontario and it’s stunning with little stone inukshuks guiding you along the way.

London was horrible so I stayed for about two weeks before heading on the rest of my road trip across the rest of Canada. I took the ferry from Nova Scotia to Newfoundland and then ended up in a small town call Rocky Harbour where I stayed for a while. It was nothing short of fabulous.

But I had to come home.

If Canada taught me anything it was how to relax and I lasted three months in my job at the Local Paper before I decided to share my opinion on the Australian Media with my editor. He didn’t appreciate it, I didn’t care. So I made the move back to Sydney to live with my friend of 17 years. While I was there I met his cousin, fell in love and moved in with him.

I’m now working at a financial institution’s call centre and loving the fact I come to work, work, and then go home without thinking about it. I’m getting married in April and I couldn’t be more content.

I must admit, I miss journalism. I just don’t miss the industry here in Australia.

Well, that’s my life in a nutshell. It sounds like you’re having an amazing time. So how did you end up where you are???

…Boswell…