The Marriage Gap Year, page 3
She’d added some personal touches to this gleaming cube of an apartment: a throw rug, a baby rubber plant, and some colorful couch cushions, all of which she’d got at the Queen Victoria Market.
Oddly comforting, too, was the sight of her dishwashing wand, sitting clean and dry and upright in a tall mug on the wiped kitchen counter, a fresh sponge twisted onto the handle. Rob always chastised her for changing the heads on those brushes too often; “wasteful and unnecessary,” he’d say. But this from a man who thought nothing of letting a sponge sit in the sink for days, until the green, scrubby side was all chewed up and peeling off, while the yellow, spongy part was sodden with muck. How could a man so meticulous at work be such a slob everywhere else? Emma had bought a value pack of those replaceable sponge heads and would change them whenever she damn well liked. It was an insignificant thing, but she found great joy in this small measure of freedom.
She caught her reflection in the window and ran her hand down the back of her head, where she caressed the fluffy tufts of mousy hair growing at the back of her neck. She was done with this hairdo, finished with keeping it short because it was “practical” and “respectable” like all the other graying bobs. She’d grow it out.
Beyond the window, the city of Melbourne stretched to the horizon, a patchwork quilt of every suburb she’d ever lived in, visible in one eyeful. It made the city feel smaller, more manageable, to see it assembled below her like that, as if her own life story could be traced by moving her finger on the window. Heading north was the suburb of Reservoir where she’d grown up. All those moves, from a house to successively smaller apartments, were contained in that parcel of land in the distance where the sun now sparkled off glass buildings she’d never seen before. From there she followed the lines of the familiar arterial roads that had carried her through her early life. There was Northcote Plaza, where she’d had her first job in the sandwich shop. The Westgarth Cinema, where she had her first date. And there was the campus of Melbourne University, where she did her BA. Heading south was that ratty apartment in St Kilda she moved to after graduation, the year she decided to live near the beach. And way over west, behind the rising steam pipes of the industrial precinct, was the suburb of Altona, where Rob grew up. Only an arm’s length of unfamiliar suburbs had separated him from her before they met. What parallel lives were being lived out there right now? There were probably people down there she hadn’t met yet but would.
The coffee machine gurgled and hissed as it finished steaming the milk. The coffee didn’t taste right. Stale and bland. Not as good as what she made at home. It wasn’t helpful to think like that. Or maybe it was? She promised herself to allow every thought to exist, to make room for it, even if it felt uncomfortable. Today was the day she would start running.
Emma looked at the three suitcases in the bedroom and promised herself she would put the stuff in them away before she went to bed. She opened one and rifled through the clothes, looking for something suitable to run in. She picked through half a dozen dresses, some of which she hadn’t worn in years. She couldn’t remember why she’d packed some of these things, but it’d seemed important to have them.
She didn’t own anything lycra and settled on a pair of board shorts she hadn’t worn since the summer after she’d given birth to Will. She was relieved to find she needed to cinch the drawstring to keep the shorts from falling. But there it was, the doughy little paunch that spilled over the waistband. Emma ran her fingers along the squishy band of fat – pale and saggy, like the soft edge of an uncooked pie crust.
She sighed and put on a loose shirt, a promo from a startup that hadn’t made it. She paused again at the full-length mirror. The red and yellow board shorts puckered in the crotch and the T-shirt hung like a drape, the cuffs almost down to her elbows. She looked like a rodeo clown. Even the little gap between her front teeth, which Rob used to say was sexy, felt like a defect again. Christ, she needed a do-over, not a makeover.
Emma had a love–hate relationship with her body. On the one hand, it was through her physical body that she experienced the world: her pleasure, her pain, the unique combination of both that was being a mother. On the other, her body felt out of proportion: smaller up top, but then bulging from the hips down. Her figure cast a silhouette like a butternut pumpkin.
Come on Emma, be kind to yourself, she thought. She promised herself that if she was still running a week from now, she’d buy herself a better outfit. For now, she pulled the brim of her ballcap down low on her forehead. Time to face the world.
The track that circled the Botanical Gardens was already bustling with an intimidating procession of beautiful people. Even the moms running while pushing strollers seemed impossibly fit. Sure, she worked with younger people who probably looked like this under their smart-casual wear, but she never had to see their bodies. The people out here all looked so confident. Was it just as simple as putting one foot in front of the other? She came here to run and she was going to do so, even if she looked foolish. Emma couldn’t bear the thought of returning to her apartment with this one easy thing on her list left undone. It would be a bad omen. What hope was there for the other goals if she couldn’t tick this one off?
She trotted onto the track and looked down, focused on the rhythm of her own feet striking the gravel path. People passed her in brisk strides, their bodies spring-loaded. She wobbled along like a bus on a potholed mountain road. Her boobs jostled around under the baggy T-shirt – she needed a new bra. She’d always been short, but these beautiful people made her feel stumpy, like a quokka sent to run an Olympic track and field event. But she was running. And doing so gave life to the possibility of achieving the other goals on her list. She was outside, on a warm morning, with the freedom and momentum to become the best version of herself. She was part of this now, this flow of people, the runners, who charted their own course and never took their eyes off the horizon.
A persistent smell of shit soon broke the spell. She stopped and lifted her foot. Sure enough, the sole of her running shoe was densely packed with dog turd. Emma hobbled over to the grassy edge of the running track and found a stick with which to scrape the brown mess out of the complex, swirly pattern on the sole of her shoe.
“Oh dear,” said an old woman seated on a nearby bench. She was draped in a tartan blanket and wearing a beanie, despite the warm morning sun. Emma couldn’t decide if the woman was an old hippie or homeless. “Now you’ve done it.” Emma ignored the woman and continued stabbing at the dog turd with the stick she now decided was too flimsy for the job. “Filthy animals,” said the woman.
“Yeah,” said Emma, dropping the stick in the grass.
“What you running around for anyway?”
Emma leaned forward, hands on her knees, stretching. “Honestly not sure myself right now,” she said, hanging her head, still breathing hard.
“Cuz I watch ’em, you know,” said the old woman, drawing circles with her finger. “And they just keep going round. How can they stand it? Makes me dizzy.”
“Yeah.” Emma felt vaguely nauseous, still struggling to control her breathing. “Well, have a nice day,” said Emma and trotted on, trying to ignore the smell wafting from her left foot.
Chapter Four
A saw whined in the distance and multiple nail guns banged out of sequence. At Wattle Point Estates a whole neighborhood was under construction. Both sides of the street were lined with suburban houses in various stages of production. Some homes were nearly finished, with roofers busy laying tiles and designers fitting interiors. Other house plots were little more than holes in the ground or churned up earth with small fluorescent flags marking out where the plumbing and power had been laid underground.
A heavy-set laborer, frizzy hair spilling out from under his hard hat, poked his head into the dark recess of one of the houses. “Oi, Rob!” he bellowed. Rob looked over from the empty cavity that would soon be a kitchen. He was surrounded by three men wearing spotless hard hats and fluorescent orange safety vests over their suits. “Big boss wants to see you.”
“What for?” said Rob.
“Dunno.” The laborer shrugged. “I’m just the messenger,” he said, and left.
Rob apologized to the suits, inviting them to look around in his absence.
He squinted in the harsh sun outside, shielding his eyes as he made his way to the demountable office on the hill.
Inside Syed was hunched over his laptop analyzing dates and costs on a color-coded spreadsheet. He was wiping his neck and balding head with a white handkerchief.
Rob strode in, white hard hat tucked under his arm. Syed barely looked up from his screen.
“Geez, Sy, it’s boiling in here. Why don’t you switch on the aircon? It’s cooler outside than in.”
Syed looked up at the split system mounted on the wall. “Nah,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
“Suit yourself. You could also join me out there, mate, do some real work for a change.” Rob grinned.
Syed cracked a smile and looked up from his screen. “You know, I did build something once.”
“Yeah, what?”
“A rabbit house.” Syed nodded and closed the screen of his laptop. “Yes, when my daughter was small, she always wanted a rabbit. So, I said why not build a house for the rabbit. How hard can it be? So, I build the house. But it was a bad house. Terrible,” he chuckled. “I think maybe the rabbit is scared to move in. Because he knows the construction is bad. He lived a nervous life.”
Rob smiled. “I’m sure your daughter was happy with it though.” He felt a pang of regret at never letting Will have a pet. There’d always been a good reason to say no.
“She’s twenty-five now. Married. Her happiness is out of my hands.” Syed leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together. He cleared his throat. “Rob, I have a proposal.”
“Oh?” Rob leaned against the wall.
“A renovation.”
“Sy, I’ve got my hands full here.”
Syed shook his head. “This is different. I take you off this project to do a new one.” Rob frowned. “Don’t look so worried,” said Syed. “Look at my face. Do I look worried? The project here is like a coloring book. You just fill in the lines. I need you to do something else. Something better.”
“Sy, I’ve got three loads of trusses coming in next week…”
Syed waived the air as if shooing away a bad smell. “Who cares, man. Fucking trusses. You take them off a truck and put them on the roof. Is coloring book.” He leaned forward and tapped his finger on a manilla folder on his desk. “With this project, I need you to be an artist. Here,” he said, handing Rob the folder.
“What’s this?”
“A blank canvas.”
Rob opened the folder and scanned the application for a building permit.
“Whose project is this?”
Syed leaned back in his chair. “Mine.”
Rob cocked an eyebrow. “Well, what is it? What do you need done?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me.”
Rob scratched at the base of his neck. “Why don’t you get an architect?”
Syed waived away the suggestion. “I have architect. Most of these papers are architect. But architect is bullshit,” he said. “They make a sculpture. You,” he pointed his finger at Rob, “you make a home.”
Rob shifted from side to side. “I’m just a builder, mate.”
Syed laughed. “Sure, and David Beckham’s just a soccer player.”
Rob flicked through a few pages in the folder. “Nah, this is beyond me, mate.”
“Not beyond. You have what you need here. Soil tests, engineer report, drawings. It’s just design and build.” Rob leaned in to look at the drawings. “Just go see it,” said Syed. “I know you will understand.”
“What? You mean, like, now?”
“Why not?” Syed raised his palms. “It’s still early.” Rob frowned.
“You’ll like it,” said Syed. “Ocean view.” He spread his open hands as if stretching a banner in the sky. “Australian dream,” he laughed.
“Right,” said Rob. “I’ll check it out next week mate. Just don’t trust the boys with those trusses.”
“Okay man.” Syed rose from behind his desk with some effort. “You pack your crayons away then.”
Rob rolled his eyes and turned toward the door. Syed followed and put his hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Stop waiting for tomorrow, my friend.”
“You sound like my wife.”
“She sounds very wise.”
“Right.” Rob put his hard hat back on. “I’m still babysitting the investors out there. I’ll send them your way now so, seriously, put the cooler on, mate. It’s hotter than fuck in here. You don’t want them thinking you’re a cheapskate.”
Syed nodded. “I’ll freeze their balls off.”
Rob smiled as he made his way down the rickety steps. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping it was Emma. It was a text from Will.
This is your fault.
He knew something like this would happen. This stupid gap year was already placing a wedge between him and his son.
Chapter Five
Across the city, Emma sat in her kitchen and read the same message from Will.
This is your fault.
How dare he! Emma stood up from the stool in her breakfast nook and looked out the window but the view didn’t hold her attention.
She looked back at the text.
This is your fault.
What was? Was he talking about her and Rob? Or was there something else?
No, it had to be his way of turning the knife.
Emma had to work hard not to respond to Will’s text. It was hot headed. He’d write back soon and apologize.
Dr Priya was still talking, telling her to reflect on her list of her values. She’d written Honesty on a notepad she’d stolen from work.
What business did Emma have writing a list like this? What was she thinking? How could she self-actualize when she couldn’t even keep her family together? She looked at Will’s text again. It was just mean and she resisted telling him so. It would only make things worse.
God, she was imploding, wasn’t she? This podcast was for people who were just tinkering with their lives. People who needed a refresher to get them back on track to perfection. Not people who blew up their families on purpose. She probably needed more serious help.
What would Dr Priya say if she met Emma and knew how selfish she was, sitting here in her own apartment, sealed off from the world, up in the clouds. Dr Priya would tell her she was dreaming. That she was stalling. That she had to stop hiding from her problems.
But she wasn’t hiding. She’d made the hard decision and spoken up, took what she needed.
Except she hadn’t given proper thought to how this gap year might affect Will. But he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He was at university, for godsakes.
Still, maybe she just wanted him to be more mature than he was. He kept telling her to stop catastrophizing the impact of those Covid years, but how could it not screw up a kid to spend his two final years of high school in his bedroom, on a screen. Will was still a child in so many ways. He was tall, sure, but he was lanky and delicate, hadn’t filled out like they thought he would. He procrastinated and daydreamed, his tussled hair half covering his eyes, like he was hiding.
She’d pushed him too far now, hadn’t she? She said it’d be good for him to live in the dorms, meet other people, see what life was like when you had to do things for yourself. But it was obviously too much too soon. Those years of isolation had messed him up in ways that would plague him for years to come, maybe for the rest of his life. It wasn’t her fault, the pandemic, but she still felt guilty. What more could she have done to help him?
Emma turned Dr Priya off and slipped the phone into her bag. Here she was, living in an apartment only a twenty-minute walk from the office and she’d somehow been running even later than usual.
Emma couldn’t deal with this now, this heaviness. Not this morning. She had to get to work. She could focus on something else there. Maybe there, things would feel more normal.
The Catch offices were in Docklands, one of Melbourne’s newer corporate suburbs. The buildings here, like her apartment block, were all steel and glass, wrapped in brightly colored zinc trim, full of early noughties optimism. Emma reckoned it was all meant to feel playful and fresh, but twenty years later the aesthetic felt a little more desperate, a token splash of color on the cover page of an otherwise boring government report. No one was fooled, not even the architects or city planners who must now see it for what it was: a ghost city, like the ones they built in China, waiting for people to move in who never showed up.
And yet, this morning she willed herself to see Docklands differently. Rather than the streets being deserted, she tried to see them as undiscovered. The neighborhood wasn’t empty, it was just waiting, laying the groundwork for what was to come. This newish suburb was a startup and she an early adopter, already a part of what would one day become the heartbeat of Melbourne. She was the new Emma. The single Emma. The one who jogs. The one who was going to be closer to her son. The Emma who was allowed to be ambitious.
The elevator doors opened like a parting curtain, revealing the Catch logo: a smiling catfish looking knowingly at a dangling fishhook. Under that was the company slogan: Big Fish, Big Pond. Emma shook her head as she got out of the elevator. It was a bizarre slogan, didn’t really make sense. Wasn’t a big fish in a big pond just a fish? She never liked the “Big Fish” part either, thought it confused the main aspect of this business, which was about finding little fish small jobs. Anyway, such decisions were not hers to make.
The office struck her as especially bright this morning, the white tops of the tidy stand-up desks like shelves of ice reflecting the sharp light outside. The popular minimalist decor of offices like this one always seemed to discount people’s stuff. Where were they supposed to put it? Emma smiled at the few people gathered in the waiting area, people whose names she didn’t (and would never) know as she walked across the floor to her desk in the open-plan space, nestled within summoning distance of the executives who lived in glass offices that surrounded the floor. At least she had her own desk and had been spared banishment to the “hot desks” where temp workers sat, an endless cycle of Catch clients doing compulsory office training or work experience. Their smiles were always so needy.
