Page 61 of Thursdays at Orange Blossom House
‘I thought I’d come to see if you’re all right,’ Patricia says with similarly fake-sounding cheer. ‘You’ve never missed a class unless you’ve been away. And you didn’t say that you were going away.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Dorothy trills, turning to take a plate of fried eggs from the pass. ‘I’m fine!’
‘Grace Maud didn’t come on Thursday either.’
‘What?’ Dorothy stops.
‘She called and said she wasn’t feeling well.’
‘I’ll, um …’ Dorothy nods at the eggs then quickly takes them to their table. ‘How did she sound?’ she asks as she returns.
‘Tired. So maybe she has a little bug. She has Cecilia there so if anything is really wrong, at least there’s someone to check on her. And I don’t want to … be nosy, you know?’
‘I do.’
They stare at each other.
‘You probably think I’m being nosy coming here to check on you,’ Patricia adds, and laughs in a we-both-know-I’m-pretending-this-is-funny way.
Dorothy blinks a few times, because the prickle around her eyes tells her that crying is imminent, and it’s ludicrous to feel so emotional about someone coming to see how she is. But Frederick has stopped asking – at Dorothy’s request; and she doesn’t want to tell Ruth because she’s too embarrassed; and her parents would never pry like that. So Patricia is the first person to express concern today and Dorothy didn’t realise she needed it so much.
‘Dorothy?’ Patricia is leaning closer. ‘I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to upset you.’
The ding-ding of the bell at the pass tells Dorothy that more food is ready and she scurries away to pick it up and deliver it before coming back.
‘Can we go outside for a couple of minutes?’ Patricia asks gently.
Dorothy glances at Frederick, who half smiles and nods slowly. Thank goodness for the times when they can read each other’s mind.
She pushes open the café door and leads Patricia around the corner. The Kombi van is long gone now and in its place is a rundown Mazda bearing aJoh for PMsticker. Dorothy is sure it’s been abandoned. The air feels cloying and makes the stray hairs from her plait stick to her neck. It’s hot in the café too, near the kitchen, but at least the fan is going. Out here she feels like the humidity is closing in on her, just like her mind is.
‘What’s happened?’ Patricia asks, not standing too close.
Dorothy has noticed, more than once, that Patricia is very good at the choreography of social interaction. Perhaps it’s because she’s a teacher and she has to control students. Or perhaps she’s simply considerate.
This time Dorothy gives in to the prickle around her eyes, and feels warm tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘I’m bleeding,’ she says, then shrugs and blows air out of her mouth, trying to make it sound like an accident. A slip-up. Not a big deal.
Why does she do that? Why do all the women she knows do that? They’ll have something serious to say and their tears can be so thick that they’re running down their necks, and still they’ll smile in the middle of it all, maybe even laugh, trying to tell a different story. Although Dorothy’s never sure who that story is for – the woman herself or the person watching? It’s strange behaviour, but she’s always done it. She wouldn’t know how to cry in front of someone and actually give in to it. What might happen if women really succumb to their pain? To the anguish of not getting what they really want, either because they’ve been told they can’t have it, or because nature is conspiring against them? Or sometimes because life just seems so hard that what they see is an unscalable peak, always in sight yet beyond their reach.
‘Oh,’ Patricia says, and there is anguish in it. She hugs Dorothy tightly and says into the side of her head, ‘I’m so sorry. After everything you went through.’
Dorothy brings her arms up around Patricia’s back and returns the hug. She feels something like a fracture in her chest and knows that she can’t allow it to go further. She can’t let go here, in public, with a woman she is very fond of but hasn’t known for long. So she drops her arms and moves back.
Patricia looks surprised for a second.
‘We’ll try again,’ Dorothy says, sniffing, bringing her wrist to the top of her cheeks to absorb the tears.
‘In Brisbane?’
Dorothy nods vigorously. ‘We have to.’
Patricia glances towards the water. Dorothy can hear seagulls and feels that crack in her chest again. Out there, life is easy and free – water laps in the harbour, birds live their bird life, fish swim, boats sail. In here, in her body, in her head, she feels trapped by the task she’s set herself and has to keep remembering that she’s doing it because she believes she will be free on the other side. She will become the mother she wants to be. She and Frederick will be the parents they have planned to be. She will have a child she can love always. That love will be her freedom. Her eternity.
‘I don’t want to be more nosy than I already am,’ Patricia says, ‘so I won’t ask you how you are all the time. But you can always tell me.’ Her gaze is direct and sincere. ‘I am your friend, I hope. And you are mine.’
‘Yes,’ Dorothy says, and ducks her head to flick away more tears. It’s her hormones; it must be.
‘I know you may not feel like coming back to class, but I think Sandrine would say it could help you,’ Patricia continues, her voice heavy with concern. ‘I know it helps me when I’m feeling low. It’s a distraction. I don’t think about anything except the pain I’m in!’ She laughs nervously.
