Page 2 Is
Home by Madeleine Herron sue 6 June <strong>2010</strong> Every time I write a sentence, I’m filled with guilt because I don’t want to commit to any of this being real. But once it’s real I think that’s when I will start living for real. So I’m going to write a story about home, and someone who used to be my mother. Early on in my life, I lived with just my mother in a small dilapidated apartment right on the beach. I don’t remember much because these form my most fragmented memories (when you want something so bad that your heart feels like it’s about to explode— it’s probably in your best interest not to remember it). If I could tell you something about this home, what I remember the most are the flowers—frangipanis and hibiscuses. The frangipanis were vibrant white and yellow with a fascinating rubber texture. Their smell was soft and baby-like and made me feel quietly content. The hibiscuses were never the same colour—they were yellow and red; white mixed with pink; pink mixed with yellow. One day my mother and I went for a walk to check out all the different types on our street. This happy memory is painful in its singularity, and also because I hold it close to the one of her standing with my belongings in a rubbish bag at the front door, telling me to leave. The problems all started when my mother met Steven. After they married we moved into a brand new house. This house grew into a hovel. The carpet grew soft with decay, the kitchen sink was always piled up and the ironing sat high-up on the lounge room chair. I rarely had friends over as I was too embarrassed about the mess. I was also scared that Steven would greet them with names like ‘big tits’, or, if they were particularly unlucky, ‘no tits’. It wasn’t much fun going back to school with a story like that. Steven was an alcoholic. He was the subtle kind of alcoholic where nobody really knew that he had a problem, or if they did, it was never acknowledged. But I knew, mostly because he made my mother become one too. One day I was fixing my hair in the bathroom and my sister yelled out, ‘Hey Sis, you’re on TV!’ I went into my bedroom to check the TV and sure enough a picture of my bathroom was on it. ‘Go into the bathroom, Mal,’ I demanded. When I saw an image of Mal on the TV, I ran into my mother’s bedroom. She was breastfeeding my brother. ‘Fuck off,’ she said. I ran outside and told Steven. Madeleine Herron studies Creative Writing at VU. ‘Bullshit. Stop making up crap,’ he said. I then ran to the phone and called Steven’s father. He said he would be around to check it out soon. My heart was racing and I was sitting on my bed just wondering what the hell was going on when my mother and Steven walked into the room. ‘Who have you told’ my mother asked. ‘Steven’s father,’ I said. ‘Well, Steven put the video camera in your bathroom—he wanted to see why you were taking so long in the shower. I guess that’s fair enough— you do take forever. I’ve told him to get rid of it. He was just worried. Anyway, you mustn’t tell anyone else.’ I believed her—she was my mother. So, that was pretty much the end of it, until he got rid of the camera and the stupid bitch made me say thank you for his efforts. A few weeks later, Steven said, ‘I wouldn’t mind having sex with you. Don’t tell anyone; or I’ll take your whole family away from you.’ But I did. And he did. So I moved out when I was sixteen. I’ve spent the last ten years hating Steven and chasing my mother who acts like I don’t exist. But now I realise my hate was misguided. Steven is not a chess player, moving a pawn about on the board. My mother made her own choice. And right now, as I sit here and write this piece in my new place that I’ve rented all on my own, I’ve realised something. I don’t need to chase an elusive memory of some apartment, on some beach, with somebody who used to be my mother. From now on, I’m going to take the opportunities that I previously thought I didn’t deserve because my mother abandoned me. And looking around, it seems ‘home’ is something I am about to create. I am capable of creation; my home is where I am. I do exist, even if she doesn’t know it. Page 3