In My Skin (10 page)

I’d found the way to make this work.

I had no qualms about sex for money; none that I could feel. I’d always sworn not to screw a dealer for dope, that was tacky. But this was work. I’d earned my money honestly. Fuck the law. I had no boyfriend to ‘betray’. There was nothing of my heart involved in this. It was just skin and flesh, action, touch. My mouth wasn’t soiled, I hadn’t been hurt. I was already thinking ahead to the next night.

Part of me, if I’d un-frozen enough to examine it, was still shocked. I’d crossed another line. I batted away the significance of what I’d done. Or was it so significant? I’d opened my mouth, I’d let someone put their flesh inside it. As any girl might do at a party, going home with a man. I’d taken cash; that was a good thing. I wasn’t sure where the line was, really.

When I woke the next morning, my room was just the same as it had ever been. I showered, I brushed my teeth, I went out to say hello to my parents. My pupils had dilated again. They thought I’d been on a date. I felt stronger, knowing that instead I’d been out— out achieving something that would make me less of a burden, that I could apply myself to; something that would make everything better.

There was no point in regretting or doubting. I treated it lightly; giggled when, a few days later, I mentioned it to Max on the phone. I thought I was so cool, so tough. I wanted to prove myself, out there on the streets; I wanted credibility. Finally to shuck off the old, timid scholar whose awkward totter through social scenes made her blush. I had a new stride, loping along fearlessly through the dark, daring anyone to try it on. The thought that I had perhaps just done something momentous slipped off me as smoothly as the needle glided in.

I didn’t go out every night, though, and I still tried not to use; tried to go as long as possible without. A day, or two at the most. Every time I thought about using I wanted to do it, and had to beat back the thought.
I don’t need it. I shouldn’t want it. Someone will notice. It’s not
possible to get away. I’ll do it later.

The first sex job, the first time I allowed someone to fuck me for money, wasn’t a big deal. I knew that sooner or later a guy would be prepared for more than just a blow. When the time came I was so excited by the prospect of the money that I didn’t heed that I was passing yet another frontier. To me, already, my body was skin, surface. Penetrated by a needle or a penis, it would seal again.

He entered me—clumsy, in the confines of a car backseat; hurriedly, in the exposure of a side street—and I wasn’t prepared.

‘I need lube,’ I said, but I had none. Hurriedly I moistened my fingers.

‘All right there?’ he asked, and thrust in again.

‘Fine.’

It never occurred to me to pretend pleasure; we were fucking in a car. He was paying me. All he wanted was a vagina. It didn’t take long—four, five minutes. I lay there with my head braced against the arm-rest, smiling up at him encouragingly or blank-faced, waiting for him to finish. The guy was a friendly fellow—young, affable—and he meant me no harm. Afterwards he said he hoped it hadn’t been uncomfortable and gave me the money. We had a nice chat about backpacking as he drove me back to Carlisle Street.

A couple of weeks went by like this. At home and mild by day; going out a couple of nights a week under various pretences to score and work. I was trying to hold off, but I’d set up a way to make scoring easier, not more difficult. There was a constant, weary struggle going on. Yes, no, can, can’t. Want, refuse. Want. Want and capitulate. I was exhausted.

My parents had started going to a support group which advocated setting boundaries. I thought this was fine, and was relieved to see their anguish lessen as they realised that my drug habit was not their life. The main philosophy, as far as I could tell, was that the family could support me but quitting was my own responsibility. It was about boundaries and respect. They would tolerate my addiction as long as it didn’t interfere in their lives. I supposed this was ‘tough love’.

‘It’s killing us,’ my mother said simply. ‘We don’t have lives anymore,’ and I looked at her frightened face, her tired mouth, her expression fearful of hurting me, and for a moment I understood, and went to my room, and cried in secret for what I’d done to them.

They set me a contract agreement: to stop using for a week, to be honest with them. The contract said that I couldn’t go out of the house alone. I must respect the rules of the house. There never had been any ‘rules’, it wasn’t that kind of upbringing. But I supposed they meant being clean and polite and considerate. I should eat breakfast. Help with the housework. I had to ring the old rehab centre about going back in. I was expected to stay clean for at least a week, or until I could get into rehab. If I broke these rules, I would have to leave immediately.

I agreed to sign the contract. For all my crazy, sly scheming on how I could make money, make the whole thing viable and support my habit and not make trouble for anyone, still I knew that these people were trying to help me. And much as I didn’t want to need help, I thought perhaps it would be easier, and it would stop the arguments. And if I didn’t, I’d have to leave anyway. I signed. An actual piece of paper, with our signatures.

It wasn’t so easy, though; one night, about halfway through the week when the cramps and the aches and the fret–fret–fret of hanging out were making me wail aloud, I crept out through a window once more and went to St Kilda. I got gear on tick from Jake, with a promise to pay him back later. As if I would, of course, be seeing him again. I was too nervous about leaving the house to stay and work on the street that night.

My purchase was enough for the next day too. In the morning, after I’d greedily been unable to delay taking some, my mother noticed when I stumbled in the hall.

Walking into my room she went with her sixth sense straight to my stash in a small decorative pot. She held up the remaining tiny packet. She looked at me. I stared at her.

‘You’ve blown it.’

‘I’ve blown it,’ I said at the same time.

I had half an hour to pack. There was no acrimony. I knew I’d broken my pledge and had to leave. I abandoned my room, my books, my warm bed, the stocked pantry. I took tight, black clothes and make-up with me. There was ten dollars in my pocket.

My father was out of the house. My sister had been staying over for a few days but she wasn’t there either. She’d left me a note that morning, saying
Don’t bust. Please don’t bust. Stay here. I love you
, that had made me sob and sob before I had my hit. Now I was numb. There were tears held back in my mother’s eyes. She gave me a shaky smile.

‘Don’t think we don’t love you. We just don’t trust you. We love you
so much
.’

‘I know,’ I said, and walked down the concrete path to the street.

I had been using for two years and one month.

I arrived at Jake’s that afternoon with a suitcase and tired resignation on my face. The only way was forward. I’d set my trajectory already; in a way it was a relief not to deliberate any further. After another hit I went out to work. Then I worked every night. A couple of mornings sleeping on Jake’s couch, a fortnight in Matilda’s spare room, and then a month in a cheap hotel. I didn’t ring home for four weeks, reluctant to cry. My body was taut with determination and my heart was slick as ice. I stopped taking the anti-depressants; there was nothing to feel. In my hotel room I would make up my face, pale with scarlet lipstick, I would fluff my hair into a sexy urchin mop and pout into the mirror. I was twenty-six years old and I was going to start my adult life.

I took a photograph of myself every day. In the photos my face is serene, my expression sardonic, my mouth under the lipstick is tremulous.

The nights were cold and they were all I saw. Daylight crept away from my waking hours; I saw only the bleed of winter sunsets as I opened my eyes in my little hotel room. In bed I ate comfort food, full of sugar, and I read fantasy novels in the lamplight. Finally I’d get up and go out into the black.

It was my bad luck, or inexpertise, that after only a couple of weeks on the street a car pulled up and, when I walked forward, I saw it was a woman behind the wheel.

She held out an ID card. ‘What are you doing?’

It took me a second to realise what she was. ‘Nothing. I’m waiting for a friend.’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid. Where’s your friend, then?’

From the passenger seat of the unmarked car her male colleague got out. He came to stand next to me. I was unsettled by having to talk to her, still in the car, with this large man standing so close behind me. They were both wearing jackets; I was in a singlet, my arms bare to the freezing night.

‘She’s—she’s just around the corner.’

‘Look. We have to know who’s who. Then we can keep an eye on everyone, right? Tell us you’re working, and your name and address, and then we can leave you in peace.’ The policewoman’s voice wasn’t harsh, but I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. Cynical and tired and contemptuous.

‘Okay. I’m working. I’ve just started.’ She was already getting out a pink note-pad.

‘Name and address?’

I gave it to her. The hotel where I was staying, the room number, my real name. The scene felt unreal.

‘Right.’ The man got back in the car, I stepped back, and they drove off. I just stood there, and lit a cigarette. Then I waited for the next mug. I was shaking for quite a while but I wouldn’t be stopped.

It was more than a month since I’d left home and the time came to see my mother. She met me in a café in St Kilda. We sat over hot chocolates. My heart, racing as I’d waited for her, quietened. She didn’t seem angry.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I’m at a hotel.’

‘That’s good. I wasn’t sure where you’d go.’

‘I’ve got my own kitchen there.’ Not that I ate much.

We sipped. There was sad acoustic guitar on the stereo. The coloured lampshades threw gentle light. My mother smoothed the table surface with her small hands.

‘You know we—’

‘It’s okay, Mum. I know I broke the contract. I’ll be fine. Time to grow up, you know?’

She looked at me and we shared a smile. ‘You’re doing it the hard way.’

‘I know. I always do, don’t I?’

David, an old friend from uni days, found me by getting Jake’s number from my parents. He offered me an empty room at his place on the other side of town. ‘Seems a shame not to use the room,’ he said. David worked in the daytime, as a lawyer, a normal person, and I would scarcely see him. He was patient and unshockable. He told me years later that he had been terrified the whole time. ‘I used to peek through the door when you were asleep in the mornings,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure you were alive.’

‘I wasn’t afraid,’ I said.

IT WAS WINTER WHEN I started. It was winter for a long time.

I would wake late on David’s floor, in my bare room, in my stinking sleeping bag, on my lumpy pillow. Grey light, old paint on the walls. Freezing air. My waking mind recoiled from the dullness ahead of me this day—yesterday—tomorrow. It would grope and seize the promise of the taste I’d saved from last night. Fifteen mils of clear liquid ready to sink consolation into my veins.

Huddling again in the sleeping bag, curled up in my own warmth. I thought of the cardboard box I’d hidden in as a little girl. I wished I’d never come out. The dim light through the drawn curtains was almost like the shadows inside that burnable box.

Drowsy again, and wanting to linger in the no-world of dreams, I smoked and read, focused only on the page, the other lives there.

My mind filled with the candlelight and rich crimson walls of ancient worlds, with the smooth landscapes of fantasy realms. Quests and heroes. Nothing contemporary: my life was all too urban and grim. I let these gracious days swell in my mind until they pressed against the drabness before my eyes.

The afternoon would darken slowly; at twilight, shivering, I’d wash and make myself up and go into town. In the middle of the city I waited for the St Kilda tram, sourly observing the fortunate burghers of Melbourne heading home to their warm living rooms and kitchens. Five dollars in my pocket. Not enough for cigarettes, but a coffee at the Galleon was two bucks, while I watched other people eating and wrote my diary. Page after page of strong handwriting, fragile feelings. It seemed important to keep chronicling my life now. I wondered, if I died, whether this would be the only thing to tell people what I’d been.

I miss the family. I miss talking science with dad. Hanging out with the sis,
watching the mad dances and girlie stuff, mum’s cuteness. I wish I didn’t feel like
a different person to the one they know; wish I weren’t so apprehensive of seeing
them.

Washed hair, then smeared sticky goo in it, wonderful. My sticky-goo-urchin
look. Windy outside. I was rained on last night as another girl and I stood on the
corner screeching with laughter about the absurdities of our clients. ‘Yeah sure I’ll
go back to your place and do everything for just thirty bucks and let you waste my
time and I’ll be so honoured.’

Saw Jason the other day, down from the country. All my friends are worried
about me, he says. They all have faith in me, I know, but doesn’t anyone believe
that I might know what I’m doing? Or enjoy it? Or be able to tell occasionally if
I’m fooling myself ? Jason said he was sorry for making me cry, he hugged me.