Tiddas (14 page)

The end of May came quickly, the temperature dropped back to average – twenty-three degrees during the day and at its lowest it was still thirteen degrees of a night. Everyone was grateful for a reprieve from the humidity and there'd even been some rain in the past week.

Izzy was trying to ignore that she'd pretty much reached the legal cut-off for terminating. There was no need to call her mother for advice now. Ellen and Nadine quietly asked her every other day how she was going, when she was going to ‘visit the clinic', why she hadn't told Asher yet, but Izzy would just shrug them off. Without saying it out loud, she knew the decision had already been made. She was glad, though, that Xanthe didn't have the emotional capacity to pretend Izzy's pregnancy was okay with her and therefore didn't ask, and Veronica was still embroiled in her own emotional state of mind.

Izzy was as busy as ever producing cultural programs for the arts channel. It was the end of Reconciliation Week
and there was a whole schedule of events being held in the cultural precinct celebrating every art form. She was flat out; hip hop sensation The Last Kinection had performed, the talking circle at kuril dhagun – the Indigenous Knowledge Centre – had held community open mic sessions, and the Australian Indigenous Youth Academy had run a successful forum for young local Murris. Izzy had been on the go from daylight to dark with interviews, vox pops and editing, and while she was thrilled with the extent of the activity she got to cover, she was tired and grateful for a decent lunch break with Ellen who had what she called a ‘death-free day'.

Ellen and Izzy headed along Grey Street after a talk by Vernon Ah Kee at the Gallery of Modern Art. As they strolled towards the restaurants at South Bank, a white ute with ladders and paint supplies slowed down as it passed them. Ellen pulled out her phone and started dialling the number on the side of the van.

‘What
are
you doing?' Izzy asked, her curiosity laced with anger.

‘Getting a quote and maybe a poke,' Ellen said seriously.

‘Are you crazy?' Izzy grabbed the phone from Ellen's hand and ended the call.

Ellen wasn't impressed. ‘Do you know what my life is like? I can't keep relying on finding bedroom happiness in other people's funeral sadness.'

I
zzy rose, still dreamy from the sleep she had needed so badly, and fumbled for her running gear in the dark. She liked to exercise when she could and early morning along the river at West End was the best place to clear her head. She needed to walk or run today but her legs felt like lead. She was desperate for fresh air though and kept moving. Only the promise of the energy that the river and its tree-lined bank could give her forced her to put one foot in front of the other. It was going to be a long day, she already knew that. She felt a slight dizzy spell, something that had become quite frequent of late. She wasn't sure if it was her blood sugar levels but when she finally went to see her GP, she told Izzy to start eating more small meals throughout the day, to get more rest and to stand up slowly.
So much to remember
, she thought to herself.

As she turned into Hoogley Street she listened to a voicemail message from Tracey, who said she was just checking
in and letting her know she was buying some time with the broadcaster. ‘Trust me, it'll work out,' she'd signed off.

Izzy was relieved that her agent took her client's whole life into consideration, and had her best interests – professional and personal – at heart. The role on mainstream telly wasn't going to wait forever though, and Izzy knew it. But she was going to let Tracey worry about it; that was her job.

As she got closer to the ferry terminal, Izzy saw James, the
Big Issue
seller, and waved on approach.

‘Sorry, mate, don't have my wallet.' She turned her palms up as she spoke, wishing she'd shoved a $5 note into her bra.

‘No worries,' he said sincerely.

‘I'll catch you later on my way to work.' She smiled and headed along the path past an idling bus due to depart for the city then on to Teneriffe.

Izzy always bought the community newspaper from James, and not simply because he complimented her on her clothes, ‘a nice pink top' or a ‘pretty dress'. James wasn't trying to make a sale, his kind words were genuine. He was, Izzy thought, a decent, charming guy, and she appreciated him for that. And the articles were interesting. Without ruining the pages, she'd skim the paper sold by homeless people as a means of having employment, and then hand it back to James the next morning so he could resell it, or she'd pass it onto another seller. The best form of recycling there was, she believed.

The morning serenity, the trees, the lush grass, James, the joggers, the dog walkers, the tai chi crew – all were part of Izzy's
daily routine, and why she felt at peace in West End. It wasn't until she had finally settled into her flat in Ryan Street that she got her first good night's sleep in Brisbane. When she had first arrived in the big smoke at twenty-three – anything after Mudgee and Bathurst seemed ‘big' – she wanted to be in the heart of the city, within walking distance of the mall and all the excitement it could offer. But it was noisy and chaotic during the day and duller than she expected after dark. She never slept properly in her apartment on Leichardt Street in Spring Hill; the lift in the building banged and clattered non-stop, and sometimes the racket drove her to tears.

Izzy liked her flat near the river though. She had turned it into a cosy home. She was distraught when the floods of 2011 took over the car park and everyone had to evacuate the building. She only had to move things out of the storage area and put them upstairs though, and she was grateful that her second floor unit was safe from the raging waters that rose rapidly over two days at the peak of the disaster. However, when she was forced to evacuate the building along with all her neighbours, she took with her some of her most prized possessions, including the camp dog artwork
Jamu
, made with pandanus and ochre pigments by Yolanda Rostron who hailed from South Central Arnhem Land. Izzy much preferred her silent dog to the annoying local scrub turkeys any day, and there was no way she was going to risk losing it, even if the water rising another five metres was highly improbable.

Unlike her four tiddas, who all owned or were paying off their homes, Izzy wasn't obsessed with owning her walls, but she did own what hung on them and what lined
them – paintings, prints and books. Izzy had invested in works by a couple of Aboriginal artists she'd interviewed for her program. It meant something to her to have met the creators of the pieces she so admired. However, since she'd fallen pregnant and found herself less focused on her job than usual, she would stare for hours at the Angela Gardner print
Brightfield Symbols
and imagine the swirls as embryos growing inside her. One moment she thought it a beautiful idea, the next she was thrown into panic about her life, the embryo's life and both their futures.

The truth was Izzy had a great life, a comfortable life and, most notably, a self-centred life. There was no mortgage to worry her, she bought what she wanted, and she had manicures and pedicures and spa days. She read the newspaper cover to cover every Saturday, took a nap on Sunday afternoons, ran every morning, and could have a bag of Twisties for dinner if it took her fancy. The thought of having to look after herself
and
someone else, while also reaching her career goals, still didn't feel right to her, didn't in fact seem possible to her. Being pregnant was completely at odds with what she had planned for her life. She didn't want her life to change, at least not so dramatically. But it was going to.

Since entering the workforce after finishing uni in her early twenties, Izzy had put in many years and lots of effort into building the lifestyle she enjoyed in West End. Over time, she'd fallen in love with a number of local shops, eateries and bars in her hood. She became attached and loyal to those, and only on the odd occasion did she share her love with other venues.

It was at one of Nadine's book launches that Izzy first developed a crush on the Boundary Street icon, Avid Reader. It had the best of what West End had to offer and everything she liked: books, a café, a sense of community. Izzy found herself browsing and buying there most weekends. She was a big reader, way beyond what the monthly book club prescribed for her, and there was always a pile of books next to her bed. In her flat, bookcases lined two walls in the living room and both bedrooms. Her shelves included acclaimed Australian writers like Alex Miller, Kate Grenville and Thea Astley alongside the complete works of William Blake, John Keats and Oscar Wilde. Izzy had a worldview of storytelling, even if she often came back to those who wrote about her own country, like Oodgeroo Noonuccal, Alexis Wright and Jack Davis.

After her walk – the run just didn't come easily enough today – Izzy sat on her balcony facing the grey wall of the flash new building next door. Her shoulder-length, wavy, caramel-coloured hair needed a cut, and she wondered if she might get it permanently straightened; she was sick of having to spend so much time doing it herself every day. The cowlicks in her fringe that constantly required pulling her mini-GHD from her handbag were shitting her more than usual, and pregnancy seemed to make Izzy more impatient with each passing day.

The morning was quiet and Izzy appreciated hearing birds chirping to each other, but admitted through a smile and a sigh that she missed the shirtless construction workers who for months gave her even more reason to check emails and read on her balcony. The men had disappeared now,
and the rich people had moved in. Their air-conditioning units in summer drove her to despair, but who could blame them? The humidity from October to March in Brisbane was brutal; Izzy often just wanted to lie down on the tiles in the bathroom for relief. She didn't have air-con, only a ceiling fan, but at least it kept the mozzies at bay. It was a different heat to Mudgee; at home the air was dry, but at least in June she could be comfortable.

As she pushed an unwanted fringe-curl out of her eye, Izzy glanced at the plants on her balcony. Even the succulents were thirsty and screaming for attention. Unlike Richard, Izzy had never had a green thumb; she'd been known to kill cactus. She'd have to get her brother over to the plant casualty ward; hopefully he could coax them back to good health. She'd read an article in the local paper about a landscape architect who designed environmentally friendly rooftops and balcony gardens; it would be great to have one. Izzy frowned, trying to recall the woman's name. ‘Sidonie Carpenter' appeared in her mind's eye. Izzy liked the name a lot; she could call her own child Sidonie. And there it was, another reminder of the accident that was now a stark reality in her belly.

Not one to ever take sickies, because she rarely got sick
and
loved her job, Izzy had decided the night before that she needed a mental health day to deal with a pregnancy that was now beginning to crowd her mind – and her body. She started to panic, which was unlike her usual calm state. Panic didn't work in media. Always controlled, passionate but controlled. Izzy hadn't spent any time imagining what it might be like being a mother. She hadn't felt there was any
point until recently. But when Ellen and Nadine had asked why she hadn't gone to a clinic for the procedure, she'd had no answers. She just physically couldn't get herself there, let alone go through with it. Something had been stopping her, something she hadn't understood.

Izzy walked back inside and headed for the kitchen. She ran her hand over the art deco espresso maker Nadine and Richard had given her for Christmas. They knew how much she loved coffee and were impressed with themselves at having chosen the perfect gift. But they ignored the fact that Izzy lived in West End, which had some of the grooviest cafés in Brisbane. They didn't realise that her morning coffee from the Gunshop Café was a part of her daily ritual; that to give it up would put her momentum out of whack, her world off its axis. In short, completely fuck up her day. Izzy liked routine, she liked goals, and she liked a plan to follow. And just like the pregnancy, the coffee maker shifted her daily plan. Coffee from her favourite café was as necessary as wearing a bra, cleaning her teeth, or charging her mobile phone every night. There were things one simply did every day, without thinking.

Izzy used the coffee machine on the odd occasion of course; when the girls came over, when the three neighbours she spoke to came in, and of course, when Richard and Nadine visited. Today though, she couldn't be bothered with the coughing and spluttering of the machine. She didn't have the patience or the interest. She boiled the kettle and reached for a tea bag. As it sank into the water she opened the screen door and looked down the two flights of concrete stairs
towards the back garden overlooking the river. The grass had been freshly mown and the smell reminded her of summer back in Mudgee; she loved being carried home to Wiradjuri country by nothing more than her sense of smell and a strong breeze. Today though, she couldn't imagine living anywhere else but West End.

She placed her mug on the table and collapsed into a chair, surprising even herself at how listless she was feeling. Maybe she should've had a strong coffee. Was coffee bad for you when you were pregnant? She didn't know, but she was going to have to find out. Unlike Xanthe, she hadn't raced out and bought books and magazines; nor had she searched Internet sites for blogs and chat rooms.

The lingering scent of freshly cut grass made her smile. A City Cat sped by with people heading downstream to any number of stops along the brown river. It was the same City Cat she should've been travelling on to work. But she felt sick, and it wasn't morning sickness. Those symptoms – nausea and vomiting – had subsided, thankfully. Rather, she felt like she had a hangover without the headache. And it didn't go away with a hamburger and chips. It didn't help if she put her fingers down her throat either. Nothing was going to help until she'd told Asher – and her mother.