Lisa Heidke

way to retrieve them is to . . . climb in? I jump up on the side of the bin and cling to the handle of the chute, my feet centimetres off the ground.
‘Are you quite finished?’ Something, a walking stick, I think, is poking me in the back.
‘Pardon?’ I say, turning around to an elderly woman who must be pushing a hundred.
‘Are you finished?’ she asks.
‘Sort of,’ I say, falling down beside her. ‘Just trying to figure out how to get a couple of bags out,’ I explain sheepishly.
‘Well, you can’t. That’s stealing.’
‘I’m not stealing. I’m trying to get the bags back because they’re mine. I threw them out by mistake.’
A flash of recognition crosses her face. ‘I know who you are - Sophia! You’ve always been stuck-up. You, with your high and mighty ways. Well, girlie, you can’t give to charity and then change your mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Indian giver,’ she says, stepping in front of me, opening the chute and sending three Woolworths’ bags to their destiny.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, after chewing my bottom lip for several moments, ‘but Sophia’s a character I played a long time ago. My name is Lucy. And we don’t use the term “Indian giver” these days.’
‘Who says? Besides,’ she pokes me again with her walking stick, ‘you, Sophia, are an Indian giver, as in a person who gives something and then demands it back.’
The clothes are gone. It’s too late to recover them. I return the other bags the boot of the car, leave the old woman and drive home. The only place I can think of to store Max’s clothes is on top of the bedroom cupboard. I run out of room and hurl several bags on top of Sam’s cupboard as well. If I throw out Max’s clothes, it will well and truly mean the end of our marriage, and even after what he’s done I can’t quite bear the thought. Yet. But our marriage is over. It has to be. I’m worth more than this. So are Bella and Sam.
After two hours of crying, I call Gloria. ‘She called me an Indian giver! Me!’
‘Get over it. It’s like calling you a Puerto Rican blonde or white trash. Sure it’s offensive, but people say it. Besides, she called you Sophia; she’s obviously a nutter.’
‘Yeah, she really didn’t like me or Sophia. I guess I was a bit of a diva in that show.’
‘Was?’
‘Yes, was. Now, about Max and Alana -’
‘Enough. How do you feel about Celebrity Makeovers?’
‘Will you concentrate on what I’m telling you for one minute? Who else knew about Max and Alana? Obviously the three hundred and fifty parents at school, but who else?’
Gloria explodes. ‘Fuck Max! Why you trusted him in the first place is beyond me. I mean, the guy dyes his hair, has oxygen facials and gets his eyelashes tinted. Please!’
‘He’s never had his eyelashes tinted.’
‘Has so. I’ve seen him at Buff ’n’ Polish.’
‘He’s only ever had one facial,’ I say.
‘What about his hair then?’
‘So? He doesn’t like being grey.’
‘Exactly. Doesn’t want to grow up. Why are you defending him anyway? He’s screwing your babysitter, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Because it doesn’t seem real. The whole night was surreal.’
When Mum brings the children home in the afternoon, she demands to know what’s going on. ‘Max has never been away for work this long before, and I have to say, Lucy, you’ve been acting peculiar ever since he left.’
I give her the abridged version, ending with, ‘So that’s when I found out about him and Alana.’
‘Alana?’ Mum says, gasping for air. ‘Little Alana?’
‘She’s nineteen, old enough -’
‘What? To be running away with a man more than twice her age? Her mother must be horrified.’
She hands me a cup of tea. There’s dust in it. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’ she asks.
‘I really don’t know. We haven’t spoken.’
‘More to the point, do you want him back?’
‘I did at first but now . . . the stuff with Alana . . . I don’t see how we can work everything out. How could I ever trust him again? Besides, he doesn’t want me or the children, he wants her.’
‘What do Bella and Sam know?’
‘Not much.’
‘Don’t you think it’s time you sat down and told them?’
‘Told them what exactly? Sorry, darlings, Daddy’s humping the babysitter - you know, sweet, adorable Alana who you play SingStar with and love so much? They’re going to live together and Alana’s going to be your second mummy.’
I bury my head in my hands and cry.
‘How would you like to live by the ocean?’ I ask Bella and Sam after Mum leaves. ‘Or maybe the country?’
Bella looks at me in disbelief. ‘Is this because Dad’s left?’
‘No, why would you say that? Dad hasn’t left, he’s just . . .’
Bella looks at me sadly and starts to cry. ‘When’s he coming home then? Some of the kids at school are saying he’s left us and we’re going to have to live on the street like poor people.’
‘We’re not going to be living anywhere but here.’
‘You said the beach,’ says Sam.
‘Except the beach, or the country,’ I say without conviction.
‘Where’s Bali?’ Sam asks.
‘Indonesia,’ Bella answers. ‘Very hot, dirty water, doubtful hygiene.’
Sam is holding the postcard his father sent. I must have left it on the bedside table last night when I was reading it again, for the hundredth time.
‘Is that where Dad is?’ Bella asks.
I nod. ‘Yes.’
‘Can’t we go and see him?’ Sam says. ‘We could surprise him.’
I almost laugh and whip the card out of Sam’s hand.
‘He’d certainly be surprised.’
Sam starts crying. ‘I want to go to Bali and find Daddy.’
‘Daddy’s having a break,’ I say to comfort him. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how long he’s going to be away.’
Bella looks at Sam and then at me. ‘Then maybe we should go to Bali and bring him home,’ she says.
Later, when the kids have gone to bed, I phone Gloria for the third time in a day.
‘Why didn’t