broken

I call my mother. She’ll want to know about our trip to Bendigo to see Nerri and Gemma. I give her all the details. She seems to have forgotten our last rancorous conversation about Idji and his broken leg, my diagnosis, not the vet’s. My mother thinks I should shop around till I find a vet willing to attest that he has a broken leg.

I call my sister. She’s in bed though it’s only nine o’clock. She has broken her leg: fibula, clean break. She fell off a ladder at the new Emerald house, pulling dead fronds from a man-fern. Have you told our mother, I ask. No, she says. I knew that. Well, I didn’t tell her something either, I say.

Then I tell my sister. My manager rang today to tell me my contract will not be renewed and I’m on probation for three months. I reckon a decision’s been made and three months is just process. Three conflicting emotions converge: I feel kicked in the guts: I’m pissed off at the lack of understanding and support; and I don’t give a toss.

My sister tells me she’s had a stoush with our mother too. She tries to get her to tell my father that at 87 and as good as blind he should stop driving. My mother refuses. I know her reasoning. He does the shopping, goes by car. It gives him his one and only purpose. Therefore it’s keeping him alive. Trouble is that it might just kill him too. Or someone else.

My sister and I agree that he shouldn’t drive. She thinks I need to call his doctor, get her to write a letter to have his licence revoked. Sure feels like betrayal to me. And perfectly good sense too. I’ll chew on that one.

Meanwhile the cat’s leg gets better each day. He limps and it’s slightly bent. Gives him character. He’s happy to stay inside, rest the leg.

I need rest too. Tomorrow afternoon I fly to Launceston. My good woman is coming round early in the morning to tack up the bottoms of my new long pants. I’m going to dress up for my masters: new shirt, new pants, new linen jacket with padded power shoulders.

  

Fuck me over the road!

Rock on.