A Stringed Instrument Ch. 13

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On Monday afternoon I went out to buy clothes. I still had plenty of T-shirts, but I thought it might be diplomatic to wear something more respectable to work until people got used to the hair. Since my good shirt had never shown up — I could only assume it had been eaten by monsters under the bed, or perhaps 'borrowed' by one of Aleks' friends — I picked up a couple of sober-looking collared shirts and a pair of trousers into the bargain for when the knees gave out on my Old Faithfuls.

When I got home, there was an email waiting for me from Phoebe in between two Russian brides and a Syrian dissident looking for help shifting his improbably large fortune.

Hi Yvonne, it's good to hear from you. I hope you're doing well. Audition was this morning, I think I did well, but I'll hear back in a week or so after they finish the other auditions. There were a lot of other candidates so may be a second round.

But I'm confused... not sure what you're thanking me for? I'd like to take credit but I really don't know what it is. Wishing you well - P.

I scratched my head and replied:

Getting my job back?

Half an hour later my phone rang. I jumped, and it rang twice more before I calmed myself and answered it. "H-hello? Phoebe?"

"Yvonne? What's this about your job?"

"It wasn't you, then?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Honest. You lost your job?"

"Yeah... don't take this the wrong way, but your dad fired me. Or got Peter to do it. Three weeks ago. I think he found out about us."

"Fired you? Jesus! I'm sorry, that might have been my fault. I was pretty upset and I told him a few things, but I never thought he'd do anything like that."

"It's okay, he took it back. He said somebody told him off for it, I assumed that was you."

"No, I would've if I'd known, but this is the first I've heard of it. But thanks for the vote of confidence. After the last time we talked... well, I didn't think you had much opinion of me."

"Yeah. Um." I took a deep breath, remembering my parting shot of a month ago. "I was... pretty angry last time I wrote to you. I could have been kinder in how I expressed myself."

"I know you had reason to be angry. Just... listen, I owe you an explanation, but not over the phone. I'm heading down to Ballarat next Monday anyway, meeting up with the aunts at Mum's place to sort out what's happening with her stuff. I'll be coming back Tuesday, we could meet in town on my way to the airport?"

"Yeah, that works."

We agreed on a time and place, and then hung up without making further chit-chat. Talking to an ex is nervous business, like revisiting an old battlefield; even if you step around the unexploded shells, it's hard to forget the blood that's been spilt there.

The thought of seeing her again made me uncomfortable. I wasn't expecting drama, but it'd taken me a month to pull myself back to some sort of emotional equilibrium and I was afraid of losing it again and toppling back into the pit.

That week I armoured myself. I reminded myself of the facts: I'd called it off myself and it was probably for the best, for both our sakes. On Monday we'd meet and have a civilised talk — perhaps we'd get a little closure out of that, not that I really needed it at this point — and then go our separate ways, thinking of one another less and less as time went by. After a decent interval had passed she'd find herself a nice boy, one she didn't have to hide from her family. I'd take my brother's advice, stay single for a while, and then perhaps fall into a relationship quite by accident, the way I usually do.

Perhaps one day I'd see her on TV and tell some new lover about the musician I used to date. But by that stage, all the moments that had once been so overwhelming, so much in the present — our first angry kiss, the delight in her voice as she rhapsodised about an electric cello, the way she shook as I held her in that hotel in Ballarat — would be just dry memories with no power to unsettle me.

And in the meantime, I wouldn't spend too much of the week worrying about it. I had seven days of leisure — paid holiday! before I was due to meet her, and that was my time to enjoy myself. There were friends to visit, books to read, films to watch, clothes to wash...

***

She was taking the train back from Ballarat and then switching to the airport shuttle at Southern Cross, so we'd agreed to meet in a cafe near the bus terminal. I got there early and sat at a corner table, distracting myself with an old newspaper so I wouldn't keep fretting about our meeting.

I'd been staring at the crossword for several minutes, trying to make sense of "Average lover's still a lover (8)", when I realised Phoebe was standing in front of my table with a wheelie suitcase, in slacks and a faded T-shirt, waiting for me to notice her.

"Hello, Yvonne."

"Oh! Hello, Phoebe!" I put the paper aside and waved her to the empty chair opposite me. "How are you?"

"Oh, not bad. You're looking well — I like the hair."

"You think?" I ran my fingers through it. "I wasn't sure about it."

"No, it suits you."

A silence.

"How'd things go in Ballarat?" I asked.

"Oh, not too bad. I was worried the aunts might fight, they're like that sometimes, but they behaved. It's not like Mum had a lot of stuff worth fighting about. She didn't like to own more than she could fit in the car."

"I guess that makes things simpler."

"Uh-huh." She looked at me briefly, then away again, and pulled out a small notebook. "Listen, this might seem odd, but I wrote down notes, what I want to say, so I could get it clear in my head and so I didn't leave out anything important. Let me get through it and then ask whatever you want." And she began her story.

***

It's Sunday morning at RJ's house, four days before the funeral. RJ has gone out to talk with Helen's sisters about the arrangements. Yaya is sitting out in the garden, in a sunny spot near the pool. Her arm's slowly healing from the surgery but it still aches, and the warmth makes her feel better.

She hasn't been using the wheelchair this last week. She says she's feeling stronger, and that she doesn't need Hamish fussing over her all the time. But it's RJ who pays him to look after her, so he sits in the lounge room where he can keep a watchful eye on her through the window while he surfs the net.

Phoebe's just brewed a pot of herbal tea, the kind her grandmother likes, and now she's headed out to the garden with a cup in one hand. Only one cup; with what she has in mind, she has enough to worry about without looking after a cup of her own.

"Hello, Yaya." They're speaking in a mix of Greek and English, as they usually do when it's just the two of them.

"Good morning, dear. So thoughtful, just what I wanted." Yaya takes the tea with her good arm and rests it beside her. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, still a little sad."

Yaya nods. "Of course you are. Come and sit with me, Bee-Bee."

Phoebe sits beside her, and kisses her on the cheek. Yaya's skin feels like warm paper.

"You wouldn't remember it, but Helen, she used to sing to you every night when you were very small." She pats Phoebe's arm. "I don't think she liked me much, and I'm sorry for that. I know it's hard to bring up children — God knows it wasn't easy for me, out here with just your Grandpa — and I tried to help, but it was like it was an insult to her. But she was your mama and she loved you, and I'm very sorry she's gone."

Phoebe can feel tears welling in her eyes, and she has to blink to keep them down. She can't talk about that stuff, not just now, because there's another conversation she needs to have and she's been putting it off for days.

"Yaya, I need to tell you something important. And Dad too, but I wanted to talk to you first."

"What is it, dear?"

Phoebe swallows, looks out at the pool where the ripples cast mottled shadows on the bottom.

"You know my friend Yvonne?"

"The one who works for your papa? Of course I know her."

"She's, um, she's my girlfriend." She's used the English word, and Yaya looks uncertain, so she goes on: "I love her."

"What are you saying? Like... lesbians?" There's a hint of distaste in her voice.

"Yes. Sort of. Yes."

"I don't understand. Why do you think you love this girl? Maybe you're just really good friends?"

"I... no, it's not just friends. We kiss. Not like friends."

Yaya says nothing. The yawning silence demands more, an offering of words.

"We, um, we sleep together. Sometimes."

Yaya makes a noise between her tongue and teeth. "How ever did this happen? You weren't interested like that in girls. Never."

"I'm not. Just her." Again, the silence. "We met at Dad's Christmas party. She kissed me, and... um."

"She knew you were his daughter? When she kissed you?"

"Yes, I... no, it's not like that! This isn't about Dad!"

"Bee-Bee, do you know they've changed the laws now? If it looks like you're her girlfriend and then you split up, she can take you to court and get some of your money. You have to be careful!"

"Yaya, I don't have any money. You know that."

"But you will some day. Who do you think your papa will leave this to? Who does this girl think he's leaving it to?"

"Grandma! I was with Luke three years. You never worried about him trying to get Dad's money."

"Well, it's natural for a man and a woman to be together. Your grandpapa and I... he wasn't a good husband, you know? I had to hide money so he wouldn't waste it all. But I had your papa, and little Achilles, God bless him. And from your papa I had you. And you and your papa and your uncle, that was worth all of the trouble your grandpa gave me. Even coming out here, so far from home, leaving my mama and papa behind. And one day you'll understand how wonderful it is. But a woman can't give you that. Women need men, men need women."

"Grandma." She's near tears again. "You know it's not as simple as that. I thought you understood. You remember Ralph who used to teach me cello, you knew he was gay. You didn't mind then."

"Maybe some people are born like that. I don't know, maybe God has reasons for it. But you... I know you like men. We used to watch movies together and argue about who was most handsome. You never looked at girls. Now you can't be happy with a man any more? When did this change?"

"I, no, I haven't changed. I still like men. If I wasn't with Yvonne, I think I could be happy with a guy. But I'm happy with her."

"Bee-Bee, if you don't need this, why are you doing it? Maybe you're still sad about Luke and you don't want to see another man for a while, I understand that. But you don't need to do this just because you're lonely."

The worst part is that there's some truth there: she was still angry at Luke when she let Yvonne kiss her (et cetera), and that's where it all started. She is afraid of loneliness. And while she's still trying to find words to explain that she has far better reasons, Yaya has already moved on and the chance to reply is lost.

"Why don't you take some time and think about this, dear? You have so much on your mind just now, don't drive yourself crazy with this as well."

"Grandma, that's why I need to talk about it now. Yvonne makes it easier for me to cope with everything else. Mum, the audition, you. I want her there with me on Thursday."

"You need her... to cope with me?" She doesn't sound angry, just hurt.

"Grandma, grandma, I didn't mean it like that... just that it's been difficult, with you ill..."

"Bee-Bee, I'm your Yaya. I love you until the day I die. I know I've been cross lately but I didn't see how hard it was on you, I'm sorry. This sickness, it's hard to think about other things properly. Poor child, you've lost your mother, and here I've been arguing with you and your papa about the funeral. No wonder you're angry with me. No wonder you need somebody else to comfort you."

Now Yaya is crying, and Phoebe realises: she has never seen her grandmother cry. She's comforted her, but she's never really comprehended what it must be like to be old, and frail, and to have your very bones become a malignant foe. To bury a child and a daughter-in-law, and wonder whether you failed them.

And even now, with the surgery past... Yaya is still seventy-five, and frail, and there's no guarantee the cancer won't come back. If Phoebe hurts her now, this woman who's watched over her all her life, there's no guarantee she will ever get a chance to mend it. She can't take that risk, not now, not when she's about to bury her mother with so much left unsaid. Later, when things are back to normal, she'll find a better way to explain things and answer all Yaya's objections.

She wants to hug her grandmother, but the arm-brace is in the way and the best she can do is a pat on the back. "Yaya, I know you love me. I love you too. Listen." She already knows she's going to hate herself for this. "I'll talk to you about this again, some time when things aren't so crazy. Maybe I can explain it better then. But I'm not angry with you."

She thinks: I can't bring Yvonne on Thursday. Give me time, and I can bring Yaya around, but not yet.

But if I tell Yvonne what just happened, she'll be terribly hurt. She hurts so easily. And I'm not in any shape to comfort her just now. I need time. And then later, I will tell her the truth, and apologise.

She holds her grandmother's hand tight, fingers bony-thin between her own. When at last Yaya is settled again, Phoebe kisses her on the cheek once more before slipping away to make a call in private.

"Hello, Yvonne? About Thursday? I didn't realise, but the chapel is quite small, so they need to restrict it to family and Mum's friends..."

***

"...I just didn't know how to handle it. Too many things in my head. I didn't expect her to take it that way." She'd written down a list, and she started to read off it: "I was scared of fighting with —" but she was losing her composure rapidly, and she stopped talking and handed the list to me.

Fighting with Yaya when she's sick. Thinking every time — what if this is the last?

Feel like fraud when people give me sympathy for Mum.

Thought I'd have Yaya's support when I told Dad about Yvonne.

Can't remember when Nero last got together, think we've fizzled out. Don't have time or energy anyway.

Playing funeral music on crappy rental cello with loose pegs. Let alone practice for audition.

Yvonne likes Yaya, will be so hurt if I tell her.

She watched as I read the list, waited until I looked back up at her. Her face was paler than I remembered and when she spoke her hands mirrored her agitation. "I just couldn't figure out what to do. I remembered how upset you were that weekend in the Hunter, when I laughed at the idea of telling Dad about us. I couldn't deal with that on top of everything else."

"You could have told me. I would have coped." Would I? Well, I preferred to think so.

"Maybe. I wish I had. I just couldn't think straight. I thought I'd come clean to you later, when I'd sorted out the other things. And then it seemed like it was never a good time. I was scared to tell you and the longer it dragged on, well, you know. I can't undo that, and... I am sorry. I really am. Not just because I got caught."

I thought: Poor girl. That was a lot of crap to deal with, all at once.

I thought: Reasons or not, she lied to me.

"And then when you found out... I know you had reason to be angry, but it felt like you'd turned into the Lord High Prosecutor instead of my lover, and I just couldn't cope with that. But you know the really stupid thing? I could have just brought you along as a friend and nobody would have been any the wiser. I told Yaya because I didn't want to pretend. And then look where I ended up. Anyway, that's it. That's what happened." At last her hands quieted, and she flattened them on the table.

"Uh-huh." I reached out, where her hand had settled on the table, and rested my fingers on hers. It didn't cost me to give that, at least.

"So where does that leave us?" she asked.

"There's still an 'us', then?"

"If you want there to be."

I thought about the imperfections of our relationship and ourselves. The distance; the tension of a disapproving family (one of them my boss); my insecurities, and Phoebe's, and the damage already done by what had passed between us.

Damage to me, or to my ego? Were they the same thing?

Then my fingers curled around hers, and hers curled around mine: two hooks linked. "I would like that," I said. "I've missed you."

"I mi—"

The moment was interrupted by her phone. She gave it a bored look, as if about to drop the call, but then raised an eyebrow as she saw the number. "Sorry, I should take this one."

She picked it up. "Hello? Yes, speaking. Good to hear from you." I felt her fingers tighten on mine as she listened. "Oh, thank you. Yes, I can... the ninth, next Monday?" She mouthed to me: 'second round'. "Yes, eleven is fine. What do you want me to prepare? ...yes, I can do that. I'll think about it and let you know tomorrow. All right, thank you very much, I'll see you on Monday. Bye!"

She put the phone away and gave me a half-smile. "Made it to the second-round audition. I was hoping for better news, but it's still good."

"Well done, you." I squeezed her hand. "So I take it this means I shouldn't ask if you can stay on tonight."

"Sorry. I really would love to, but..."

"It's okay. I'm glad. When do you have to go?"

She glanced at her watch. "About ten minutes."

"That soon?" Then, almost before I'd thought of it, "In that case, can I come too?"

"What, now? To Sydney?"

"I've got the rest of the week off, and I've still got most of my severance money. If I wouldn't be in your way."

"You wouldn't be. But —" she looked me over "— you don't have a change of clothes or anything with you."

"I can pick them up at the other end. Or just spend the time nude until you throw me out."

"My, but you're forward." She patted my hand. "I'm sure we can manage something."

It didn't work out quite as neatly as I'd hoped. Phoebe's flight was full, and the best I could get was two hours later. So we hugged at the gate — I wasn't quite bold enough to kiss her yet — and parted with a "see you soon".

Was I really flying seven hundred kilometres on the spur of the moment, without so much as my laptop or a toothbrush, to visit someone I'd thought was out of my life? Was I kidding myself to think it could be mended so easily? I plagued myself with doubts the whole way there, and when I switched on my phone I was half-expecting to see a message from Phoebe: Sorry, this is a bad idea, hope you haven't left yet.

But there was no message. I'd told her to go on ahead when she got in — I could find my way to her place from the airport — but when I deplaned at Mascot she was there in the lounge, waiting for me.

"Thought I'd keep you company on the train."

We didn't talk much on the train, mostly just sat side by side enjoying one another's presence. I was happy and yet uneasy; it still seemed too good to be true.

As we walked back to her place, through the leaf-dappled sunlight of a gentle winter afternoon, Phoebe said: "I have a confession to make. I pinched one of your shirts, that time when we visited John and Cat."

"Wait, that was you? I've been looking everywhere for that. What..."

"I took it home so I could wrap it around a pillow and have something that smelled of you. You were out of the room when I had the idea and then I forgot to ask you... and afterwards I felt silly about it. Then when... you know. I washed it and put it away. But you can have it back now. I hope you don't mind."