MAYHEM
Issue Three – October 2015
ISSN 2382-0322
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Kay Ramsbottom
Marion, née Gerard
Somewhere in my past you vanished. I wonder if you’re still alive. I’ve looked for you on
Facebook but I only know the name you had at school. Maybe you shed that identity, like you
shed that first baby, something too difficult to deal with. You were my golden girl, my Gerry, my
bestie. So compact and lively, the one I wanted to be. Did you know I wanted to kiss you that
night at the beach, with the moonlight on the water and the taste of cigarettes on our lips? But I
didn’t dare; it might have ruined our friendship.
I moved away after school, started work, got engaged. You partied hard and moved from job to
job. We kept in touch, phone calls and visits. One day a letter from you. You were pregnant, you
weren’t ready, you were broke – could I help? I drove you to the clinic, held your hand as we
passed the hissing women. They called you whore and baby-killer. I wanted to defend you, told
them to shut up, mind their own business. At the door a big security guard urged us in. “Don’t
argue with them, it only makes them worse.” Afterwards he let us out the back door. I gave you
the money. Five hundred was a lot back then.
I heard from you less often. You were still the party girl, still seeing the same guy. If you missed
the Pill three days in a row you’d wash it down with vodkas and hope for the best. You got
pregnant again. You waited too long to go to the clinic and they wouldn’t let you terminate. You
wore baggy clothes and told your mother when you were two weeks away from due. I visited
you and we sat at the picnic table with the baby playing in the dirt at your feet. His skin was all
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© Copyright remains with the individual author
MAYHEM
Issue Three – October 2015
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
red and crusty. You looked at him with nothing in your face as you flicked ash off your cigarette,
and said, “He has eczema. He cries all the time.” I thought of you drinking and smoking your
way through the pregnancy. I’m sure you loved your dog more.
There was another letter. You needed more money, for reasons I can’t remember. I wrote back
explaining why I couldn’t lend you more. I gave you details: my income, my bills. After Len left
me I was scraping by on $70 a week. Couldn’t you ask your mum, your boyfriend Greg? What
were you doing with your own money, were you in trouble, on drugs? I probably wasn’t tactful,
but I had my own shit to deal with. I’m sorry I sent it.
We talked. You understood, you said. Forget it. Come over and visit me this weekend. When I
got there, you were out. Forty minute’s drive, petrol wasted. After it happened again, I learned to
ring your mother first to check you were home.
“Hi Mrs Gerard. It’s Kay here. Can I speak to Marion, please?”
“Hello Kay. I’m sorry dear, she’s at Greg’s today.”
“Oh, she asked me to come over. Do you think she’ll be back later?”
“I don’t think so, dear. She only just left.”
Maybe you were just forgetful. I cut you lots of slack.
“Hello Kay. Sorry, dear, Marion’s on holiday.”
“On holiday? But… how could she afford that? She, um – this is embarrassing – she owes me
money.”
Mrs Gerard sighed.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
© Copyright remains with the individual author
MAYHEM
Issue Three – October 2015
ISSN 2382-0322
______________________________________________________________________________
“She owes me money too, dear. Quite a lot actually.”
I finally took the hint, and I let you slip away. Over the years I heard about you through mutual
friends. You had four more sons. Five boys! You married their father Greg. If only I could
remember his last name. I’d love to talk to you again. I don’t understand what I did wrong.
I wish I’d risked the kiss on the beach instead.
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© Copyright remains with the individual author