"STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN" by Alessandra Azzaroni
© 2002 by Alessandra Azzaroni vcaoriginals@yahoo.com.au
STORY LAST UPDATED ON 06/12/2002
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Written in Australia. This story has been adapted from an original novel of mine, under the same title.
PROLOGUE
We live our lives strangely. There's always a childish little part of us that believes that we are safe from everything, that we are invincible. What are we, superheros?
Which pretty much explains why a lot of us in the world are not exactly the shiniest crystal drops in the chandelier.
And so we assume that we'll never get hurt. Hurt? Us? The connection just doesn't take place in our complacent minds that may or may not think that we are all immortal.
And many of us believe that we don't deserve to get hurt. And that denial makes us open to vulnerability, which someone is bound to take advantage of.
Some of us see our lives flash before our eyes… and wonder if we're dead yet. But then something happens to make it very clear that we
are alive, painstakingly alive, even.
Oh, the ways we suffer for our families…
CHAPTER ONE: MOTHER
The name Gabrielle Fairway was famous around Greystone Secondary College. This was because I was the school's first published writer. Author? I didn't have the stamina and motivation to ever complete a work of fiction, except for schoolwork. Journalist? I could never just report facts - I just happened to have been born with an opinion.
I was some kind of opinion writer. I'd sent in a piece to the
Victorian Eye newspaper early in the year. They were so impressed there that they took me on as a freelancer. Didn't get paid too much, but I wasn't too fussy. I just liked the thought that people were reading what I had to say. My grandparents were decently loaded, so I never had to worry about money.
It was November, and I was in Year 10, when things started changing. It was November 1, to be precise…
The train ride from Greystone to Carltrain took twenty-three minutes, as always. It was a disgrace to public transport, in the way that it was
always on time. In fact, sometimes it was a little early. Lucky for me, I usually arrived at the station ten minutes before my train was due. In the afternoons, the trains were separated by about twenty minutes.
Carltrain was up near Mt Dandenong. My particular suburb was the epitome of a mountainous little town. It had a number of semblances to the bush. You heard right - the bush, one of Australia's three stereotypes. The beach stereotype was set for Queensland, Western Australia and New South Wales. The outback stereotype was set for the Northern Territory and some parts of South Australia. The bush stereotype was for Victoria, and maybe Tasmania. Who knows about the Australian Capital Territory - it was surrounded by New South Wales, and NSW only. Like San Marino, which was surrounded only by Italy.
The house that I lived in with my grandparents had eucalyptus trees in both yards, front and back. Our house also seemed a little swallowed by wattle at times. And believe it or not, sometimes we actually found koalas in some of our eucalyptus trees. It felt like the complete stereotype of the Australian bush was right on our property, and it smelt like the entire place was drenched in eucalyptus oil.
Our house was a two-storey homestead, with the drive-in garage and recreational room on the lower level, and everything else on the upper. There was a veranda, and two balconies up top, one facing the road, and the other facing the back fence - one to the north and one to the south.
It was a bit of a difficult walk from the Carltrain station, which was set low. It was uphill for about ten minutes from there, until you turned right and went steady for a bit. Then you turned left onto my tarmac driveway and went up until you reached the large black stones, and you walked up them until you were at the top. By this time, you'd have reached the upper level, so turned right onto the wooden decking and went through the front door. Needless to say, by the time I got home in the afternoons, I was usually stuffed.
This particular afternoon was no different. It would be a four-day weekend because of Melbourne Cup Day on the Tuesday, but luckily I didn't have a lot of homework, so the walk wasn't too bad.
I went straight through the front door, past the lounge, dining room and my grandparents' room, and when I reached the kitchen, I turned left, then right, then left until I was in my bedroom. I shut the door behind me, dumped my bag down, pulled off my shoes and lay on my bed. The weather had been quite warm all day, which had put me on edge, so I needed some relaxing time. I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. In these kinds of situations, I was always more aware of everything around me, particularly sounds, so I could hear my grandmother's voice clearly.
It sounded like she was in the kitchen. She'd been talking on the telephone since before I got home, I guessed, though I hadn't really noticed. And in my position at that moment, I was at the point where I was trying to focus on everything except my thoughts; so all sounds were vital for my concentration. And so I listened closely to everything Leanne, my grandmother, said.
"So you saw her article, then - what did you think of it… Frightfully observant, I know… You want to
what? But that won't… She'd never agree to that, you know what she's like… Alright then, you
don't know what she's like, but…"
I got up then. I'd always hated it when I knew people were talking about me behind my back. Why couldn't people just talk
with me instead of about me?
So I trundled myself off to the kitchen, where Leanne was on the cordless. I tried to ignore her talking, and went around opening cupboard doors and such.
Leanne ended the call quickly. "You know what you should and shouldn't do. Good-bye." She pressed a button to disconnect, chucked the cordless onto the counter and then collapsed onto a nearby couch with a heavy sigh. The kitchen area was in one section of the room, while a mini-lounge was in the other.
I called Leanne, and Greg, my grandfather, by their first names. I'd lived with them and them only for all the years of my life. It was kind of like they were my parents, but I could never call them Mum and Dad. But we were far too close to be like grandparents and granddaughter, so we used first names instead. It was easier.
You may ask why I wasn't living with my parents, but the way I see it, they were the ones not living with me. They weren't dead or anything. In fact, I was pretty sure they were alive out there somewhere.
The truth is that they just left me. Leanne and Greg could have done some fabricating, but instead they told me the truth. You know all those stories you hear about babies being left on doorsteps? Yep, that's what happened to me. Leanne and Greg really were my grandparents because their daughter, my mother, left me on their doorstep wrapped up in a blanket in a little carrier thing with a dummy in my mouth. Cute little me, just out of hospital and already a sorry case.
They left me with a whole lot of baby things - endless bottles, nappies and clothes. And my mother left a note. I still had it. I'd stuck it in a fancy black metal-like photo frame, and it sat on my chest of drawers.
Mum and Dad,
Sorry about all this. Take care of her, all right? I'll keep in contact with you, I promise. Oh, her name is Gabrielle Alana.
Thanks!
Your daughter
Not even a name, just "your daughter". It was as though she knew that I would read that note and knew I'd be curious, so she hid her identity.
Leanne and Greg hid her identity, too. There were no photographs of their daughter in their house. At least, there were none that I knew of. They could have been hiding photos and mementos of her somewhere, but I just wasn't born to be a snoop.
So my mother (or someone else) had named me before I came to live with Greg and Leanne. That was okay. It was nice of my mother to give me at least
something I could keep.
Still, I kept the note as something I could learn from. Maybe that it was okay to offload your responsibilities onto someone else. Or to remind myself that if my own parents didn't want me, then other people probably wouldn't be interested in me, either. So I should never just assume that everything would always be right.
That's probably why I grew up to be so bitter, sarcastic and sceptical. I didn't really seem to have anything to believe in. Or
anyone to believe in. Sure, Greg and Leanne did take me in, but who's to say it wasn't out of guilt, or pity? More to the point - who could resist a peaceful, silently sleeping baby in a carrier on their doorstep? (They told me that was how they found me. Who knows? It could've just been a lie. An innocent, sleeping child makes a better picture than a cranky, crying one.)
I always wondered (when I gave myself the liberty to ponder it on my more depressive days) why I was given away like that, though. Could it have been something I'd done? Or had my mother not wanted a child, but couldn't be bothered going through all the paperwork and interviews to give me up for adoption?
Why wasn't I just aborted? But then I remembered a law of the state that said you could only abort if letting the child grow within you could physically or mentally hurt you and/or your child.
Everything had a motive, I thought, so I cast a cynical eye upon whatever came into view. Sure, it made me seem like a shifty person, but so be it. I had my morals, and so I stuck to them.
Mind you, this was all kept inside my twisted little mind. What was I on the outside? I loved having a laugh, I liked having bitching sessions, I liked getting my point across and I liked to write. If you say things, there's a high chance that you'll either be interrupted or ignored. And that's to your face. With writing, people can just simply choose to stop reading.
And you don't even have to witness that.
"Looking for something, Gab?"
I turned my head from where I was staring into the open pantry. "No, not really." I leaned back out of the way, and closed the pantry door.
"Any mail?" Leanne asked.
"Didn't check. I'll go look." Because I was more comfortable now that I'd had a break since making the walk home, I'd be fine to walk down the steep, slightly curved, smooth driveway.
I went back to my bedroom first, to get changed. I was still wearing the navy-and-white checked summer dress that was part of Greystone S.C.'s school uniform. As I pulled off my knee-high white socks and hunted down some comfy socks, I got a glimpse of the framed note atop my drawers, staring back at me, taunting me. It always told me that people would leave me in life. So I tried not to care too much about anyone, minus Leanne and Greg.
I was changed, outside and then back in the house within the space of five minutes. Walking into the kitchen with the contents of the letterbox in my hands, I asked Leanne, "Where's Greg?"
"Still at work. I think he's got appointments until five."
Greg still worked as a veterinarian in the local area. He was about sixty-five years of age, and could've retired ten or so years ago if he'd felt like it. But he was still healthy, and he enjoyed doing what he did, and so he kept up with it.
Leanne used to be a primary school teacher some years ago, but she'd long since given that up. She filled her time by making soft toys and baking goods, and then
selling them off. She went to the local craft fair in Carltrain every second Saturday, and she sold off her foods at a café up near the lookout.
It may not have been technically a lookout, but that's what I called it. There was a place not too far away from where we lived where you could look down at the suburbs and little bushland. Tourists came by, and newlyweds. A street or so away from the lookout had a motel, a knick-knack shop, a milk bar and the café, the
Hillview, where Leanne sold her foods.
At the counter, I divided the mail into separate piles - junk mail; things for Greg; things for Leanne; things for both Greg
and Leanne together; and things for me. Usually the only mail I got was from readers having a bitch about my articles. I replied to every letter I received. Usually if I got bitchy mail, I'd reply with something along the lines of:
Dear You,
Because you don't seem all that happy about my writings, I reckon you could benefit from just not reading them, skipping on to read something else.
Best of luck to you in your endeavours,
Gabrielle Fairway
I didn't like my surname sometimes. What was I, a bloody golf course? Could've been worse, but overall, my name sounded like I was a nice person. Whether I actually
was a nice person or not was not of concern.
When I was sorting, I couldn't help but notice something strange. One of the letters Greg and Leanne got together had neat cursive handwriting on the envelope, handwriting that matched an envelope addressed to me.
Leanne got up off the couch to collect her pile, and her and Greg's pile. I collected mine and went off to my room. I shut the door behind me, jumped into a comfortable position on my bed and selected an envelope. I chose the one with the neat cursive handwriting in black pen. I flipped the envelope over to read the sender address.
Melinda Metzelder
59 Bridgegate Avenue
Belden
VIC
So the sender was in Victoria. Fair enough. I did write for the
Victorian Eye, after all. And I, too, was in Victoria.
I knew of Belden. It was on the train line, closer to the city than
Carltrain. Belden was a rich kind of suburb; with pretty buildings I could see from the train. I never got off at the Belden station, though. If I went that far, I usually went all the way to the City Loop, the underground railway stations in Melbourne City, and beyond to Spencer Street and Flinders Street.
Right, so this Melinda Metzelder person obviously had a bit of money if they lived in Belden. And quite possibly were upper class, because of the fancy writing.
But if they were writing to me about one of my articles, why were they writing to Leanne and Greg as well? Maybe I just had it wrong, maybe the two envelopes were written by two different people, and the handwriting just
looked the same. It happened. Every woman over the age of seventy in Victoria seemed to have the same handwriting. But this envelope didn't look like it was written by one of those seventy-year-old Victorians.
The white envelope had sticky tape around the seal. I did that sometimes, especially if I was putting a letter in a really old envelope I found in a kitchen cupboard somewhere. I usually didn't put sticky tape all around the seal, though, just at the sides, and a tiny bit on the far edges of the long, horizontal side. The envelope before me didn't look old, though. Therefore, I figured that whatever was inside was important, like those "Private - Top Secret" documents that were super-sealed. Crikey, how did those things ever get open?
I couldn't be bothered getting up for scissors, a knife or a skewer to open the envelope, so I peeled at the sticky tape and soon had the envelope open, albeit with a few rips along the way. I pulled out and unfolded the sheet of paper inside, which also had the same neat cursive handwriting. I liked that. It showed that the person cared enough to handwrite the letter instead of just computer-generating one. Of course, the chances were that maybe the writer didn't have access to a computer, but in my arrogant little mind, I chose to believe that the writer cared enough about me to add a personal touch with proper handwriting.
I began to read the letter, but then suddenly stopped. I stared down at the lettering, and the words began to merge into messy, unreadable clumps, like sparse grass on a deserted country highway. What was I reading? Was this someone's idea of a twisted little joke? Maybe someone had found out how upset and bitter I was about not having parents with me that they decided to send me this little concoction of theirs. I so desperately wanted to believe what was in front of me, but I couldn't help but be sceptical. Other than Leanne and Greg, no one seemed to give a hoot about me, so why should this writer?
Dear Gabrielle,
If you've checked other mail in your letterbox today, you'll probably have noticed that the handwriting you are reading now is identical to the writing on the envelope of a letter addressed to Greg and Leanne Fairway, your grandparents - and, in all honesty, my parents.
I'm not some aunt you've never heard of. My parents only had one child, and that was I. Gabrielle, I am your mother. You can choose to believe it or not, but it is true. I've just recently moved back to Australia, and I'm not alone.
I've come back from Germany, where I've been for about sixteen years. Took me ages to catch onto the language, but I've finally got a grip on it. Why Germany? Your father, that's why.
Have you heard about Prince Fredrik of Denmark? During the Sydney Olympics, he came down and met Mary Donaldson, a Sydneysider who was a real-estate agent. That's kind of what happened when I was eighteen. I worked in a pub in the city, and these rich German folk came by. They were in media and telecommunications. Your father was one of the sons of a particularly loaded media honcho - still is - and we met in the pub. One year later, your father still hadn't left Melbourne, and I'd just given birth.
I don't want to go into details now. Ask your grandparents, and I'll tell you all that happened once we meet. And we
will meet. That's why I came back home, family in tow. It's about time you meet us, live with us, get to know us and - dare I sound cheesy - be a family with us.
As I said, we'll talk details later. We'll talk on the phone, or write letters or e-mails if you'd prefer. But believe me, Gabrielle; we
will get in contact.
I have written to my parents - your grandparents - to set up a meeting with all six of us. Don't run away - I'm expecting you to be there. The answers to your questions will be revealed. And there's something that you'll find quite surprising, I'm sure.
You don't have to write back to me now. Just talk to your grandparents.
Thinking of you,
Melinda Metzelder
I threw the page and its envelope onto the creamy carpet, and swept the other envelopes off my bed. I lay fully flat, and my eyes travelled over to the framed note on my drawers.
Mum and Dad,
Sorry about all this. Take care of her, all right? I'll keep in contact with you, I promise. Oh, her name is Gabrielle
Alana.
Thanks!
Your daughter
I wondered how Leanne and Greg felt knowing that their daughter was back. I wondered how
I felt knowing that my mother was back.
I didn't know.
CHAPTER TWO: FIRST MEETING
Awhile later, Leanne knocked on my door and asked to come in. I mumbled an almost unconscious "yeah", barely moving my lips; my eyes and mind still fixed on the framed note across from me.
She pushed open the door and stuck her grey-haired head through the doorway, checking on me. Seeing my state, she muttered an "oh dear", and came over to move my legs aside a bit so that she could sit down on the bed, which I was lying on. "So," she began, almost seeming uncertain, "do you want to talk about it?"
I lifted an eyebrow, my gaze still fixed. "And what about if I said 'no'?"
"Then I'd announce that I want to talk, and just talk, regardless of whether you'd want me to or not."
I lowered the eyebrow, and sighed. "So this is one of those talking matters, then."
"That's right. You can't always get your own way."
"Yeah, 'cause I'm not an only child." I almost said it with a sneer. A bit bratty, I know. But I'd spent my entire life being the only child in the family I lived with, so that was what I was used to. I'd been conditioned to the thought that I was alone, in that respect, and so I'd expected no different. And then out of the blue I was told that my parents wanted to see me and that I had a sibling?
"She wrote that?" Leanne asked.
"She wrote something about a meeting with 'all of us'," I replied. "You, me, Greg, her, my father and someone else. I'm guessing that's a sibling. Am I right?"
She didn't answer at first. She picked up the letter off the floor, and read it. Once she was done with that, she nodded. It was as though she was checking her story with her daughter's before confirming or denying. "Yes, you have a sibling," she answered.
I could tell by the way she pursed her lips that there was more to the story than just that, but I felt far too self-absorbed to care.
"I talked to your mother this afternoon. She wants to hear from you. What are you going to do?"
I didn't want to make any decisions. And I hated being put on the spot like that. "I don't know," I said blankly, closing my eyes to block everything out.
"Well, I need a decision, Gab. I need you to tell me if you're going to communicate with her or not."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Gab, stop being impossible," she said firmly. She gripped one of my wrists. "You have a problem, Gab, and that problem is that you're too non-confrontational.
Stop doing this. Blocking things out won't make them go away-"
"Just stop giving me my marching orders!" I exclaimed, sitting upright and climbing off my bed, as if trying to rid myself of Leanne.
" 'Marching orders'? Don't be ridiculous-"
"I just need time, alright?" I cried, throwing up my hands. "Just give me some thinking time-"
"No, Gab, you'll just put it off."
"No, I just want some time!" I sank to the carpet, curled up and began to cry. I'd never been able to cope well with pressure. I needed my crying time, I needed my running-around-like-a-headless-chicken time and
then I needed my thinking time. Sometimes the first two stages were swapped around, but I
always needed both of them before I got to the thinking time. Then would come the decision time.
Leanne finally got my point, and left the room silently, closing my door behind her. She'd never been good with my tears when I was a child. It was understandable. I became more independent this way.
It wasn't as though she didn't care and didn't love me, because she
did care and love me. Deep down, I knew that she was right, that I would have to learn to think on my feet. But I still felt like a child, that I wasn't old enough to make such an important decision, and an important decision I had to make.
But first, I needed my crying time, so I let the tears flow freely. I thought I was entitled to a good old cry. Maybe I wasn't, but I was selfish, wrapped up in my own world, thinking of me first and foremost. In fact, I didn't just think of me first and foremost, but I
only thought of myself. Call me self-absorbed and petty, but I was used to putdowns. And I expected I'd get a lot more of them before I'd die.
I didn't come out of my room that evening. I napped and slept, and at one stage there was a tray of cheese and biscuits and a salad sandwich brought with a note from my grandfather.
Try to eat something, dear.
-Greg
Greg was a natural-born kind-hearted person. I knew that I could always talk to him about anything - he was good with people as well as animals. He was probably the closest thing I had to a "confidant", if I even
had one. I usually liked to keep things to myself.
The decision regarding communicating with my mother and her family was one I deliberated making. Leanne knew better that to hassle me about it. But I could tell by the way she was saying just about nothing to me that she badly wanted an answer. And I truly, seriously did want to give her one. But I needed help. And help came to me in the form of Greg Fairway.
It was Melbourne Cup Day in November. Carltrain was holding a special television-viewing gathering in the local park, and Leanne went along to sell her goods.
I didn't want to go. Ever since that Friday, I had been in some kind of depression. It was sad, really, but sad I was. What I was sad about, I wasn't sure, but I felt laden with a heavy anvil, blocking me from going anywhere, from turning in any direction that would lead to the separate paths of my choice. If I chose
not to contact my mother, would I finish up at a dead-end? If I chose to contact my mother, would I end up in a threatening, frightening forest? And if I took too long to make a decision, would I just continue in circles for the rest of my life?
While the Irish trainers and owners of the winning horse from the big race made their speeches, I turned to Greg on the couch, and said, "I need help."
He leaned over to pick up the remote control, and clicked the "off" button. He settled back down on the couch beside me, and put an arm around me. I leaned my head on my shoulder. "Talk away," he invited.
And so I went on. I talked of what my options were. He asked me, "But how would you feel if you chose one way and regretted it later?"
I barely needed to think to answer that one. "I'd feel terrible. I'd be depressed, and I'd be kicking myself the whole time for doing the wrong thing."
He paused for a moment. "Gabrielle, when you write your pieces and talk to people, do you worry about doing the wrong thing?"
His question surprised me, but I think I knew what this was leading to. "No," I replied. "But that's because I feel detached from everything. Like the things I write about relate to
everyone in the public."
"And what about now?" I couldn't find the words to say, so Greg summed things for me. "It's because this is more of a personal matter. And because it's personal, it feels that bit more real, doesn't it? And because it's real and happening to
you, you're just not handling it very well."
It was like he could see into my mind, sorting through to get to the nitty-gritty of things. "I can't make this decision on my own. You understand that, don't you?" I asked.
"I do."
"Then I need your opinion." I looked up at him. "Tell me what you think about my mother, and relate it to me."
He thought for a while. "Well, now that she's back in the country, I'll want to spend time with her. After all, she
is still my daughter, and I love her, although I only hear from her once a year."
"That's more than I hear from her," I grumbled.
"Now, now. She's just frightened of you; that's all. She's been worrying for years what it could be like if you found out that she's still alive. She's been worrying if you hate her for leaving you like that. She's risked a lot with the mere thought of contacting you, and now that she has…"
He trailed off there, but I needed to know more. "So what would
you like to see happen?"
He shrugged. "I think I'd like for you to meet. But that could be dangerous. After all, I'd hate it - honestly speaking - if you were to meet with her, and after the meeting decide that you want no further contact with her. So I wouldn't want you two to meet if you're just going to play with her like that. If you're going to meet, you should have more than one meeting."
I picked up on something. "You said that you'd like for us to meet," I remembered. "So it seems to me like you want us to have a proper mother-daughter relationship. That's right, isn't it?"
Greg smiled. "Guilty as charged. But that's just my opinion. I want you to be able to make your own. And I'm sorry, but I'd like to know your answer before Thursday, whether you tell me tonight or tomorrow. Your grandmother's desperate for an answer-"
"I figured that," I mumbled.
"Well, you've heard my part. But now you need to think about you. Can I have your word that you
will give me an answer before Thursday?"
I sighed. "Yes," I mumbled.
"What's that?"
"Yes, you have my word that I will give you an answer before Thursday," I said louder.
"Good girl."
We stayed like that for a long time on the couch, with his arm around me, my head on his shoulder and my frazzled thoughts as I tried to decide my future. I
hated the future, or at least the idea of it.
But decision-making was the thing I hated the most.
At dinner on Wednesday night, I made my announcement. "I've decided that I will meet my mother," I told my grandparents.
"Oh, are you going to write her a letter?" Leanne asked.
"No," I replied. "And I'm not going to call her, either. I will meet her and… whoever else she has with her, but I'd like for you to organise everything for the
six of us to meet." I was still curious about the mystery sixth person, but I wasn't motivated enough to ask. That was how I lived my life - if I wasn't motivated, I just didn't put in much of an effort, if any at all.
"That's fine, we'll get things sorted out," Greg told me with a smile. I could tell he was pleased with my decision. After all, he'd said to me that he wanted my mother and I to meet. But I won't deny that my decision was influenced by what he'd said. I would've still been in a nutshell without his opinion. However, I still had to convince myself that I was doing the right thing; that I wouldn't run away from the perspective meeting and to the red light district in St Kilda,
anything to get away.
"I'll call her and organise a dinner," Leanne spoke up. "Do you want to eat here or out?"
"Here," I answered immediately. After all, if it all got too much, I could just go to my room, or I could sneak off away from the house, but I'd still be in familiar territory.
And so it was settled. I'd made my decision… now I just had to live with it.
I quivered two Saturday nights later. Here it was - the evening of our meeting. My stomach was trampolining inside my body, and my heart was doing sprints in my chest. I had a massive lump in my throat - a sure sign that crying couldn't be too far away - that I just couldn't get rid of. And I couldn't breathe properly. No matter how many, or how large, breaths I took, there was never enough oxygen to keep me stable. I feared I was on the verge of hyperventilation.
It was getting close to seven-thirty, the time that my mother and her entourage were due. I had to calm down. So I went into the bathroom a few doors down from my bedroom. I splashed my face with cold water from the tap, and my hands were like jumping beans as I tried to dry my face with a towel. I buried my face in the towel, willing myself to get a grip.
I forced myself to straighten up, and fix myself up. And to take a good hard look in the mirror and face reality that for the first time in my life, I was scared of rejection. I'd never been rejected before. I was nearly sixteen and a half years old, had no - and had never had one - boyfriend, but I was fine. Independence was what kept me going in life. Relying on Greg to make the decision for me hadn't exactly been independent. In fact, it was just about completely dependent. But I told myself that from now on, no longer would I need dependence. I'd handle everything myself. If I could. But I made no promises. I wouldn't bring myself down, if I could help it.
I put the handtowel back on the rack, and stood up straight in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Despite my nerves, I actually looked quite adult. I had decided to be dressy, to make a good impression. In her letter, my mother had mentioned that my father was the son of a media honcho, and because they were in Belden, I figured they'd be the rich, society types.
My dress was a spaghetti-strapped, black satin, knee-length creation, with a black lace layer over the top that had full-length, tight sleeves that ended at my knuckles. My shoes were black, heeled and open-toed. I'd brushed my thick, black, slightly layered hair, where it lay softly on top of my shoulders. I didn't wear make-up, not that I ever did. I didn't wear nail polish, either, never did. I had a small, thin, gold necklace with a gold cross on it, and a gold watch. I had gold cross earrings, too. Not that I was particularly religious, but I'd gone to a Catholic primary school, and I figured I'd need the luck of the gods with me. To try to calm down just that bit more, I opened my drawer in the bathroom and removed a thin, long frosted-glass tube of Moonflower fragrance I'd got from The Body Shop. I sprayed some on choice areas, and inhaled deeply.
Even with the bathroom door closed, I could hear our doorbell playing 'Für Elise', a favourite song of mine, sounding ever so much like a real piano. I meditated with the scent of Moonflower, and I put my worries on my mental "worry tree". On that note, I almost felt as though I was floating as I left the bathroom.
Leanne and Greg had both gone to answer the door, so I sat in the lounge room, the proper one - not the one sharing an open space with the kitchen. I sat on a black leather sofa, crossed my ankles and waited for everyone to come in. As I heard them come into the room, I stood up to my full height, and hoped that I had proper posture as I turned for the introductions. I looked only at Leanne and Greg, who were also dressed formally.
I saw Leanne's head turn to face the people, but I kept my eyes on her face. Everyone, this is Gabrielle," she introduced me. "Gab, this is your family."
Slowly, slightly trembling, I turned my head cautiously.
Leanne introduced my mother first. "This is your mother, Melinda Metzelder."
I forced myself to look at her. She was a strikingly tall woman, who was clutching Greg's hand just that bit too tightly. She had my hair colour, but Greg's twinkling blue eyes, though hers were wide with… fear, perhaps? She'd taken off her coat and was wearing a sleeveless, midnight blue silk dress that fell to her ankles, and fancy sandals that laced up the lower part of her legs. She managed a shaky smile, and held out a trembling hand - the one that she wasn't gripping Greg's with - for me to shake. "Hello, Gabrielle," she said almost breathlessly.
"Hello… Melinda," I said uncertainly as I shook her hand.
"That's a good idea," she said, slightly louder this time. "Using first names, I mean."
"It's what I'm used to," I said with a tight smile, and I knew my eyes were stone cold.
Leanne interrupted the awkward silence that followed. "And this is Dieter Metzelder, your father."
I turned to face him next. He was as tall as my mother was in her heeled sandals. His hair was onyx-black, and gelled neatly. His face seemed strong, but had smooth edges. He was clean-shaven, and I knew I'd got my dark brown eye colour from him. His onyx eyelashes were naturally long, and gave him a warm texture. He wore a black vest and waistcoat over a white shirt and black linen trousers, with shiny black shoes that I swore were Italian leather. His hand was confident as he held it out for me to shake, and his small smile seemed genuine. "It is nice to meet you, Gabrielle," he said in a deep voice with a thick German accent.
I tried to smile as best as I could, because my nerves hadn't quite all gone away yet. "It's nice to meet you, too, Dieter."
Leanne spoke again. "Finally, Gab, your identical twin sister, Silke."
What? Identical twin? Could she have been joking? This must've been the surprise I'd heard about.
I turned to look at my sister, and was surprised - though I shouldn't have been - to see that she really was identical to me. The same bronzed skin tone - which we'd got from our father - and even the same haircut. The only difference between us was that her hair was dyed burgundy. And it suited her. I thought to myself that I might try the colour myself sometime. I'd never coloured my hair before, though.
What the most surprising thing was, though, that she was wearing the same dress and shoes that I wore, only her colour theme was white. And to my utter amazement, she had the exact same watch, necklace and earrings that I wore; only hers were silver. It must have been some crazy coincidence, not some silly twin intuition. I didn't believe that twin intuition existed, anyway. After all, I'd been fine in my life, except for the ever-present bitterness. I'd thought that that was just because of my abandonment, but the curious part of me wondered if I'd also felt bitter because maybe something was wrong in Silke's life. Leanne had pronounced her name "Sill-ker", but the 'r' was barely noticeable, it just helped with the pronunciation.
Silke didn't move to hold out a hand to me. She just seemed shocked to see me. Maybe she didn't know what I'd be like, either.
"Mein Gott," I heard her whisper.
I tried to smile. "Didn't you know about me?" I asked, confused.
She turned from her shocked state to mildly aloof. "I was told I had a sister," she started, her German accent matching her - and my - father's, "but I knew not a twin, or one who looks like me."
I timidly held out my hand. "Here I am then, Silke, your identical twin sister."
She shook my hand, and her mind seemed to be on overload. "Gabrielle, right."
"Well," Leanne spoke up; breaking the silence again, "let's eat now, shall we?" She led the way into the dining room, where dinner had already been served. Leanne had covered the plates with silver domes, which she and Greg had received as wedding presents.
Leanne and Greg sat opposite each other, on the short sides of the rectangular table. Melinda and Silke sat either side of Greg, and Dieter and I sat either side of Leanne, and I also sat next to Silke.
We all ate quietly. There would be more time for talking later. I was self-conscious, and fully aware of my twin the entire time throughout the courses of soup; lamb, potatoes and vegetables; and white chocolate mousse. We held our cutlery the same way, both cutting and eating impossibly tiny pieces of lamb, when normally we'd cut our pieces a bit bigger than that. Well, maybe I could only speak for myself in that respect!
I was anxious to hear the story of how Silke, our parents and I had ended up separated. I excused myself after dessert, and I went to the bathroom to calm myself down again. It was so bizarre. I wasn't normally so agitated like this, rarely ever was I like this.
I'd worked myself into such a tizzy that I was overcome with dizziness, and almost unconsciously felt myself slump against the wall to the floor. It was so bad that on my way down, my head smacked against the tiles that went along the lower half of the bathroom walls.
I vaguely heard the door being opened. I heard a gasp, and then heels across the wooden floor of the hallway as the person left and then came back. They knelt beside my fallen figure - which was on my side - and cradled my head. I felt an ice pack wrapped in a dishtowel held to a growing lump I could feel at the back of my head.
I opened my eyes to see my sister holding the ice pack in place. "Thank you," I said brokenly, croaking slightly.
"It is fine," she answered. "Can you sit up?"
I brought myself up slowly, and suddenly felt embarrassed. On the evening of our first meeting, something like this just
had to happen to me, didn't it? "Sorry about this," I apologised.
"It is fine," she repeated, lifting a hand of mine to take her place holding the ice pack. "It is because you are afraid of what you might hear,
nein?"
I nodded. "It's true."
"I probably know more about us than you do," she said. "After all, I have lived with them all my life. You have not."
I mumbled an "mm".
She took the ice pack away. "I think it has faded. Are you ready to join us now?" she asked.
I stood up slowly, and adjusted my dress and hair. Once I was ready, I said, "Lead the way."
I hoped that I really was ready. After all, I was just about to find out about my family, why I was abandoned and Silke wasn't. And I was afraid of what I might hear… and I feared getting hurt.
CHAPTER THREE: THE FUTURE DECIDED
I didn't know what I was expecting to hear. In my mind, I dreamt there to have been some kind of mix-up. I longed for my parents to tell me that I shouldn't have been the one left, that Silke was meant to be, and me being left on the doorstep was just a mistake that never should have happened. I should've known better than to think that. There are so many "what ifs" in our lives that if we paid them heed we'd get little else done. The reality was that I was not "the Chosen One", and I had to face it.
While in my crying time, running-around-like-a-headless-chicken time and thinking time, I had tried to figure out why I was left behind, but had came up with nothing. While eating my dinner silently and feeling my sister's presence beside me, I had been thinking, and I was beginning to think of Silke as "the Chosen One".
After all, she was able to stay with our parents, and I was not. I must've done something wrong in these early days, not that I had the foggiest idea what.
But I wanted to find out. And so I followed her as she led the way to the lounge, where our parents and grandparents were already seated. There was a tea for me, and a coffee for her. Leanne and Greg already knew what I drank, and they must have asked our parents (though I secretly thought of them as only Silke's parents) what my sister drank.
We sat down on one of the black leather sofas, the one that had been left free for us. I picked up my cup of tea in my mug with a koala on it from a coaster that had the Victorian Arts Centre photographed on it. "Well," I said, before taking a tip, "who wants to start the bidding?" My left eyebrow quirked, as it often did when I got sarcastic.
There were no takers.
"Fine," I sighed. "If you're gonna be that way, you, Melinda, can go first. After all, you were the one who left me on the doorstep." I felt somewhat smug as I said this, as if I had power over everyone in the mood. Meanwhile, I hid my nerves by crossing my ankles casually and sipping my Lipton tea as if I were having a pleasant Sunday afternoon chat with friends.
Melinda put her mug of white coffee onto her nearest coaster, which had Sovereign Hill in Ballarat photographed on it. Her hands were shaking as she did so. She cleared her throat. "Where to begin," she said with a sardonic smile, seeming very unhappy that I'd pointed her out. I'd had my reasons, though.
"How about where you left me on the doorstep, I think that'd be a good place to begin." I hid my twisted smile behind another sip of tea. I was enjoying seeing her uncomfortable. I reckoned she
deserved to be uncomfortable. There had to be some punishment for choosing between your children instead of taking them both.
"No," Melinda said, shooting a disapproving look my way. "I think I'll start… well, from the start would be the best.
"I finished Year 12 when I was eighteen, but I didn't have the marks to get into the course I wanted back then for uni. Can't even remember what it was, it was that long ago.
"So I got a job working at a pub in the city. I'd been working there for about six months when the Germans came in one evening. They'd come to purchase companies and set up Aussie branches of German firms at the time. They asked me about the things to see and do in Victoria. Dieter had arranged to meet the rest at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, but he'd got off at the wrong station. So he ended up just walking around and ended up at the pub, where I was having a shift.
So I went on the tram and train with him until we got to Richmond Station, and then we walked over to the 'G.
"The others were at Punt Road Oval next to it, and they'd met a bunch of locals who were teaching them how to play Australian Rules football. We went back to the 'G and sat on the steps outside the entrance that had the big sculpture thing outside it. We talked for ages, and, well… things went on from there.
"A few months after that, I ended up pregnant with you two, though I only knew that one existed. I never listened when I got the ultrasounds and examinations, I didn't want to hear. It was still a bit strange that I was not yet twenty but still had a bun in the oven.
"Dieter had to go back to Germany just a week or so before I was due to give birth. I sent him off, and you two came out on the exact date you were due.
Silke, you came twenty minutes before Gabrielle, and I didn't even realise there was another baby, I just thought I was a human heifer. By that time, I'd got used to the fact that I'd be raising a child, just one, so another one threw me completely off balance. Maybe I was having some kind of post-natal depression, but I panicked. I bought a lot of things for you, Gabrielle, and left you on the doorstep one morning with the note. Dieter had sent a plane ticket out for me, and I left as soon as I could.
"That's it," Melinda concluded. "We've been living in Munich, until recently. We also have a holiday villa in Monte Carlo. We've done a lot of travelling, but Munich's been home until now."
"It can't be home for you," I commented after finishing my tea and putting it back on the Victorian Arts Centre coaster. "After all, you still sound like a true blue Aussie
sheila."
"Maybe I do, but I've been a joint citizen for over five years," she said.
"That still doesn't answer a question. How come I was left behind and Silke wasn't?" I asked.
"Simply because you were born second."
"And are you sure we hadn't been swapped around?" I still had some niggling hope that I was meant to be the Chosen One.
Alas, it was not to be. "No, I was dead certain. Silke had a tiny birthmark on the outside part of her left thigh, but you were very different in personality. Silke basically just slept all the time, but you'd be awake for hours, and you cried an awful lot. It's a wonder you didn't wake her up."
"Were we still in the hospital then?"
"Yep. I hadn't let Mum and Dad know I was in labour. I was staying at a friend's place."
"But through all these years, did it ever occur to you to pick me up or at least tell people the truth about me?"
"I blocked you out of my mind to forget the guilt."
I sneered. "Jeez, how considerate of you." I was getting sarcastic again, a sure sign that all was not merry in my world. "So you up and went to Germany," I started. "Did you get a job there, or just played the part of a rich socialite?" I asked. I was genuinely interested in the response. After all, she'd had no university qualifications when she'd left Aussieland.
"I worked in one of those Aussie-themed pubs," she replied. "At the same time I was taking German lessons and managing family life."
Family life without your second born, I added in my head.
"It took me awhile - about ten years," Melinda continued. "Then I became a joint citizen, and I started teaching the English language to people in the area. It's funny," she laughed. "Now when they speak English, they have Aussie accents!"
"Silke doesn't," I noted.
"Well, she didn't learn English from me, she learnt it at school."
"Oh." I'd be focusing on Melinda only, and suddenly remembered the others in the room. "What did you tell Silke about me recently?"
"I simply said we were moving to Australia to manage the Victorian branch of the Metzelder Media Group. The main office is near the Docklands. And I said we were meeting up with relatives," she added. She bit her lip. "I also told her in the car that she had a cousin." She wrinkled her nose. "Of course, that was a lie."
Nothing else was said for a long time. To break the silence, I asked, "Well, what happens from here?"
"That is up to you," Dieter spoke up. "Now that we are living in Victoria, you have an opportunity to live with us."
That threw me off. "Oh."
"Of course, you'd still be able to visit your grandparents," he added. He changed the subject. "When does your school year end?"
"Early December," I replied.
"Do you have many close friends?" Melinda asked.
"I have friends, yes, but I don't have best friends. We're all equal."
"Then it wouldn't bother you to move schools?"
"Move schools?" I double-checked. "But Greystone is as far from here as it is from Belden."
She let out one of those superior little laughs, sending a reminder that I wasn't superior - which therefore made me inferior. "No, you'd be going to a
private school, of course."
Private schools were the same as a foreign concept to me. I knew people who knew people who attended private schools. It was strange, really - the cost for private schooling was so much higher, yet their school year was shorter.
"And not just a private school, but a boarding school," she added.
Boarding school? What was this, an American university or something? Sarcastic again, I commented, "How very Aussie."
"You'd be surprised. This country is very much influenced by other nations. It's no wonder we're referred to as 'multicultural Australia'. It's just a great place for everyone to live."
" 'For those who come across the sea, we've boundless plains to share', right?" I quoted from the second verse of our national anthem.
"That's right. So what do you think?" Melinda asked. "Are you interested in coming to live with us?"
Oh, the egotistical nerve of her! Just waltzes into the country and expects me to live with them at the click of a finger. I wasn't going to be a pushover. Generally speaking, the wealthy needed to get their own way a
lot less than what they were used to. "I think not," I replied decisively. Maybe I was being bratty, but it was who I was - but at least I admitted to it.
Melinda audibly sighed. "Gabrielle, may I talk to you alone, please?"
I copied her sigh, and stood up reluctantly. "Very well, then." I led the way to my bedroom, and shut the door behind us. I propped myself up on the bed, and she sat down on the carpet beside it, her legs folded to the side. "Alright, what's all this top secret business about?"
"I think you're a sarcastic smart-aleck who needs to learn some manners."
Predictably, I went straight into sarcastic mode again, maybe just to spite her. "Keep that up and I'll be moving in with you in a jiffy." I rolled my eyes, and folded my arms. "You're supposed to be trying to convince me to live with you, not make me want to stay."
"You've been a burden to your grandparents for far too long," she told me, her eyes cold.
"I wouldn't have been a burden to them if you'd taken me with you instead of leaving me with them," I pointed out logically.
"There you go again!" she exclaimed. "Gabrielle, you're as much to blame as anyone else is."
"Besides, if I was such a burden, they would've just put me up for adoption," I again said logically, or so I thought.
"Ha! That's what you think! If you only knew-" She broke off there, cleared her throat and said something else. "You
will come with us, you know? There is no choice for you."
"Oh, really? And what are your high society people going to think?" I tried to counteract.
"In Australia, no one's aware of how many children we have."
"And aren't they going to find photos from past periodicals of only you three?"
"Then we'll say that we thought it would be better for you and Silke to be separated, so you could gain your own personalities. Believe me, Gabrielle," she said, somewhat sinisterly, "I have it all planned. What's wrong with you, anyway?" she changed the subject. "Anyone else would've jumped at the chance to live with their biological parents in high society."
"Then obviously you haven't noticed that I'm not like 'anyone else'," I mocked.
"Excuse me for having a personality."
"I'm quickly getting fed up with you!"
"Then why do you want me to live with you?"
Melinda was silent for a moment, trying to keep calm, I thought. "You're my daughter, Gabrielle. I may not have owned up to it before, but I have to take some responsibility for you."
"And you seem ever so eager to."
She glared at me, and stood up, heading for the door. "You will come to us, Gabrielle. Believe me, you will. Now come on," she said. "Say good-bye to your family before we leave for the night."
I raised an eyebrow.
"We'll be back for you, of course. We'll let you wait out the rest of the school year." With one hand on the doorhandle, she added, "Nice of us to do that for you, isn't it?"
Melinda kept her promise. I wasn't contacted until there was only a week of school left. We hadn't been doing much in school, except for preparing for Presentation Night. I was going as a member of the school choir, but I would also be going because I apparently would be receiving an award. I wasn't told what, though. I was a bit of a bludger in school, really, so
any award was a surprise. Maybe I was just getting an award for my personality, if I were to be sarcastic.
My schoolbag was heavy on the day I was contacted. I had to start cleaning out my locker, and so I'd organised to take a bit home each day. And it was at least 30°C that day, which put me in a stressed, emotional mood. I was born in winter, which could've explained why it was my favourite season. I
hated summer, hated the beach, hated the sweat and everything that came with the heat. To make things worse, Australia was experiencing a drought, maybe due to El
Niño, and so we had Level 1 water restrictions.
So I wasn't in the best of moods going home that Friday. I hiked up from the Carltrain station with a taut, painful neck, aching shoulders and a collapsing back.
The eucalyptus wasn't as strong as it usually was. Maybe it was drying up because of the weather.
To save myself a trip later, I stopped at the letterbox at the bottom of the driveway. I reached forward to grip the local newspapers and junk mail, and then lifted the latch at the back to get the envelopes. With everything in tow, I looked up at the daunting uphill hike up the driveway and the stones. Sighing heavily, I braced myself for it, and up I went.
I didn't greet Leanne, and she didn't greet me, as I entered the considerably-cooler-than-outside house. She was in the lounge, doing some sort of embroidery.
The house had been rather quiet since the night when Melinda, Dieter and Silke had come over. Maybe because Leanne and Greg somehow knew that I'd be leaving to live in Belden. Maybe because they were afraid I'd bite off their heads. Although I hadn't talked to them about my discussion with Melinda, I think they were well aware that I didn't want to move out.
I went to my bedroom first. I plunked down my bag, removed my shoes and socks then had a look at the names on the envelopes. There wasn't much for me.
I'd been so preoccupied with my "family situation", as I thought of it, that I hadn't written a piece since the one I'd wrote regarding the Melbourne Cup. There were three envelopes for me, one of them I recognised as having Melinda Metzelder's handwriting. I went to the kitchen and dumped on the counter the mail that wasn't mine, separated it and then went back to my bedroom to change into my bathrobe and have a shower in the bathroom.
After I'd changed after my shower, feeling very much more refreshed, I turned to the task at hand - reading, and then maybe replying to, the letters I'd received.
I deliberately avoided Melinda's envelope. I chose one of the others, and flipped it over to see Silke Metzelder as the sender.
Dear Gabrielle,
I write this without my - our - parents knowing. They have both given me envelopes to post, and they each wrote one to you.
I am writing to issue a warning. You will come here to live. When we came over for dinner, I could tell that you did not want to live with us. I do not blame you.
I know, I can just tell, that our mother doesn't really want you to live with us. But I think she feels guilty for leaving you with her parents for so long. I think she feels obliged, if that is the word, to take you away from them, and into our life.
I have a feeling that when you had your little talk, she told you that you would for sure live with us. That was her way of warning you that you will be brought here, even if it against your will.
I warn you that she will stop at nothing.
Thinking of you,
Silke
Apparently, Melinda had warned me. Now Silke had warned me, too. Did that mean that I should plan an escape before I'd be taken? But where could I go?
I tried to put it out of my mind, and reached for the other envelope that was not Melinda's. Heeding Silke's warning, I predicted it to be from Dieter, and so it was.
Dear Gabrielle,
Melinda has assured me that you will come to live with us shortly. We have begun to make preparations for your arrival. I've chosen a room for you that I think you will like.
I know that you did not want to come here at first, but after your discussion, Melinda told us that you had changed your mind. I am glad that you did.
I am sorry that I did not know about you earlier. I was only told that you existed when we arrived in Belden, and never before. If I had have known, I would have requested that you come and live with us in München (Munich, in the German language). I promise that is true.
Looking forward to you living with us,
Your father,
Dieter Metzelder
P.S. Once you live with us, we can see about changing your surname to Metzelder - that is, if that is fine with you.
Dieter seemed, in his letter, to genuinely want me to go live with them. But Silke claimed that Melinda didn't really want me to come. I had to read what my mother had to say for herself, though. Almost reluctantly, I reached for that third and final envelope.
Gabrielle -
Just writing to warn you that you should be packing your bags, ready to be collected on December 14. My mother has told me that you will be collecting your school report the day before. Bring that with you. I'm sure the school you'll be attending will be interested in reading it.
Be ready.
- Melinda Metzelder
That was the final one. But what to do?
I decided to reply to the letters.
Dear Silke,
Thank you for your warning.
I think I've lost my usual spark. I don't think I'll be able to get my way. I'll do my best, though. However, I probably will end up living with you, one way or another. Sorry if this will be a problem for you.
Thanks again,
Gabrielle
Next, I wrote to Dieter.
Dear Dieter,
Had our circumstances been different, I would've loved to get to know my direct relatives better. Unfortunately, because I feel forced into moving in with you, don't be surprised if I'm standoffish and a hassle for the family.
Thank you for choosing a room for me. I'll take your word that I'll enjoy it - that is, if I live with you.
Sorry if I don't seem all that merry. It's not your fault.
See you later (maybe),
Gabrielle
Finally, I wrote to Melinda. I struggled to write, but write I did.
Melinda -
Maybe we really are related. You seem to think that I'm a smart aleck, but what have you done? You've told my father and sister that you've changed my mind and that I actually want to live with you.
You've got a motive; I know you do. You clearly don't want me near you, but claim that you do. I don't know right now what that motive is, but I'll find out someday, don't you worry about that.
Let's just call this a friendly warning now, shall we?
- Gabrielle
With those letters written and out of the way, I couldn't help but dread what lay ahead for me.
Incomplete