The Plastic Seed Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Maisie Porter

  Artwork: GoOnWrite.com

  Design: Soqoqo

  Editor: Alice Cullerne-Bown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2019

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  and something nice will happen.

  To the place,

  the Kangaroo Paw

  grows.

  Acknowledgements

  The Plastic Seed is the second book from Maisie Porter. Maisie is a writer and photographer who lives in Sydney with her husband and children.

  @maisieporter

  About the Author

  I’d like to thank the readers of my debut novel No Reception and that you have returned to be taken for another rollercoaster ride.

  Thank you, Laurence, for your behind the scenes work, availableness and expertise.

  Thank you to Stephanie for noticing my satirical skills.

  I am very grateful to Alice for making editing of this book a breeze.

  Finally, thank you to Tallulah who will very much enjoy this story when she is an adult.

  Maisie Porter

  The Plastic Seed

  Prologue

  There is a flat leaf pinned between my wrist and watch band. It scratched my skin when it slid in as I was being tugged along the dirt; now it’s joining me on my journey, my last moments. The single leaf does not irritate me, not like the handful of leaves that are crammed, wedged into my mouth, dry, crumbly and bitter. I attempt to spit them out because they are greedily soaking up all the saliva my mouth is producing, making a vain effort to stay wetted. I try to grab onto the earth as I am pulled through the dirt, the tough bark stabbing into my entire back. I grasp at the dry leaves shrouding a branch, then let them go because they won’t anchor me to the uneven ground.

  Through a haze, above me I can see the eucalyptus trees waltzing past me shimmying their leaves, saying goodbye. The forcible dragging has stopped. Can I stand up now? I am being turned over; thick dirt is entering into the painful sore on my heavy head. The hands that were cupped around my ankles are now on my waist; the rough fingers knead my sides as they push. I am rolling downward. Murky water streams into my senses. The rapacious leaves that are in my mouth don’t let my final fleeting breath past my lips, but they do allow the muddy water to flow past; the leaves are absorbing all the liquid and forming a pulpy substance around my tongue. Maybe that is for the best as it will take longer for the water to reach and fill up my lungs.

  I can feel the boggy ground. Something on top of me is pinning me into it. I try to push the weight off my chest, but it bears down on me with more force. I take one sudden gasp for air, and finally all the leaves that have been crammed into my mouth float out through my slackened lips.

  Jean

  Clicking together under my jacket, which smells of newborn babies. My babies, three identical cans of delicious beer, are about to be drunk. The cool containers support me as I walk past the metallic pink car parked on the street. It’s still busy with people driving vehicles, people that aren’t holed up in their houses. They are outdoors enjoying the brisk winter evening weather, basking in each other’s company, because inside homes is where inattention and acts of aggression take place. Instinctively, I press the cans closer against my left rib.

  Cautiously, I turn my head to the side and look west, where the townhouse that adjoins mine gives me no choice but to walk past it. Its façade is daunting; not even a dim gleam of light seeps from behind the curtain blocking the front window, and no night light illuminates the front steps. As usual, darkness, inside and out, pitch black dominates, though it’s only 7pm. She is inside, of course she is, and I know she’s not one to conserve electricity. Pivoting to mount the concrete steps that lead to my front door, I reach into my bag, past the plastic containers holding tonight’s dinner, and remove the key. I insert it into the lock and nudge the handle, but before I turn the key, the door eases clear. I experience a flash of anger, and then concern. I can’t remember if I locked the door this morning, or was it Amy who left it open for anyone to enter?

  In my slightly cluttered hallway, I drop my bag and kick off my sensible rubber-soled, solid black shoes; they land upside down, but I don’t turn them upright. I kick each shoe aside, walk to the kitchen and place my cans on the counter next to Amy’s house keys, my confirmation that she is home. Safe.

  “Amy, what have I told you about leaving the front door unlocked when you are home on your own?” I call up the stairs.

  “Sorry, I forgot to lock it, Mum. As soon as I came in I had to phone Julie; she had something really important to tell me.” Amy’s cheerful explanation travels down the stairs.

  Cold evening air permeates from the rear of the house. I march into the living room and notice that the back door is agape. How did she have time to open this door and not close the front? I don’t ask Amy why the back entrance was also inviting anyone to walk into our house, as I am sure she would offer me the same explanation; doors don’t need to be secured when there are friends with gossip to listen to. I walk to the door and slide the glass shut; there is a rhythmic, scraping sound originating someplace from the darkness and my stomach proceeds to turn into a familiar knot that I have come to recognise well in the past few months. The dispirited clawing continues for a few seconds longer, and I forcefully slide the door shut to avoid hearing the unsettling sound. I know the remote routinely can be found anywhere on the floor, so I reach under the couch until I touch a rectangular object. Aiming the device in the direction of the television, I turn it on and turn up the volume. OK, now I don’t need to listen to the noises emerging from outside any longer. Whatever is causing the sound is not there, I can pretend.

  Purposefully leaving the TV on, I pluck up my three beer cans and try to visualise back to when I entered the house. Where have I put the bag holding tonight’s dinner? Once I locate it in the hallway, I turn off the lights and plod up the stairs. The only reason I will need to walk downstairs again tonight is if there is any trouble, wrongdoing. Walking down the carpeted hallway, I stop and poke my head into Amy’s pretty bedroom. My daughter lies flat on her stomach on her bed in front of her laptop; her gorgeous long chestnut-coloured hair, still damp from her swimming lesson earlier this afternoon, frames her delicate face, and a thick towel lies draped next to her. I walk over to her bed, pick up the towel and fling it into an overflowing washing basket.

  “Hi Amy, hi Julie,” I say, waving to the friend Amy is speaking to on FaceTime.

  “Hi, Mrs Enola,” Julie replies.

  “Enola isn’t Mum’s surname nowadays; the papers finally came through from her divorce to David. Anyway, just call her Jean,” Amy explains, without looking at me. This is a touchy subject and she is eager to change it.

  I touch Amy’s arm.

  “How was your swimming lesson, hun?” I ask.

  “It was good, Mum. Can you remember that fees are due early next week? If you don’t pay on time, I won’t be able to enter the swim competition next month,” she says, taking her eyes from the computer screen momentarily.

  I nod to assure Amy that I will pay for her lessons, but my mind races with anxious thoughts, wondering where I will find the cash to pay for the lessons.

&nbs
p; “Did you eat dinner this evening?” I ask, pushing financial worries to the back of my mind for a brief moment. “I’ve picked up Thai takeaway for us, you know, if you are hungry after all that swimming?” I say, holding up the plastic bag. “We can eat it together in my room.”

  “Sorry Mum, Julie and I are going to plow through some homework, I’ll just eat while I work, if that’s OK?” I take out a plastic box and leave it on the bedside table.

  “Can you leave me one of those?” she says, nodding towards my beer cans, managing to look up from her computer long enough to share the joke.

  Just so can you turn out like me, I think sadly as I walk to my room.

  From across the hallway, Amy’s laughter reaches me, a carefree laugh at something that Julie has said, and the sound is wholesome and honest, and it breaks my heart. In the doorway of my room, I take out the box with the hot food, scrunch the bag into a plastic ball and throw it into the wastebasket close to my bedside table. Grateful that I am finally free to strip off my pants, I sit on the edge of my unmade bed eager to open the beer. I pull back the metal strip and the escaping gas causes a small hiss. This is the moment I have been waiting for; a tilt of my head backwards and bitter liquid is pouring into my dry mouth. I squint at my reflection in the mirror; a befuddled figure looks back at me. I am still wearing my jacket, which covers my pale blue work blouse, my nude-coloured underwear and white ankle socks. My thick black hair has escaped the tightly-bound bun I fixed it up in this morning before my nine-hour shift. Sometimes I can see under the surface of the tiredness; there I find my girlishness behind the years of caring, attentiveness given to a bevy of others, always other people, everyone else before my body and mind. Today at the hospital, in the maternity ward, two natural births had turned into emergency caesareans, but fortunately, no careless mistakes had occurred. I followed all the hospital’s standard procedures; I didn’t give a mother the incorrect newborn baby to feed, this time. If I down only these three beers today, I can manage to have another day like it, a good day, tomorrow.

  The added shifts I have been taking on at the hospital are exhausting me, but I undoubtedly need the extra income they bring in if I wish to keep renting this townhouse. Everyday life has been more stressful since David moved out than it ever was when he was here. Occasionally, I wish I could exchange these hardships to listen to him talking about the size of car engines, but then I remember our intellects were on significantly differing planes. He could speak about cars all day, while my preference was to discuss medical matters, specifically, how my undiagnosed medical issue of not being able to concentrate unfairly set me back from progressing in a rewarding career; otherwise, I’m confident I would be a doctor by now.

  I’ve accepted that, towards the inevitable end of our relationship, we each just became tired of listening to the other speaking about our preferred subjects. And I also grew tired of waiting for the day when the vintage car he spent so much time remodelling would make us the million dollars he’d promised. I carry on these days, making just enough to pay the exorbitant rent. A possible loss of security is a lingering worry that never sways from my mind. I know that it’s not a good time to search for a house to rent. There is an abundance of people looking, but not enough properties on offer in the better half of this small suburb that has only three real-estate agent offices. One of which our next-door neighbour works at. And she thinks that I don’t deserve to rent a house just because I pointed out her uncaring nature. I can’t lose our home; there may not be another one. I consider that moving in with my mum, or Roslyn as she prefers to be called, could be an option. I know she would welcome us in, but I don’t think she would be a sound role model for Amy. I picture what Roslyn is doing now, she is either booking tickets for a music festival, or she is at a music festival. Rinse and repeat.

  I have emptied the can quickly; I should have bought several more. The second beer will have to be drunk at a slower pace; I will appreciate it more, not think about my problems as I drink. Soon enough the second drink is consumed as well, and my mind whirls a little. I feel far better. I lay down on my back, and my eyes begin to feel heavy. Because of my small frame, the alcohol takes over my body rapidly. Perhaps if I don’t eat the dinner that lies on the bed next to me the alcohol will affect my body even faster. For a brief moment, I can forget that soon we might not have anywhere to live.

  Amy

  It seems like I have just made a big mistake. The charcoal facial mask I found in the crammed medicine cabinet may have been after its use-by date, because it’s dried on my face and now I am struggling to peel it off. The hair on my face is being ripped off along with the mask. As I pull the last of the stubborn gooey black strips off my skin, the phone beeps.

  Amy, I’m outside your house in the back lane. You ready for me to come in there now? Matt’s text message reads. I groan. He’s too early. I text back while peeling the rest of the mask off my face.

  ‘You stay outside. I’ll open the gate at the back of the house. Come into the yard, no one will see you in the dark.’

  Pulling my hair free from the bun that I just scraped it up into, it falls over my shoulders. Ugh, I hate my hair, I will have to cut it short soon, no matter how much Mum protests. I leave my phone on the bathroom bench and pad down the hallway to check on Mum, to see if she is deeply asleep yet. I’m confident that she will have passed out, due to those beer cans she was holding. Works every day. Bad for Mum, beer. It seems like she fell soundly, handily asleep without drinking the last one. I pick the can up from where it lies next to Mum’s limp body. She hangs off the edge of the bed, dressed in just her underwear and work shirt, next to the unopened box of food that she had wanted to eat with me. Once I return from dealing with Matt, I will arrange mum flat in her bed, put her under the covers so she doesn’t slip out. I don’t dare risk waking her up before I see him. She doesn’t know about my thorny but beneficial relationship with Matt, and I can’t let her uncover it tonight.

  Holding the beer can, I walk out of the room and down the stairs.

  The TV drones on in the background: ‘My environmental policies will help generations over time.’ Mum always complains about the cost of electricity, then she leaves the TV on all night, and it doesn’t trouble her. I leave it on too, because it drowns out any noise that I make, as well as providing me with a bit of necessary light. Mum leaves things lying around, making tripping in the darkness inevitable.

  My caring but anxious mother has become oversensitive. She would know in her sleep if this back door was left open. So, once I slide it across, I make sure to close it behind me. I step onto the grass, and my feet disappear into blades which reach up to my ankles. As Mum never ventures into the backyard these days, the grass hasn’t seen a lawn mower since David moved out. Fortunately for her, the grass doesn’t grow at a fast pace because it seldom rains any more, even in winter. Unfortunately for me, I have to risk being bitten by a well-concealed spider every time I have to hang the washing out.

  As I take a buoyant step forward, I hear a whining sound emanating from over the fence. Please don’t wake Mum up, I plead silently.

  “Where are you? You’re so slow, hurry up.” Matt’s booming voice cuts through the vast darkness as he shouts from over the back fence, causing me to jump. I drop the can I am holding, and it too disappears between the blades of grass into the wild lawn. “Shh,” I whisper.

  I look over my shoulder up at Mum’s bedroom window, afraid that she’s heard us talking. At that inopportune moment, as my eyes scan the upper storey for a sign that Mum has woken up, I notice a figure standing in the window of the townhouse next door. Frankly, I can think of more essential duties she should be doing instead of spying on her neighbours. A whining near the fence confirms my speculations. Though ultimately, at present, I am just thankful that it’s not Mum looking at me.

  Eager to reach the gate, I abandon the can where it dropped and disappeared, but I change my mind about allowing Matt inside the yard. Instead, I join h
im on the lampless lane, just in case that woman next door and Mum do talk one day.

  Carlana

  Regardless of how poorly I sleep or don’t sleep through any never-ending night, I always make my bed correctly at the beginning of the day. Because, despite all the anxiety and failures I experience during my waking hours, I still like to climb into a finely-made bed at night. Recently I have experienced many terrible, messy days which make me want to escape to order and security at the end of the day. My house, customarily, is spotless. I keep my walls and floors sparkling, even though no one visits me. I am a real estate agent, renting a house. I have to make sure it is pristine.

  I fold the bed sheet back and lower my body under the cover. It’s only 8:30pm but this evening I can’t bear to stay awake any longer. I place an unsure hand on my rounded belly. Tomorrow is the day I find out if this baby I have been carrying for the last three months is a boy or girl. More importantly, I hope to find out if the stress of the last couple of months has harmed this baby. Regardless of whether I choose to keep the baby or give it away for adoption, I still want it to have the best start in life.

  I lie flat on my back and look through the darkness at the shapes on the ceiling. There are dark shadows that mix with flickers of light from the house over the dark lane next to my yard. Backyard, the word reminds me there is something I have failed to do. The dog. I’ve forgotten to feed him, again. God, is there even any more of that dry dog food left? I’ll have to stop and buy a bag tomorrow after my hospital appointment.