This is the story of how determined I was to go to theatre school.
The six months are up. It’s time to head back to my real life in Australia. Back to a uni course I hate, and a second stab at NIDA I guess, but my heart’s just not in it. I’ve had a glorious summer in Toronto. Making theatre. Learning to like coffee. Falling in, out and back into what seems like love. I’ve met a long-haired Southern Baptist who wants to be an actor but makes a living as a furniture salesman for his family firm back in Charlotte, North Carolina. I direct him in a play at TSP. He’s a gentle bear of a man who introduces me to home-grown vegetables, smudging ceremonies and the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.
I think want to stay in Canada.
I discuss the matter with a loon floating on Little Clam Lake. It’s an Indian summer, and my folks have taken me to their annual cottage getaway in the Muskokas. I spend hours propelling myself about the lake in a tiny borrowed rowboat. Drinking in the stillness of the glassy, sweet water. So different from the churning salt-foam of Sydney’s beaches. I explore Little Clam’s coves, watch the clouds and pine trees mirror themselves in the lake’s surface, press my nose to the sun-baked canvas of the lifejackets, a smell that reminds me of a childhood memory so old that both my parents are in it. Sticky pine needles and faded orange canvas. The puk-puk sound of lake waves kissing the edge of the boat. This is a part of me, this place. This is a landscape I forgot I knew. Flashes of memory, or images from baby pictures from when I was the only child, which means they must have still been married. Maybe still happy, though I don’t remember anything other than the smell of hot pine needles and life jackets. Oh my god, this is my home too. This was my home, first.
Jesus. This was meant to be a funny story. A description, triggering a memory, triggering an epiphany: I didn’t want to stay because I wanted to be an actor. I wanted stay because Canada was home.
So I talk to the loon about it as I float in the middle of Little Clam Lake. What to do, what to do? How do I tell my mother that I want to make a life 13, 000 miles away? She’s going to freak. Think of the positives. Imagine how excited Dad will be. The daughter he has missed for so long – seen for a grand total of 27 weeks over the last nine years – wants to stay! Wants to move in with him and his wife! Only – now this is awkward. This is delicate, how I approach this memory and not hurt anyone. Because I really don’t want to hurt anyone. But it’s part of the story and I have to at least acknowledge what happened, because it triggered stuff that won’t make sense otherwise. Bonehead decisions that I made. Serious ramifications barely dodged. Stuff that shaped the ensuing years. The deal was six months – I would stay with them for six months. It never crossed my mind that it would be a problem if I wanted to extend the invitation. Of course now, older, my toes curl in embarrassment at the arrogance of that assumption. It was my stepmother’s apartment. Dad had moved in with her when they got married, but it had been her space for years already. To have a nineteen year old girl suddenly take up residence in the second bedroom, eating their food, living her life, often getting home in the wee hours of the morning, occasionally not getting home at all…I get it now. That wasn’t part of the deal. But at the time, it was completely unexpected that I wouldn’t be wanted.
I have to be delicate here because the last thing I want to do is hurt anyone’s feelings. I am infinitely grateful to my stepmother for marrying my dad. She’s the best thing that ever happened to him. My nightmares about him trapped in his bachelor apartment during a blizzard went away when they got married. And I wasn’t angry when he told me the news. Definitely surprised. Hurt, I guess – but hurt mainly at how torn he was. Divided loyalties. Awkward. I don’t want to be the cause of this. I go back to Australia, but I’m already hatching Plan B.
The long-haired furniture salesman. I’ll stay with him, just till I get on my feet. Find a job, get a place, apply for theatre schools. He’s more than happy to let me crash at his pad. I’m in Australia for six weeks, on the dole, packing up my life and avoiding my mother’s tearful gaze when my long-haired lover calls long-distance. Hysterical over the phone. His mother has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. My jaw aches. My gums are flaring. I’ve been gargling with hydrogen peroxide for weeks to stave off infection in my impacted molars. They have to come out. My mother and stepfather are sympathetic, but I’m nineteen now and no longer under their health-care package. If I want to have my teeth removed I’ll just have to spend my airline ticket money. Canada isn’t going anywhere – maybe after you finish your degree you can think about going back. Forget it. If you won’t support me I’ll figure it out on my own. Getting used to that now.
The School of Dentistry in Haymarket offers free services if you’re prepared to be a guinea pig for the students. I wait for hours in the dusty corridors. They’ve been offering “modern and efficient treatment for the impoverished” since 1940. I don’t think much has changed. Migrants and irritable mothers with packs of runny-nosed children are my companions. When I am finally ushered into the theatre I smile brightly at half a dozen wide-eyed students, all about my age. “You lot look even more scared than I me!” I joke, attempting to break the ice. When no-one cracks a smile I know I’m fucked.
All I remember is the lecturing dentist’s voice bellowing over the buzz of the saw as it carves into my jaw: “GO DEEPER! GO DEEPER!”
My step-father picks me up afterwards, smiling sympathetically. I can’t move my mouth to respond.
Two weeks later, although the pain has largely receded I still can’t completely open my mouth. I wedge a mag-light between my teeth and peer into the bathroom mirror. Mystery solved. One of the students has accidentally sewn the inside of my mouth to my gum. I sterilize the manicure scissors over a Bic lighter and manage to cut the stiches free. It’s lovely to be able to yawn again.
I make a compilation tape of the classical music I’ve grown up listening to, and play it for my mother the night before I leave. We sob in each other’s arms to Dvorak’s New World Symphony.
My plane is stuck on the tarmac at Kingsford Smith for five hours. My family are long-gone, back to their regular lives. I clutch a going-away present from my larrikin uncle, a wooden box with strict instructions emblazoned on its lid: do not open until in flight. The minutes ooze. It feels like Australia is playing one last trick on me. We’re not letting you go that easily, love. We’re finally ordered off the plane so they can make unspecified repairs, and squat in a corridor for a spell. One lad cracks open his duty-free grog and we tuck in. A supercilious attendant warns us that if we keep it up we might not be let back on the plane. When we finally take off I’m buzzed with Jack Daniels and tears. My seat companions are desperate to know what’s in the box. I pry it open and find three baby crocodiles nestled in a bed of straw, grinning toothily at me.
When I arrive in Toronto thirty hours later I’m met by the long-haired furniture salesman. I don’t recognize him at first. His face is pasty. His hair is lank. A spasm jolts through me: this is a huge mistake.