Best Australian Yarn: A Cerebrovascular Burden by Stephanie Jojart

Your father comes to you early in the morning. It’s a beauty of a day. The sun is bright, the sky a peerless blue. The trees sway lazily in the cooling breeze. It begs for you to join it through your open window. But you stay in bed. Curled in cold, grey sheets, scrolling endlessly through your phone. Our delicious skinny tea is the perfect detox. Lacking in eyelashes? Our lengthening serum will change your life. He knocks on the door and waits for your answer before entering. Once confident, he is too embarrassed to make eye contact. Before he even speaks his face is flushed red from shame. You no longer recognise this man. “Will you wash her hair?” he asks. “I would do it, but I don’t want to add… to remind her…” He trails off but you can finish the sentences for him. He doesn’t want to add to her embarrassment. He doesn’t want to remind her of yet another function she has lost. You nod silently, immediately regretting your agreement. “I’ll call when she’s ready.” He shuts the door softly behind him. You wait tensely in bed, your finger still scrolling, your eyes watching listlessly. Anthony Albanese has been sworn in as Australia’s 31st prime minister. COVID-19 deaths continue to climb. Time has frozen in your house, but it has marched on relentlessly outside. “She’s ready,” your father calls out, his muffled voice coming through your hollow door. You squeeze your eyes shut, sighing heavily. You pull on your Ugg boots and pad across your room. There are clothes strewn over the floor. Work sheets and books are piled haphazardly on the desk. There is a stack of dirty plates and cutlery on your bedside table, including a bowl of half-eaten instant Mi Goreng from the night before. There is no one badgering you to clean your room anymore. No one reminding you tomorrow is washing day. No one bribing you to keep things neat and tidy. You push the door open and step softly into the hall. Even the softest of noises seem deafening now. Marked with footprints, the jarrah floorboards creek under your feet. Tumbleweeds of cat and dog hair roll past. Gum leaves, bindiis and grass clippings that have been brought in on paws stick to the hallway runner. Dark marks line the white walls. Once pristine, the house has fallen into disarray. You turn the corner, coming to the bathroom. Your father stands sentry outside, still not meeting your eye. As if having read your mind, he says, “I’m going to try and find the vacuum… It’s been a while now.” “Okay,” you manage to say. You watch him walk down the hall as though blind. His hands stretch out to the walls for guidance. You wait until he is out of sight to enter. The bathroom is tiny, remaining unchanged since your earliest memories. The walls are pink and tiled. There is a small, timber sash window to your right that does little to air out the space. Mould has collected in the corners. The toilet has become stained. A small rubbish bin overflows. You used to think of it as ugly and dated. Now, you appreciate the comfort of familiarity, the nostalgia of memories long since passed. There is a woman sitting naked and hunched in the half-full shower bath, her back facing you. She has short, cropped hair. It’s the same colour as yours, although hers is greasy and stuck in opposing directions. Some patches are so thin you can see through to her peerless, pale scalp. Though you cannot see her face, you know her eyes are the same shape as yours, her nose a perfect replica. Not your mouth though, that belongs to your father. “Hey Mum,” you whisper. “Hi sweetie.” She doesn’t turn. Her words are slurred and slow. Once, you would have described her as elegant. Once, you envied her effortless style. Now, her skin is mottled and dry. Her breasts, which provided you with food and sustenance are old and sagging. Her stomach, usually taut and hidden, is hollowed and marred by stretch marks from carrying you. Her shoulders could cut glass. Her spine is bruised. Her leg and pubic hair have grown long and thick. There has been no desire to attend her once-monthly waxing appointments. As you approach the bath you avert your eyes, embarrassed at her vulnerability. You no longer recognise this woman. It was her who used to bathe you in this bath. She would wash your hair with no-cry shampoo. She would use a brightly coloured flannel to wash under your arms, wipe the bottom of your feet, and scrub your knees. Somehow, you always managed to get yourself filthy. Now, decades earlier than you expected, it’s your turn. You pick up the pink shampoo bottle and squeeze a 50-cent piece sized dollop into the palm of your soft, unlined hand. It smells fruity and sweet, bringing to mind images of tropical islands, unbleached reefs and bountiful waterfalls. You marvel at its cream iridescence, before running your eyes over the back of the bottle. Every woman deserves to be desired. You put the shampoo bottle back on the recess and lower your eyes to your mother’s head. Gently, you transfer the shampoo from your palm. “Can you lather it for me? I can’t… My arms.” She slowly lifts her arms and shows what she doesn’t want to admit. She no longer has the range to touch her head. You want to say no. You want to hide in your room like the child you no longer are. Instead, you accept the responsibility like the adult you will soon be. You nod, even though she cannot see you. You are unable to find your voice. You are afraid to cry. You begin to lather, digging your fingers deep into her skull, scrubbing and scrunching. There is no build-up of artificial products. No styling mouse, volumizing powder, hairspray, or dry shampoo. There haven’t been any events to attend, no guests to fluff for and entertain. Instead, there is an accumulation of dead skin cells and oil. You wrinkle your nose at the smell. Her hair hasn’t been washed in weeks, and days on end in a hospital bed have left their imprint. You swallow past the lump in your throat. “You ready to close your eyes?” you ask. She nods, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. You reach down and fill the old ice cream container floating in the now lukewarm water. Looking for a guilt free frozen dessert? Our low-calorie treat won’t spend a second on your hips! You place a hand on the top of her head to protect her eyes and pour slowly and carefully. You rinse and repeat until the lather is gone, and the water runs clear. “Conditioner?” you croak out. She nods again. You pick up the conditioner. This bottle is a lilac. You uncap and squeeze. The liquid is a dark mauve, thick and slippery. Tone those unruly bronze tones and restore the shine and gloss to your hair. As you pick up the wide tooth comb and brush it through her hair, a memory comes to mind. The edges are blurry and glowing. You squeeze your eyes shut as you try and remember. You’re in your parent’s bedroom. A rare treat. Usually, you were forbidden to enter. You mum is lying on the king-sized bed, eyes closed, her head hanging off the edge. The tangerine linen is creased and soft. The scent of lavender is heavy in the air. It is either mid-morning or mid-afternoon. The sun beams shoot through the venetian covered windows and illuminate stark white walls. Dust dances in the light. Your position and movement are the same as now. You are standing behind your mum, grooming her head with a round, detangling brush. Her hair is longer and fuller. Your marvel at the silken strands. Her face is youthful and unlined. She is smiling, eyes closed and relaxed. You are smiling too, revelling in the attention. You are small. Hands so tiny they struggle to wrap around the width of the brush. Though you are standing tall, balancing on your tippy toes, you can barely see over the top of the bed. Hairdresser, you remember. The game was Hairdresser. You would play a busy entrepreneur, combing, cutting and colouring, sweeping and chatting. You’d answer a non-ringing home phone, pretending to have other clients you had to get to. You were in high demand, after all. Once your arms started aching, tired of the repetitive motion, you would excuse yourself, saying you had to make your way to your next appointment. You mum would beg for just a few minutes more. Looking at you upside down, through long lashes, she’d flash her trademark grin. Like butter, you’d melt. My angel! She’d cry out, clapping her hands. The memory ends. You open your eyes. There’s no applause now, just silence. Your eyes are fixed on her hair. Hers, on her knees.

Best Australian Yarn: A Cerebrovascular Burden by Stephanie Jojart

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