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  I did the pinching thing and summoned the screen. Calendar, calendar … Aha! Here it was. Happy Birthday, the screen read, followed by a list of activities and their respective time slots. Eleven a.m. – Meet Diora at the south food court of City Point Shopping Centre.

  A food court? What kind of daughter takes me to a dodgy food court for my birthday? She mustn’t know me very well at all. And City Point Shopping Centre? That must be new, I’d never heard of it.

  Whoa! “What are you doing?” I yelled, grabbing onto the side of the car.

  Ryan had leaned back in the driver’s seat, his hands behind his head. “We’re on the freeway, so I’ve switched to auto-drive.”

  My eyes darted frantically around the car, my white knuckles bursting through my clenched hands. I expected to crash and burn at any moment, but the car remained on course and other cars remained in their respective lanes.

  “So, it just drives itself?”

  “Haven’t you ever used the auto … oh of course, right.” He cleared his throat, as though stifling his annoyance at my continual naivety. “Music please,” he then said.

  A little twinkle sounded. “Album: Primal Prophecy.”

  And with that a strange sound emerged, which gradually got louder. Sounding very tinny and metallic, it irritated my ears. And then a sudden explosion of repetitive drums and a screaming singing voice made me jump up and bump my head on the roof of the car. So much for the seatbelt sleeve thingies.

  “Ugh! What is that horrible noise? Turn it down. Or off, would be better.” I covered my ears.

  “Volume down by five points,” Ryan instructed. The noise reduced. “Sorry, Mum. It was a bit loud. But what did you mean by horrible noise? Is that any way to respond to your own son’s music?”

  I tried to swallow a large lump of foot in my mouth, but it wedged in my throat. “That’s your music?” I asked feebly.

  He nodded. “It’s my demo album.”

  Oops. “Of course, sorry. It was just so loud at first I didn’t recognise it.”

  “Music off,” Ryan said. “We don’t have to have it on, you probably need a little peace and quiet before Diora talks your ears off.”

  A talkative daughter, huh? I bet she’d be more like me than Ryan was. “So, your demo album … any luck getting signed up yet?” I already knew the answer, but I had to start some sort of normal conversation that didn’t involve me screaming or whining.

  “Nope, but it’s only a matter of time. And people are totally loving our gigs, so the word’s getting out.”

  “Oh, that’s good then.” I looked more closely at Ryan, this young man who was apparently my son, with his black and pink hair, body jewellery and … oh, there’s a tattoo of a cute little alien face on his arm. Was that what girls liked these days? Ben the bungy guru looked similar, although his hair was a yellow-blond crew-cut with a long wispy fringe.

  “So, is there anyone special in your life … son?” Ugh. Too weird.

  “Aren’t you the nosy one today?” Ryan smiled and he switched back to normal driving mode as we exited the freeway and drove back into the city. “Possibly, I’m just not sure yet if the feeling’s mutual.”

  “Well, have you told this special person how you feel?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then maybe you should. Get it out in the open. Who knows, maybe she’ll feel the same way.”

  Ryan took his eyes away from the road briefly to glare at me. “She?”

  “You know, this girl you like.”

  He gave a high-pitched laugh. “It’s not a she, it’s a he.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m still as gay as I’ve always been, Mum.” He laughed again.

  My son’s gay? Oh, okay. That’s okay. It’s just, I dunno. I didn’t expect it, that’s all. “Right, um … yes. Well, maybe you should, you know … talk to him. See if he feels the same way?”

  “I think he does, but I don’t want to risk breaking up Primal Prophecy if it doesn’t work out.”

  “He’s in your band?”

  Ryan nodded. “And before you ask, no it’s not Davo, the guitarist. He’s one hundred percent straight.”

  No idea who that was, but anyway. “So who is it? You can tell me, I’m your mum.” Ugh again. Did I just say that? Was I taking advantage of my motherly authority to get the upper hand on all the gossip? Yep.

  Ryan hesitated, chewing his lip. “It’s Ben.”

  “Ben? Do you mean … Bungy Ben?”

  “The one and only. Bungy expert, kick-ass drummer and hot as chilli.”

  That was a little too much information, but I guess Ben was kind of good-looking, with an impressive physique. What was a mother supposed to say in this situation: ‘Go for it, son. He’s a catch!’?

  “I guess if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.” There, that should do it for my daily motherly wisdom.

  “True, Mum. True.” He drove in silence for a while and when Miss Car directed us to the best available parking spot (a four-hour spot right near the entrance), Ryan angled the car sideways alongside the other cars and said, “Park left.”

  A squishy sound emerged from underneath and the car moved directly sideways into the parking spot. Ryan didn’t have to manoeuvre the car, it literally moved sideways, like the wheels had swivelled around. Cool!

  “Only five minutes late,” Ryan said, sliding out of the car and shrugging his shoulders. “Well, I’ll leave you here and that way you can drive yourself to the meeting this afternoon.”

  I’d forgotten about the meeting. No idea what that would be all about, but with any luck, by then I may have figured out a way to get back to the past.

  “Where are you going then?” I asked Ryan.

  “Back home. Someone needs to be there to set up for your big party.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Your jump was awesome, Mum. I can’t wait to tell Dad about the look on your face! See ya!” He pressed something on his shoe and rolled off and out of the car park on his wheelie shoes.

  I was suddenly alone. A gasp shot out of my mouth when I realised something. I was supposed to meet Diora, my daughter, right now in the food court of this shopping centre, but how would I find her when I had absolutely no idea what she looked like?

  Chapter 6

  Darling Daughter Diora

  “Of all the haunting moments of motherhood, few rank with hearing your own words come out of your daughter’s mouth.”

  – Victoria Secunda

  The crowds pushed past as I followed the signs to the south food court. Weaving my way between people, the e-pad vibrated against my wrist before the melodic beeping noise reached my ear.

  Message received flashed on the small screen.

  I pinched the e-pad and the screen appeared, showing a text message:

  Where are you? Am waiting and starving! I’m eating for two remember. Diora.

  Oh good, I can narrow down my search to only pregnant-looking, twenty-something women. Hopefully there wasn’t a baby boom going on or anything. But what if she’s only a couple of months along and wasn’t showing yet? Hang on, if she was pregnant, then that meant I was going to be … a grandmother. No way!

  This couldn’t be happening. Real grandma’s knitted and had short curly mauve hair and stored tissues up their sleeves, didn’t they? I was too young for this. Two children and a grandchild-to-be all in one day? I needed Valium. Preferably intravenously. Damn! I should have asked the doctor for a prescription.

  I trudged onwards and came to the densely populated food court, where noisy kids ate greasy hot chips and drank cola while their mothers yelled at them to sit still and eat quietly.

  Squish. I looked down to find a mangled chip stuck to my shoe, courtesy of the rosy-cheeked kid I’d just passed whose hot chips were spilling out of their container onto the table and floor. Shaking it off, I continued my trek, past a table of overweight teenagers sharing a pizza, one of them burping even louder than Ryan had this morning. Charming.

  At another table
, a woman with an exposed pregnant belly bursting forth from her skimpy singlet top, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. A security guard instructed her to put it out. She spat in his face and he promptly escorted her from the food court. Hopefully that wasn’t Diora.

  A cleaner frantically scrubbed one of the tables with some sort of electric cleaning brush, clearly unable to keep up with the demand, as patrons got up and left without taking their scraps to the rubbish bin. Disgusting. I was used to eating in fancy restaurants and hip tapas bars, but was now forced to endure what can only be described as … squalor.

  I glanced around the crowd, eyeing the stomachs of young women like some weirdo. There was another pregnant woman, but her skin was too dark to be my daughter. A few other women sat by themselves, but I couldn’t see their stomachs below the tables.

  Diora, Diora, where are you? I know. I’ll call her! She must be in my contacts list. Like a pro, I opened the contacts screen on my e-pad and found her name. Diora Bellows. She must be married, or at least had the good sense to change her unforgiving surname. Diora McSnelly would be like fine wine served with baked beans. I pressed call and waited.

  “The person you are calling is on another call. Please call back later.”

  Oh, why now? Which one are you, Diora? My eyes continued searching. And then I overheard an interesting conversation …

  “No, I specifically ordered a deluxe pram, not a budget pram. What kind of mother do you think I am? As if I’d trust the safety of my unborn child to a budget pram, are you crazy?” The voice came from somewhere to my right. “Plus, they look awful. Why in the name of Dior anyone would want to buy an olive-green pram is beyond me. Or did the designers think it would go well with baby poo? Anyway, I expect your delivery driver to return to my house immediately to collect the mistaken item and deliver the correct pram. My husband will be there, I’ll let him know to expect you. Goodbye.”

  I turned my head to the source of the confident voice; a beautiful young woman with glossy black hair, tied back into a sleek ponytail. Hoop earrings dangled at her cheeks and she shook her head, assumingly at the injustice of the budget pram incident. Understandably. Budget just meant crappy quality. Everyone knew that.

  As I walked nearer, I could see a large mound at her front. She fiddled with her e-pad and spoke again. “Honey, I just called them. It’s all sorted. They’re going to deliver the correct pram within the next hour, so don’t go anywhere, okay? Huh? No, she’s not here yet. I’m bloody starving … okay, love you too. Bye.”

  Yep. Gotta be Diora. Either that or my long lost identical twin. Minus the large abdomen of course. Actually, mine wasn’t far off the mark.

  “Mum, you’re here, finally!” She tried to stand, but failed. “Come here, will you?” She gestured with her hands.

  I leaned in and she kissed me on the cheek. It felt all tingly and weird and for a moment my legs became like jelly.

  “Happy birthday! I hear you’ve had a bit of an adventure this morning?”

  “I guess I have, after my freak-out, followed by the doctors and …”

  “Wait, you went to the doctors? Are you alright? Is it your indigestion again? Or your hormones?”

  Oh, so she meant the bungy jumping. I thought she was using the word adventure as a nicer alternative to mid-life-crisis. “I’m fine, just a little anxiety.”

  “So how was it … the bungy jumping?” Diora didn’t wait for a response. “I can’t believe you actually did it! My mum, leaping off the edge with no fear in the world! You’re so brave. I’d chicken out for sure. Not that they’d let an eight-and-a-half month pregnant woman do it anyway. Wouldn’t want the baby coming out the wrong end!”

  By the sounds of it she didn’t need to bungy jump, words spewed from her mouth like she’d done three jumps in a row. I now understood what Ryan meant when he said she’d talk my ears off.

  “I’m still a little jittery, but I survived, so that’s the main thing,” I said.

  She nodded, then rubbed her stomach. “Well, if I don’t eat soon I’ll get grumpy and start telling people off for parting their hair the wrong way or having overgrown eyebrows. Let’s eat, shall we?”

  Yep. My very own mini-me. “You stay here. I’ll get us something. What would you like?” I asked.

  “Hot chocolate and a slice of chocolate mud cake. With chocolate ice cream on the side. And chocolate sprinkles.”

  Okay, the resemblance ends there. No way would I eat that amount of chocolate in one month let alone one day. Although at the mention of the word chocolate, my stomach grumbled and my previously dry mouth salivated. Chocolate cake would be nice, just this once. It was my birthday and this technically wasn’t my real body. Besides, it’s beyond help anyway, might as well indulge.

  Within five minutes of bringing a tray of chocolate goodness to our table, Diora had wolfed down her cake and ice cream and worked her way through the hot chocolate. All while interrogating me for the details of this morning’s adventures.

  “Well, the adventures don’t end there. The day’s only just begun and you’ve got plenty more ahead of you,” she said. “I can’t wait for tonight. It’s going to be so much fun!”

  I’d already had quite enough for one day and it wasn’t even midday yet, but what could I do? I just had to appear normal and keep an eye out for a solution, a way of getting back.

  “Although,” Diora continued, “If I’m going to be able to cope with your party, I’ll have to have a nap beforehand.” She rubbed her belly. “This little one’s got me so tired I’m falling asleep at eight thirty most nights, only to be woken by a karate kick and triple somersault two hours later.” She downed the rest of her hot chocolate, while I was only halfway through mine.

  The conversation was easier than I’d imagined, as she did most of the talking. I mostly nodded and gave single syllable responses, then Diora looked at her e-pad.

  “Wow, is that the time? We better go,” she said, pushing her chair back with a screech and using her hands to propel her body up from the chair. “Whoa! Quick, Mum. Feel this.” She grabbed my hand and shoved it onto her belly.

  A wave of ripples met with my hand, then they moved further to the side and I saw them. Little bumps rolled along her abdomen, as though a tiny creature was trapped and trying to get out. Well, I guess that was kind of true, although it was a tiny human.

  But not just any human. My grandchild. And hopefully it wasn’t trying to get out right now. I mean, of course it would eventually, but please, not today. I’m not ready to be a mother, let alone a grandmother.

  “Does it hurt?” I released my hand.

  Diora shrugged. “No, but I’ve been enjoying more Braxton Hicks lately, which certainly make me stop and take notice.”

  Braxton Hicks? Who’s she talking about? Was he some kind of pop singer? And what did he have to do with pregnancy?

  “How long did you have Braxton Hicks for before you went into labour with me, Mum?” Diora asked.

  Crap. How the hell should I know? “Umm, I can’t remember.”

  “C’mon, surely you have some idea. Was your pregnancy with me that unmemorable?” Diora planted an exaggerated pout on her face.

  If only she knew the half of it. I couldn’t exactly say: ‘Actually Diora, I don’t remember it at all, nor do I remember giving birth to you and I certainly don’t remember your (gulp) conception.’ I shuddered at the thought of me with William. And then I remembered what he said about my other birthday present being later tonight. Oh God, I had to find a way back home before then!

  “Um, maybe it was a week?” I hoped that was a believable answer and that she wasn’t expecting me to say five months or anything.

  “A week?” she exclaimed, holding onto her stomach as if for support. “I’ve been having them for about ten days now. I could pop at any minute!”

  Please don’t. Please.

  “Oh well, my next doctor’s appointment is only three days away, so I’ll ask about it then. On second thoughts …�
� Diora pinched open the e-pad screen and typed something.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Foogling.”

  “What?” I peered towards the screen.

  “Foogling. To see what the internet can tell me about Braxton Hicks.”

  A shriek of surprise shot from my mouth on seeing the search engine web page. It looked just like the Google logo, only it said Foogle.

  “Oh look, three-hundred and forty-seven people on Facebook have been discussing Braxton Hicks in the last hour.” Diora pointed at the screen.

  This Braxton guy must be quite popular with young people these days. I wonder if his music’s anything like Ryan’s?

  “Braxton Hicks contractions usually last anywhere from a few days to a few weeks before the onset of labour,” Diora read from some website she’d found.

  Contractions? Didn’t contractions mean labour? Something told me she wasn’t talking about a pop singer after all.

  “And look, this blog tells the story of one woman who didn’t have any Braxton Hicks at all. One day, her water just broke and bam! … Out came baby.”

  “Ah, Diora, maybe you should just wait until you see the doctor instead of relying on the internet.” Well, whaddya know. My first piece of solid motherly advice!

  “Yeah, you’re right. And we better get walking,” she replied, pushing the screen back into the e-pad and tugging on my arm, both to lead me in the right direction and to balance her weight.

  “Diora?” I asked. “Why do they call it Foogle? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Seriously? And I thought pregnancy brain had fried my memory,” she said. “Facebook bought Google, remember? So now it’s Foogle.”

  “Oh, of course. Geez, the bungy jumping must have messed with my head.” I attempted a light-hearted laugh.

  We walked, or rather I walked while Diora waddled, moving at a snail’s pace. Surely a bit of weight around the tummy couldn’t make a person that slow? Getting impatient, I forced myself to walk slower, while inside I was still running around in circles after my bungy jump, not to mention the urgent desire to find a way out of this body.