ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)

The Reunion
Shella Shpigel
I drove over the West Gate Bridge and looked into the rear-view
mirror. Sharon probably hadn’t seen the city skyline for a long
time, I thought to myself. She had missed many things. She
wasn’t there when Lisa got married or when John had twins and
she wasn’t around when Kylie finished nursing school.
The car wheels were turning, the city was becoming smaller and
smaller. From a distance, it looked very peaceful and beautiful.
Quite the contrasting landscape I was driving towards. I
imagined her place of residence to be like those featured on
American reality TV shows. Dark, cold and intimidating. And
that’s how I would describe Sharon too.
I hadn’t seen Sharon in over 9 years. Prior to that, we didn’t have
much of a relationship. She wasn’t exactly what I call a (role
model) mother. Growing up she always had different boyfriends
around and spent most of her time smoking weed and arguing.
There were six of us kids, each with different dads. We spent
our days on the streets trying to survive. Sometimes we would
shoplift from Coles just so we could have dinner at night. Other
nights, we would come home and Sharon would be out. The
doors would be locked. We were forced to spend the night in the
backyard.
I think Sharon had it in for Lisa and me. We were the youngest.
She didn’t like Lisa because she claimed Brett touched her. That
was Sharon’s boyfriend at the time. Sharon was furious at these
accusations. She didn’t want anything getting in the way of
their relationship. As to why she didn’t like me, she reckons the
police came around too much looking for me. I did like to mess
with them because I was bored. I once slashed their tyres outside
the police station and they weren’t very amused when they
showed up at our house.
Eventually Department of Human Services intervened and Lisa
and I were sent to foster homes. Mostly, we would run away and
go back home. But Sharon would call the police to come and get
us. She would tell them that we broke in and stole from her. We
were forced to return to our foster parents and the viscous cycle
continued until I became an adult.
Today’s reunion was important as I had significant news to share
with Sharon. I felt I owed it to her since she brought me into this
world. In times of crisis she was the last person I would turn to.
But, this situation called for it. It was the right thing to do. Even
my siblings said I had to let her know.
What was I going to tell her? How was I going to break it to her?
What was her reaction going to be? ‘So Sharon, its really good
to see you after all these years but I have some horrible news to
tell you.’ Or ‘Sharon, I’m really sorry to tell you that things aren’t
looking good for me.’ ‘I don’t know how to break this you and it’s
really tragic.’
I wound down the car window as I was driving along the
freeway. I lit a cigarette and turned up the radio. The song ‘Don’t
Worry Be Happy’ came on and I burst into tears. I threw the
cigarette bud out the window and began chewing gum quickly. I
began tuning the radio dial incessantly. My palm started to feel
moist and beads of sweat started forming on my forehead. My
temperature was rising on this autumn day. I thought, maybe
this was a bad idea and I should turn back. Fuck the old bitch!
But I could hear Lisa’s voice in my mind: you owe it to her! At
least have the decency to tell her. And she was right. I turned
on the air-conditioner; I turned off the radio and started deep
breathing. Besides, the exit point was approaching and I had
come all this way already.
Shorty after I exited the freeway, the landscape changed
dramatically from the concrete jungle of the city. It was baron.
Dried grass from the summer, over grown as far as the eye can
see. Dotted with the occasional factory, some of them decrepit
and abandoned. It was a wasteland. Deteriorated landscape
where only semi-trailers passed through. I turned into the
final street and a long deserted road confronted me. I’m pretty
certain if I screamed nobody would have heard. And that’s what I
certainly felt like doing from the window of my car. Anxiety had
set in again. But there was no turning back now.
As I arrived at the premises the first thing I notice was a police
helicopter circling around. It continuously went around the
perimeter of the compound. It was what you would expect to
see. A 5-meter high solid grey fence, lined with razor wire coils
and hundreds of electronic surveillance cameras actively moving
at 360c views. I approached what is known as the Gatehouse,
a large heavy door with a small windowpane and a buzzer.
Directly above, a surveillance camera was watching. It was now
or never. I breathed deep, pressed the buzzer and waited. There
was no reply. I watched the police chopper circling around
and wondered what they were looking for. As I got lost in my
thoughts, suddenly a booming mans voice responded over the
loud speaker. “Can I help you?” he roared.
“I’m here to visit Sharon Wells,” I responded.
“Do you have her CRN?” he asked.
“The number is 567219,” I said.
Unexpectedly, the large metal door unlocked and I was inside.
Inside the Gatehouse the security screening took place. A
friendly baby-faced man in blue uniform sitting at a desk
politely asked for my identification. He smiled and thanked me. I
wondered if this was the same man that had come over the loud
speaker. This was not how I imagined him. He explained that I
was not allowed to bring any possessions inside and issued me
with a locker. After I had stored my items away, I had my eyes
scanned, put my shoes and jumper through a security x-ray
machine. Then I went through a metal detector machine and
then another machine, which sprayed smoked all over me.
Finally, I was given the all clear and the next door was unlocked.
This time unveiling manicured gardens, cottage style houses
were visible in the distance. The visitor’s centre looked like a
school cafeteria. But the people inside were not school children.
Families in casual clothes sat with those who they were visiting
in green jumpsuits and security staff milled around in blue
uniforms.
After surveying the room, I sat down and waited. I began to bite
my nails, my feet were tapping on the floor and my eyes were
darting around the room. I think I even spotted Judy Moran. But
it wasn’t much of a distraction. I started thinking about what
to say to her over and over again. Hi Sharon, it’s been a while
since we last spoke. Hi Sharon, how are you keeping in here? Hi
Sharon, give us a hug.
Suddenly I looked up and Sharon was being escorted over to me.
She was a petite woman with frizzy shoulder length black hair
and piercing green eyes. She once may have been attractive but
as she came closer, I saw skin that had been exposed to the harsh
Australian sun: she had the appearance of a leather handbag.
She thumped down onto the chair, spread her legs wide open
and said in her croaky voice, that of a chain smoker, “G’day
love”. I think it was the first time in my life I saw her smile. Her
teeth were yellow and some were missing too. You could see this
woman had a hard life.
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