‘Let’s try again, Madam,’ the security woman says – the word ‘madam’ intoned through gritted teeth. She probably got ‘Employee of the Century’ after what Mum put her through that day.
So Mum, who’s now appearing frail and a threat to not even the teensiest fly, passes through the metal detector a third time . . . and of course it beeps.
‘That must be my shoulder. I have a fake shoulder,’ she says to the security woman, who is now turning purple with rage.
Having at this point caused thousands of people to miss their flights and scores of security personnel to register for intensive counselling, Mum is frisked with a handheld metal detector and, once it’s been established that it is indeed her shoulder that’s sent the device into meltdown, she’s allowed to retrieve her treasure chest of jewels and cheap K-mart shoes from the conveyor belt.
Trouble is, because she’s now on the verge of an Airport Hypertension Disorder-induced heart attack, she is as white as a sheet and her hands won’t stop shaking, which makes her even more of a suspicious passenger. So, of course, next it’s the explosives person’s turn to ask Mum to bring her handbag over for testing. The groan from the people watching the spectacle is so audible I pretend my shoelace is undone and bend down to re-tie it. I’ll never be more embarrassed in all my life. Well, not until I catch a flight with her the next day to return home . . . and go through it all again.
Because Jude’s bag contains thirty-seven thousand individual items, it takes the explosives tester guy some time to dab his magical sensor around in there.
As we leave the security area I watch the purple-flushed security guard say to the next person in line, a woman in her sixties, ‘Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to remove all three of your charm bracelets.’ Behind her, every grey-haired person in the queue clutches nervously at the jewels they too have deemed essential for interstate travel.
But I’ve just begun to scratch the surface of this story of torture.
After what feels like three hours, we can finally make our way towards the departure gate. Except now Dad desperately needs to use the bathroom and I’ll be sent on a surveillance mission to source the nearest possible one so he can avoid walking aimlessly or in the wrong direction. By the time I return with the verbal equivalent of a highly detailed surveyor’s map, Dad is standing cross-legged like a little boy. Mum is putting her elephant bracelet back on, grimacing and whining with breathless force. I come so close to snatching the damned thing from her and stamping on it beyond all recognition, like a three-year-old throwing a doozy of a public tantrum, I don’t know how I manage to restrain myself. I never threw tantrums as a child, probably because my parents weren’t so frustrating back then. But let’s face it, no amount of force will be bending that bracelet out of shape.
‘Why do they care so much about jewellery?’ Mum asks, as though this is her maiden voyage and no planes have ever been hijacked and flown into skyscrapers. ‘I mean, I’m hardly a threat.’
‘The only threat you are, Jude, is to everyone’s sanity,’ I say.
‘Ugh,’ she visibly relives her security ordeal, ‘I need a drink.’
I’m sent off to look for the nearest bar so she can avoid aimless walking or heading off in the wrong direction. And when I return, Dad has struck up a conversation with the barely interested stranger sitting next to him.
‘Skeet, I was telling this lady you’re a writer,’ he says when he sees me. ‘She asked how many books you’ve written and I forget. Are you on six or seven now?’
The woman sees there’s now no escape and has no choice but to follow through and ask what kind of books I write.
‘Non-fiction and memoir, mostly,’ I say.
‘Oh . . . okay.’
‘Do you know the one with a pig on the front?’ I ask, assuming an answer in the affirmative.
To her credit, the woman raises her eyes to the ceiling and genuinely seems to be racking her brain for the cover of a book with a pig on it. Her eyes return to mine, glazing over ever so slightly.
‘Anyway, it’s about a tree change,’ I say and laugh, instead of explaining to her that it’s a comedy.
‘He’s written novels too,’ Dad misses the cues and continues unabashed.
‘Any that —?’
‘They were released about a hundred years ago,’ I cut her off intentionally, to unsuccessfully save myself further embarrassment.
Silence utterly envelopes the three of us for a good two minutes.
Dad has been using his ‘talking to strangers’ voice, completely unlike his natural speaking voice but not unlike his ‘talking to doctors’ voice. Sometimes I wonder whose conversation I’m overhearing until it’s too late and he’s pulled me into one.
‘I’ll leave you two chatting then,’ he says after helpfully getting the conversational ball rolling.
Grasping for a topic I ask the woman: ‘Where are you off to today?’
‘Broome.’
‘Oh, how lovely!’
‘Have you ever been to Broome?’
‘No.’
‘I’d better go to my gate,’ the woman says, almost apologetically.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ I say.
‘You too?’ She responds, with an audible intonation at the end.
‘It’s Todd Alexander!’ Dad bellows triumphantly from the next table over. ‘You’ll find him in all good book-stores!’
‘Dad!’ I hiss.
‘What?’
Mercifully at that moment I am instructed by Mum to return to the bar and order her another sauvignon blanc.
‘Make sure it’s New Zealand,’ she cries after me though I am well versed in her chosen tipple.
While there I also order myself a schooner of beer, deciding against a triple scotch chaser. I return to our table with the drinks, but Mum and Dad are in the middle of gathering together all of our things, including the half-eaten bucket of chips Dad has bought to steady his rising blood sugar.
