It was the third week of semester. Gab was walking across the courtyard on her way to her a lecture, eyeing off various food options for lunch on her way. That was something she loved about the city—the variety of cuisines on offer. Wattle Gully had a Chinese restaurant and pizza places of course—which, however, didn’t do much to pass muster as Italian food. But here, there was so much more: Thai, South Indian, North Indian, Mongolian, Japanese, Singaporean, German, real Italian. She couldn’t get enough of it and had decided to spend her weekends trying as many new flavours as she could afford. She often went alone, with a book; at other times, Freya came too.

Just as she got to the doors of the lecture theatre, Gab’s phone rang. It was five minutes before the lecture was due to start, so Gab took out her phone. Mum. Again. Gina had developed a habit of calling at the most inconvenient times, but at least if there was a lecture starting soon, Gab could hang up with a decent excuse after a couple of minutes.

“Hi Mum,” Gab answered, trying to sound happy to speak to Gina.

“Gab, I need you to tell me where you get those shortbread biscuit things. You know, the ones you used to buy with the shopping?” Not even a hello, Gab lamented. Straight to demands.

“Well, hi Mum to you too,” said Gab sarcastically.

“No need to use that tone with me, young lady,” reprimanded Gina. “Why don’t you respect your mother?”

“Fine,” Gab sighed. “Fine Mum. They’re just from the bakery next to the supermarket. They usually have a buy-1-get-1-free deal.”

“Good. Thanks darling,” Gina’s voice softened now that she had what she wanted. “I miss you!”

Gab sighed again. “Okay, thanks Mum. I’ve got a lecture now.”

“Filling your head with all sorts of rubbish, no doubt.”

“No, Mum,” Gab’s words were slow and deliberate. “It’s really interesting actually. And important. You know, like about growing food and caring for the planet?” she added sarcastically.

“Alright darling, whatever you say.” Gina’s patronising tone was insufferable.

“Bye Mum.” Gab hung up. But the lecture was ruined, because Gab spent it batting away the rising tide of indignation caused by her mother’s idiotic insensitivity.

***

Freya was easy to talk to. Relaxed. She and Gab began catching up for lunch breaks between classes. The hours spent lying on the lawn together chatting, not chatting and just hanging out began to clock up. Freya’s study was focused on performance design—so, there were always lots of theatre costumes and sets to be planned. Freya would describe her projects and Gab would suggest ideas; Freya would turn over in the grass, grab her backpack, dig out her pencil and start sketching them out. Freya had four sisters, lots of cousins and what Gab saw as successful, motivated parents—the opposite to Gab’s life. Freya worked three evenings a week as an usher and she would tell Gab all about the latest shows and concerts, the troublesome people, the lighting schedules and the sets—and how she would design those things differently if they were up to her.

At first, Gab didn’t tell Freya much about her home life yet; she was too embarrassed—she wanted to leave it behind. But Gina’s text messages and phone calls kept coming, inevitably while they were eating lunch together or studying at home. The sinister, cold indifference that Gina had shown Gab since their fight when Gab first announced she was leaving had seemed like punishment to Gab—punishment for trying to live her own life. All Gina had said to Gab as she left were two words, and even those as if she regretted them being drawn out of her:

“Goodbye. Gabrielle.”

But as soon as Gab had moved to Melbourne, the stony silence became a pestering, persistent lament, with constant warnings about the dangers of city life that, if not consciously calculated to heap guilt upon Gab, seemed to originate in that intention whether Gina was aware of it or not. Gina was not going to allow Gab to forget about her for a moment. And Gina was still asking Gab for money at least every three days, which was grating on Gab like nothing else. She really felt sorry for her mother, because some days Gina would tell Gab that there was no food in the house, that she had nothing to eat. And Gab wondered what the hell was happening with Gina’s pension money, which was certainly not a large sum but—given the pittance Tony charged for rent of the granny flat—should certainly have seen her through with food for the fortnight. Gab’s exasperation, instead of being so well hidden as in years before, was becoming palpable.

Every twenty dollars that Gab sent was like a piece of her soul being torn off, again and again and again. Not that her ‘soul’ was at all Scrooge-like when it came to money—quite the opposite. But it was the giving-in, the doing of something against her will, the indignity of being pestered until she caved in that was pulling one block after another out of the precarious block-tower of her life, making balance ever more precarious. Maybe she could persist forever, Gab thought. Wasn’t generosity a good thing? Wasn’t it more blessed to give than to receive? Gab couldn’t work it out. At least Gina was far away.

But given the persistence of her phone calls and text messages, Gina wasn’t ever really far away—not from Gab’s mind nor concerns, even if she didn’t have to make Gina’s dinner every night. Life at university was better, but it was frustrating. Gab was free and not free. Plus, there were those nightmares.