Page 239 - Eggs and Ashes pages

238 Eggs and Ashes

It took a long time.
Then one night he told us that his name wasn’t Donald, by the way. It was Bren-
don. ‘Brendon Matthewson,’ he pronounced, and watched me write his name
down in the book.
‘Here,’ he said and took the pen.
I wondered if it was a sign – a sign he was growing more accepting of himself,
that he was ready to begin dealing with his past, and future?
‘Brendon. It suits you,’ I said.
He smiled.
He became protective of us. One night when someone was giving Ann a rough
time on the door, he came out and told the guy to show the woman some respect –
that, or he’d be out on his arse; it was his choice, he told him.
As the months passed he seemed to be feeding his addictions less; there was a
mischievous glimmer in his eyes – he traded jokes with Ray, recipes with Norman.
You weren’t always reaching out to him: down a long deep depression, inside of a
black hole.
Then one day he told us we probably wouldn’t be seeing him for a while. There
was a warrant with his name on it, he explained. ‘Can’t keep your head down for
ever,’ he said, and walked up the road to the cop shop.
Ray and Jane visited him.
When he got out, he landed a job cooking in the shelter kitchen. He wanted to
give something back, he said.
‘Fuckin’ brilliant,’ all the guys raved. He was teaching Norman some things.
On Christmas day, he and Stormin’ served-up an awesome and legendary feast:
turkey with all the trimmings; roast potatoes; brussels sprouts; chipolata sausages and
rolled bacon; and for dessert, out of this fuckin’ world Christmas pudding topped
with cream and brandy butter.
Brendon said his plan was to save his wages and get some gear together – piping
bags, tubes, syringes, a decent set of knives and spoons.
Three years later, he stopped me in the street. He called my name and I turned
around. I didn’t recognise him at first. ‘Brendon!’ I cried.
He looked like a different person. He looked brand new.
It was a bright warm spring day and we shared our news:
He was a pastry chef at Costco supermarket, he told me; he was in charge of cake
decoration and of interviewing and training bakery staff. He was living with his
wife, Jamila, and his stepdaughter, Sara, in a little house outside the city.
He’d been through some ups and downs – rehab twice. It hadn’t been easy. He
told me about trying to go cold turkey, about the hunger pain of withdrawal.
He was feeling brilliant now. Life was sweet. Jesus Christ had called him, he