by Renee Kira
‘Inquisition?’
‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’
She puts her hands on the table. ‘I just want to know you’re alright. I worry about you.’
‘Everything’s fine, Mum. Just… next time you want to come inside let me know first.’
‘Answer your phone next time and I will.’
It’s not long before she leaves, proving the fact that both her and Dad hate being inside this house. My absence this morning must have really rocked her. I feel a little guilty and then try and shake it off. I’m not responsible for other people’s emotions.
Something is up. It could be stress over Dad, but this isn’t just stress. She’s acting irrationally.
With a sigh, I turn away from the window. I need to go figure out a way to shower with this bandage on my arm. Before I can make my way to the bathroom, something in the study catches my eye. The filing cabinet drawer is wide open again.
22
Maya
Isobel Franco is not flexible. I mean that literally. When I invited her to yoga she hesitated before she agreed, maybe I should have read into that a little more. We arrive a minute before class starts and take the last available spots.
Isobel is on the yoga mat in front of me. She’s wearing a pair of black shorts and a Lululemon halter top. If I didn’t already know she was a runner, I would be able to tell from the muscle definition on her legs. And the fact that her arms aren’t strong enough to hold her in down dog for more than thirty seconds.
The yoga studio is white and sparse in a way that’s meant to be relaxing. I suppose simple can be relaxing. Organisation is what relaxes me. Knowing where everything is. Knowing what’s going to happen. I like to keep the chaos at bay.
This is my usual class I take every week. Of course, I’ve been absent the last two weeks. Lucy suggested I start coming again, even if I didn’t feel like it.
The other reason I’m here is that I lied to David yesterday. It didn’t turn out well, he saw right through it. Now I feel like I’m trying to back up my lie, even though it’s too late. I figured I might as well rope Isobel into coming. If nothing else, I’ll have an alibi.
Yoga is not her thing. She looks lost and I think she’s a stranger to stretching. The instructor, with a perfect messy bun and the skin of someone who lives on air and avocados, orders us in to a twist. Isobel turns around and faces the back of the room. I smile, catching her gaze. Her weak smile back looks more like a cry for help.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth. She shrugs and grits her teeth.
I’ve seen her running out on the cliff road a few times, so I know she’s fit. It’s hard to miss her in the expensive running gear. The woman has a lot of pricey stuff for someone that has no apparent interest in money or brand names. Maybe she doesn’t look at the price tags. Maybe she walks into a shop and buys whatever thing she likes most.
Isobel fumbles her way through the forty-minute class. The moment it’s over, she leaves for the change room stuffing her feet into her shoes and putting her oversized hoodie back on. I’m close behind her, grabbing my canvas gym bag out of a locker on the way out.
‘That was awful,’ she says as soon as the glass door to the studio closes behind us. It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. It’s not hot yet, but the sharp bite of the sun tells me the afternoon will warm up.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought you might like it.’
‘No, I’m glad I did it. All I do is run. I can’t even touch my toes, I’m so inflexible. Part of the reason I decided to come back here was to try and get a bit more work-life balance. Try and focus on health.’
‘How’s that working out?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘All life, no work,’ she says with a smile.
From the road I can make out the blue sea blending with the horizon. This is my favourite time of year. Late Spring, almost summer. Warm enough to be outside, not so hot that you sweat twenty-three hours a day.
‘It’s been a strange time.’ She continues. ‘My boyfriend from Melbourne was meant to move here with me. He changed his mind at the last minute.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I heard something like that.’
She nods. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Were you together long?’
‘A few years. Anyway, then all this other stuff happened. I’ve been worried about my Dad.’
I nod. ‘It feels like that was just a mistake. I mean, the police haven’t questioned him again.’
‘Not as far as I know,’ she says. ‘He’s not a talker. He keeps a lot to himself.’
There’s a large, square bandage on the underside of Isobel’s arm. ‘What did you do there?’
‘It’s okay now. It got cut on some glass and needed a couple of stitches. I get them out on Tuesday.’
‘No wonder you were struggling in that class,’ I grin.
She shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t hurt, it’s just uncomfortable. I don’t think I can really blame a cut on my arm for my lack of core strength.’
I laugh. ‘Have you got time for coffee?’
Isobel nods. ‘Yeah, sure.’
The shops are closer to the water and the small shady inlet of Safety Beach. It’s the only place you can swim in Cape Cross. Well, if you don’t want to die that is. The surfers tend to get in the water wherever the waves are, rips be damned. We walk down the hill towards the shore, the coffee shop being the last shop on the corner before the road ends and turns to foreshore.
An open window with a wide sill allows you to order a takeaway without going inside the shop.
‘What do you have?’ I ask Isobel.
‘Long black.’
I might have guessed it. Isobel was no nonsense. She was the same in high school. I get the sense things are black and white for her. Every break up, setback and bad grade I’d ever had would plague me for months afterwards. Not Isobel. She shrugged it off like nothing happened. She moved on. She got things done.
Veronica was a different person again. She didn’t worry about black and white, she pushed until the world was whatever colour she wanted. I’d heard her on the phone with clients, talking them around and around until they agreed to an offer. She had a gift. It wasn’t always ethical, but it was something.
I order for us both.
‘Want to walk along the pier?’ asks Isobel.
‘Sure.’
The small wooden pier hadn’t been used by boats for years. Kids liked to jump off it in summer, and occasionally someone would fish off the end. A proper boat ramp was installed a few kilometres away.
‘I can’t imagine there are a lot of jobs for lawyers out here.’ I take a sip of my coffee.
‘There’s a few jobs in Waringal. When I first planned the move, I wanted to open my own practice. I even looked at a few shops.’ Her tone tells me she had changed her mind.
‘But?’
‘Once I got here… I don’t know. It’s like I lost momentum.’ She sighs a little, as if she is disappointed.
‘Like you said, a lot of stuff has happened. I’m sure you’ll work it out.’
We reach the end of the pavement, and walk across the warm sand towards the pier.
‘I was talking to Liam Goddard the other day.’ Isobel says. ‘You know, he was top of our class. He could have been a doctor and he chucked it in to manage a pub. He has a degree in biomedical science.’
‘Oh yeah. He was smart in high school.’
I keep my voice cool, but I was dying to ask where she saw him. They had a history. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were back on again. But I held my tongue. Isobel could tell me if she wanted to. Our rekindled friendship was young, and I didn’t want to speak out of turn.
‘Do you guys see each other much?’ Okay, so I couldn’t help it.
‘A few times. Not on purpose, actually.’ She looks out over the water. It was unusually calm today. ‘He was saying, we do all these things because we think we should. We become doctors, because they’re more valuable than bartenders.
But, what’s really better? You know, I don’t make that much money. Not considering the years of university and the ridiculous hours I’m expected to commit.’
‘I get your point. David did a trade and he pulls six figures.’
‘Well, he’s making more than me. I went to university for five years.’
I laugh. ‘He was working full time at seventeen. You must like it though. There must be something about it or you wouldn’t be doing it.’
‘There are good bits. But if I had my time again, I wouldn’t repeat myself.’
I turned to her, surprised. ‘Really?’
Isobel nods.
‘What would you do?’
‘I don’t know. In fact, I never gave it a lot of thought. Work’s work and all that. But Liam’s got me thinking.’
‘What’s his deal, anyway? He doesn’t want to be a doctor?’ I wonder if there is another reason he gave it up.
‘He was a researcher. He said he likes his life better now. He gets to surf.’ she shrugs.
‘Bloody surfers.’
Isobel laughs. ‘Doesn’t David surf?’
‘Exactly. Nothing worse than finally having him home for a day and he buggers off down the beach for three hours.’
‘He works long hours?’ she asks.
I nod and hesitate before I speak again. ‘Yeah. He has to.’
‘Tell him to surf less. He could spend more time with you all.’
I laugh out loud at that.
‘What’s funny?’ Her brows furrow with concern and I think I’ve given too much away.
I smile, downplaying my reaction. ‘He’s very rigid. When things don’t happen the way he wants them too he gets… a bit withdrawn.’
‘Withdrawn,’ she repeats. ‘Silent treatment?’
I shrug. Withdrawn is not the right word. He does go silent, but he is simmering. By the time that happens, it’s too late to prevent the explosion that’s coming.
‘That’s a hard one,’ offers Isobel. ‘There’s always difficult things that you have to talk about. If you can’t for risk of being ostracised… well, that’s a difficult relationship to be in.’
I nod, even though her advice is off the mark. How could it be right when I haven’t told her the truth? Just like I’m not telling her the whole truth, there’s a lot I don’t tell David as well. I wonder just how much energy I spend avoiding conflict.
Something vibrates inside Isobel’s bag. She pulls out her phone. Looking at the screen she screws her face up, and declines the call.
‘Who is it?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know the number. Probably market research. I get a lot of stuff like that lately.’
‘I hate unknown callers.’
We walk back to the sand and then make our way up the hill towards where we had both parked our cars that morning. Isobel’s phone makes a low beep. She looks at the screen again, biting her lip.
‘Everything okay?’ I ask.
‘Edmund Keane just left me a message.’ Isobel doesn’t look up; her eyes are fixed on her phone.
‘Who’s Edmund Keane?’ I ask. The name is familiar but I can’t place it.
‘He’s a lawyer,’ Isobel answers.
‘Oh yeah. He was at the funeral. What does he want?’
‘I have no idea. I’ve never spoken a word to him.’
‘It’s probably nothing. He could have called the wrong person.’
Isobel shakes her head. She looks thoroughly spooked.
23
Isobel
The first time I call, the receptionist tells me I’ll need to wait six weeks to see a genetic counsellor. A day later, a different person calls back and says there’s been a cancellation that afternoon if I want it.
Less than a week after I had my arm stitched up at the hospital, I am back in Waringal again. This time I am waiting in the specialist rooms, opposite the hospital.
Liam called me last night, and I almost told him what was going on. For some reason, he’s the only person I trust right now. Is it because we have history? Could it be that easy to fall back into an old pattern?
I didn’t talk about it. We didn’t talk about Max Hayes either. Or Veronica. Instead we talked about things that happened in high school, about missing Melbourne coffee and how house prices are crazy right now. The dark stuff stayed underneath the surface.
So now I am sitting in a waiting room alone, wondering if I have a genetic disease that my mother has kept hidden from me.
The doctor is running late, I wait a full twenty minutes before he calls me in. He has deep horizontal lines across his forehead and thin, wavy hair.
‘So, Brittle Bone in the family,’ he says as I take the tub chair opposite him. There is a heavy timber desk between the two of us. His eyes are on a printed report in front of him, not on me.
‘Your mother was diagnosed two years back.’ He squints when he speaks and I wonder if the poor guy needs glasses.
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t want to find out before now?’
I nod and opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘The counsellor probably went through that with you. I don’t want to bore you.’
I close my mouth. I haven’t seen a counsellor. Have I skipped a step in the process? There’s no chance to say anything before he continues. It could be a good thing, this way I’ll find out the truth faster.
‘She has type one. Well, if you had to choose, that would be the pick.’ He’s reading the report again.
Why were doctors so weird and impersonal? Maybe that was why Liam quit. The doctor squints again.
‘How are your teeth?’
‘Fine.’
‘No fillings, pain?’
‘No, all normal.’ I haven’t seen a dentist in four years, but I assume my teeth are fine.
‘Any joint pain?’
‘Nope.’
‘And did you break a bone as a child?’
‘I broke my arm when I was twelve.’
He nods, ‘Respiratory issues, heart problems? Nothing out of the ordinary at all?’
‘No. I’m normal. Totally normal.’
‘Not likely,’ he said. ‘Everyone has something wrong with them.’
I go to answer but I’m not really sure what to say to him. He’s right. Everyone does have something wrong with them. Then it occurs to me what it is and I can’t believe it’s slipped my mind.
‘Oh. Premature ovarian failure. I was diagnosed a few years back.’ I surprise myself with how even my voice stays.
He presses his lips together. ‘Any kids?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘And you’re…’ he looks at the report again. ‘Thirty-two.’
He nods but doesn’t speak for a minute. ‘It’s very unlikely you carry the gene. If you did, we’d be seeing signs by now, however small. You’ll want to know though, especially when you get to menopause. The test is covered by Medicare, so you won’t be out of pocket.’
‘Great. I’d rather know.’
That would be a double whammy. You’ve run out of eggs, your body doesn’t make collagen and now all your bones are going to break.
‘Easy,’ he says. He glances up from his paperwork, this time not squinting.
‘You remind me of your mother.’ He grins, breaking his flat expression. ‘She always asks me to tell it like it is. You’ve got her hair too. With a bit of luck, you missed out on some of the other genes. I’ve been seeing Jennifer since her diagnosis. I’ve never had a patient that asks so many questions.’
I nod. ‘That sounds like Mum.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We will take some blood today and we’ll schedule a results appointment in six weeks.’
He goes to stand up but then he stops.
‘Do you know your blood type?’
‘Sure, it’s O-negative. I used to donate.’ The Red Cross had a permanent station set up near my old office in Melbourne.
‘Yeah…’ his voice
trails off. ‘It says that here too.’ Something like concern flashes across his face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Bear with me. I’ve got to check something.’
The doctor leaves the consult room, closing the door behind him. I stay in the chair, waiting. Outside, I could hear a hum of voices from the waiting room and the faint crackle of a radio.
When he comes back, there is a manilla folder in his hand. A printed sticky label on the tab had a familiar name.
Jennifer Franco.
It’s my mother’s file. He opens it on the desk, flicks through a few pages and then shakes his head. When he looks up at me, his brow is furrowed and there is something in his eyes I don’t recognise. He looks like he is about to give me bad news. He takes a deep breath, but then his face softens.
‘Right. Well, let’s organise this blood test. I might get my nurse to come give me a hand, she’s far less likely to leave you with a nasty bruise.’
He leaves the room again. Whatever he was about to tell me, he changed his mind. Was it something to do with me or my mother? It was my O-negative blood that had upset him. What was so terrible about that? Did it mean I had a higher chance of having Brittle Bone disease?
The file is still on his desk, open. Leaning over, I reach for it, spinning it around so I can read the page the doctor has left open. It’s my mother’s intake form. Her full name is listed, her date of birth, and details like height and weight. I scan it with my eyes, looking for a clue. I see her blood type: A-positive.
Why had he wanted to check this file? I can’t work out what he was looking for. I pull my phone from my handbag and take photos of the first few pages.
A-positive. And me, O-negative.
What does that mean? I don’t know anything about blood types. I don’t even know if that was the detail he had fixated on. Before I can think it through any more, a middle-aged woman with short black hair comes in. The doctor is close behind her.
‘We’ll get these tests organised pronto and then move forward,’ he says. His tone is strained.
‘Stay in that chair, honey,’ says the nurse in a warm voice. She bends over and clips a brightly coloured tourniquet around my forearm. My eyes fix on the roof while she draws four vials of blood.