The Mother Fault

by Kate Mildenhall

  He lets them out at the edge of the market, thronging with people and noise. She tries to pay him, but he waves her hands away. ‘My gift,’ he says, ‘enjoy!’

  ‘Wait,’ she grabs at her wallet, ‘have you seen him?’ She holds out the picture of Ben. ‘Have you seen this man here?’

  He looks closely, shakes his head slowly, then raises his eyes to meet hers. ‘Your husband?’

  She nods.

  ‘He is here?’ he asks in surprise, hand gesturing to the streets, the madness around them.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Maybe. The mine,’ she says, ‘he was working at the mine.’

  The man frowns. ‘Bad news, Golden Arc.’ He leans away from her and pushes down on the pedals. She watches him as he rides away.

  Next time, she will not mention the mine.

  * * *

  She must ask fifty people inside the stuffy, crowded aisles of the market. Holding out the photo, the head shakes, the women, especially, who look at her with something like pity, something like satisfaction. She feels inept to have misplaced her husband.

  Essie observes it all with her screen. Framing and watching and hiding behind it. Sam ducks under the hands that reach to touch his hair, to fondle and marvel at the shocking blond of it. He smiles at first and then starts to grumble, to hide behind Mim. She buys them fat maroon lychees, squat yellow bananas and they scoff them as they walk. Finally she spots a place with internet and she buys them all drinks, sweet coffee and ice for her, lurid cans for the kids, and hands over cash for them all to have a screen.

  ‘Only ten minutes,’ she says, ‘you can play what you want.’

  She rests her hands lightly on the keyboard. She has to concentrate. Has to be careful.

  The connection is fast, then slow, and she waits for two minutes with her search term frozen in the box.

  Heidi Fulton.

  Finally it loads, but there is nothing new. Academic papers, university contact details, nothing about a house fire, no death notice.

  But the absence of anything chills her. The Chronicle would have a piece if the local vet was in a house fire, if anyone in town was in a fire.

  She types in house fire and NSW.

  This time it is faster, but when she scans the first two pages of results, she knows that there’s nothing about Heidi there.

  Now she finds The Advocate site. Glances behind her to check if there are cameras. She can’t see any, but hunches over the screen all the same.

  Quicksilver adrenaline rippling through her.

  She follows the process, almost familiar now.

  Medallion Hotel.

  Going out tmrw.

  She presses send. Closes the screen down. Stands quickly and hurries the kids out, shushing their protests.

  * * *

  The kids just want to go back to the hotel, but she bribes them with promises of ice-cream and says they’ll be quick. She needs to see him.

  She needs to see him because, now, she cannot do, she cannot be, both.

  Something has to give.

  It’s not going to be her.

  The same woman is at the hospital reception and she smiles at them, bows her head. It is comforting, the sounds of the hospital, the same everywhere. People striding purposefully, an air of authority. She feels as though someone else is looking after everything here.

  Nick is sitting up in bed and looks up when they enter. His face is not as flushed now, but his expression is tight.

  ‘What is it?’ she says.

  He keeps his voice low. ‘Immigration have been.’

  Pressure like a clamp in her chest. ‘Who? Department?’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘local. Indonesian.’

  She exhales, ushers the kids to the spare bed in the corner. Essie huffs but leads Sam with her.

  ‘What did they say, what did they want?’ she says, low and urgent.

  ‘My papers. To know why I didn’t check with customs.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘The accident. My foot. Had to come straight in.’

  ‘Do they know about us, the kids?’

  He cuts in. ‘I don’t think so. They got a tip on the boat, they said. I didn’t tell them anything.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  He shrugs. ‘They did the paperwork. Tourist visa. I paid a fine. And some extra. That seemed to work.’

  She is breathing easier now. Sits on the edge of the bed so she is facing away from the kids. Nick moves his hand so it is close to her thigh. She hesitates, then puts her fingers over his.

  ‘You find something to eat?’ he asks, not noticing.

  She nods. ‘Went to the market.’

  ‘Kids like it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She smiles. ‘We took one of those bikes. They liked that.’

  ‘Good,’ he says, leaning back and closing his eyes, ‘that’s good.’

  She cannot leave him like this. It is her fault that he is here, that he is in hospital. It can wait. ‘You’re wrecked,’ she says, moving her hand. ‘We should go.’

  He grabs at her fingers. ‘Don’t,’ he says. ‘Not yet, five more minutes?’

  His need for her is satisfying. Fingers laced together again. Carefully, making sure the kids can’t see. His eyes still closed. Smiling.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says suddenly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being a prick. When I was hurt. My foot. I’m sorry.’

  She smiles. ‘Yeah, you were.’

  ‘You did good,’ he says, opening his eyes. ‘That was pretty rough, that weather.’

  She flushes with pleasure. ‘Found my sailing legs.’

  ‘Maybe you should spend more time on boats,’ he says, and then, quietly, ‘on my boat.’ His expression now is too much and she looks away.

  * * *

  She is sixteen. They are lying next to each other on his bed, the curtains don’t block the summer glare and there is a triangle of fierce light on his cheek. He is looking at her, she knows, his finger tracing lines between the freckles on her shoulder. She is still clutching the sheet across her chest, feeling vulnerable, so vulnerable to all of it, to the bigness of it, to the feeling that every one of her nerve endings is jumping, vibrating. And she knows, can hear the words he isn’t saying, thinks it’s so odd how all the movies get it wrong. It’s not I love you, that’s not the expression that fizzes on the end of the tongue, what wants to be said. It’s not that many words. Just you. That’s what it is – astonished and breathless and confused and possessive all at once. You.

  * * *

  Now she must move her hand. Before she says something. Before she cries.

  ‘I have to find him now.’

  His fingers press then pull back. ‘I know.’

  Behind her, Sam’s voice, ‘Don’t! Stop, Essie!’

  ‘You two!’ she hushes, then turns back. ‘And you! You’ve gotta get home. Back to your mum, to your boat.’ She tries to laugh, to relieve the levity of it all. ‘To the dream.’

  He looks away. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘If you stay, I’ll…’ The pause is just long enough. She wonders if the inside of his mind looks the same as hers right now. Sun on a deck, salt-flecked skin, the horizon clear and far away.

  A fantasy.

  She focuses. ‘I’ve got to get out to the mine island, see if I can get a local to take us.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a boat if you need it.’

  She laughs. ‘That won’t sail without you, though, will it?’

  ‘You don’t need me, you sailed us in just fine.’ He reaches out and holds her arm. ‘Take the boat.’

  Behind her, the kids’ squabbling rises and falls. ‘Two more minutes!’ she calls and turns back to Nick. ‘What?’

  He is leaning forward now, insistent. ‘The Sandfly. Take it, I’m leaving it here for you. You’re gonna need a Plan B. Sell it, sail it, doesn’t matter. It’ll make it easier for me to go back if I know you’ve at least got that.’

  �
��You can’t give me your boat. You’re selling it, the cash for your dream boat.’

  ‘Other ways to make quick cash.’ He shrugs. ‘Think of it as a long-term loan. Maybe I can check in on her from time to time?’

  Possibility. Enough to warm herself on when she is doubled over with regret later.

  ‘Your foot, though? How will you –’

  ‘Hey,’ he says, puts his hand on her arm. ‘You don’t have to look after me. I’m good, huh?’ He smiles.

  She closes her eyes for a second. ‘How are you gonna get back?’

  ‘There’s a flight back to Jakarta tomorrow afternoon, then home from there… easy.’

  ‘Do you need money?’

  ‘All good, some woman gave me a bunch of cash to take her sailing.’ He smiles and she could change her mind, she could.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. She lunges forward, enfolds him, or he her, she isn’t sure. He is beginning to smell like the sea again.

  ‘Anytime, huh,’ he says and pulls away.

  She takes a deep breath, calls for the kids to come.

  He rummages in the pocket of his backpack, finds something and places it in her hand.

  The keys for the galley door.

  ‘Like I said, it’s just a lend, yeah?’

  She closes her eyes. Nods.

  ‘You gotta go,’ he says, closing her fingers over the keys, pushing her gently away from him.

  She nods. Turns. Walks away.

  * * *

  At the hotel reception, she asks the man if there are any messages.

  He looks up from his device and shakes his head.

  ‘Nothing?’ she repeats.

  He smiles, although she knows she has pissed him off. ‘Nothing for you, madam. Is there anything I can assist with?’

  It is not the same man as this afternoon, this one is beautiful and aloof, not as eager to please.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He smiles with his mouth only, goes back to his screen, unfreezing the face she glimpses there.

  ‘Actually,’ she says, leaning back on the counter, ‘can I place a call to Australia?’

  The man sighs, looks up slowly and points to the old desktop in the corner of the lobby. ‘You can log in over there.’

  ‘It’s just,’ she says, reaching into her bag for her wallet, ‘I’ll only need a moment, but I can’t have the call traced to here.’

  The man raises an eyebrow. Showing interest now. ‘You could use this app I have. If it’s just a short call? End-to-end encryption. Can’t be traced.’

  ‘I’d be so grateful,’ she says, sliding notes to him beneath her palm, aware of the blinking camera in the corner. She ushers the kids up to the room with the card key and tells them she’ll only be a minute. She takes the phone when the man offers it and moves away from the counter, turning her back to him.

  She waits for a moment, rehearsing scripts, planning what she will say if Steve answers.

  But it is her mother who picks up, the voice sounding so near it unnerves her. ‘Mum?’

  There is a silence. Then quiet, careful. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ And now, finally, the relief. Like a wave over her and the tears are unexpected. Her mother’s voice has loosed them from her. ‘Yes, we are okay.’

  ‘I don’t need to know where.’

  She realises her mother is being deliberately careful. That she knows they will be listened to. Admiration blooms in her. And guilt.

  ‘It’s okay. We’re okay.’

  A choking sound. ‘Good,’ her mother says, ‘that’s good.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t know when –’

  Her mother interrupts. ‘It’s okay. It’s okay. This is enough. For now, this is enough.’

  Mim nods, cries, will hurt later for the moments she did not speak, the moments she wasted. She has to ask. ‘Heidi?’

  ‘The same.’

  Mim gasps. Better than dead.

  Or worse, she imagines Heidi saying, wryly.

  ‘I visit,’ her mother says. ‘I visit all the time. I’ll tell her you called.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mim says, ‘yes, please do that.’ She knows her time is also up. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, for all of this.’

  ‘Don’t. You did what you had to. Off you go then. Big love. To the kids, okay. Big love.’

  ‘Love you,’ Mim says, but her mother is gone.

  * * *

  After Essie was born, Mim had asked her, just once, to stay.

  ‘I didn’t realise, Mum,’ she’d said, looking at her mother’s face, ‘I don’t think I can do it.’

  ‘Of course you can.’ She’d held her palm to Mim’s face for a second, cupped the other around her granddaughter’s head as Essie snuffled and sucked at Mim’s breast.

  ‘It is the hardest thing in the world,’ her mother told her, ‘and the simplest. You just do it. You just do each day.’

  She had pushed it. ‘But some days, you must wish,’ she had said to her mother. ‘Some days we must disappoint you, you must think it isn’t worth it?’

  She remembers the flint in her mother’s face, the pain and the strong of it.

  ‘You do what you can,’ her mother had said. ‘You do what the books tell you and what your friends tell you and what your sister-in-law tells you, and you try, sometimes, to do the opposite of what your own mother told you, and you just hope, you just hope that you’re doing it right, even when you know that you must be doing it wrong. And then – and then you realise that it’s so beyond you. Sometimes, despite what you do, despite everything you do –’ at this her mother had stopped, could not go on, Michael’s name like a solid thing between them.

  ‘Mum, sorry, I shouldn’t have –’

  But she’d interrupted her. ‘And sometimes,’ and she’d taken Essie from Mim’s arms, scooped her over her shoulder, rocked slowly side to side. ‘Sometimes, despite everything you do, you turn out something miraculous.’

  * * *

  Back in the room, she can feel sleep coming for her, the wipeout of exhaustion.

  ‘You done a wee, mate? Before you go to sleep? Your teeth?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘No you haven’t,’ Essie bites.

  Mim sighs. ‘Sam, c’mon, it’ll just take a sec.’

  He grumbles, but gets up.

  Mim closes her eyes.

  His little voice triumphant, from the bathroom. ‘My poo’s coming!’

  Essie laughs.

  Mim smiles and calls out, ‘That’s great, Sam, take your time!’

  She hears him begin to sing. Something uncoils in her chest and she opens her eyes.

  ‘You okay, Ess?’ she asks gently. ‘Have you stopped bleeding?’

  Essie makes a noise like a huff, doesn’t look up. Mim waits.

  Sam’s voice rises and falls from the bathroom.

  ‘Kind of,’ Essie finally says.

  ‘Do you need more pads? We can buy some tomorrow.’

  Essie shakes her head. ‘It’s just kind of – I don’t know.’ She squirms with embarrassment and Mim wants to go to her.

  ‘Not like blood? Just a weird colour?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Essie, shoulders dropping in relief.

  ‘Yeah, that’ll happen for a few days. Or maybe you’ll start bleeding again earlier than you think. It takes a while for your body to sort it out.’

  Essie keeps her eyes on the page, scribbling, but she is alert, Mim can see it in her body.

  ‘It’s stupid. I hate it. Why do we have to have it?’

  ‘Well, because it’s your body getting ready –’

  Essie interrupts, quickly. ‘God, Mum, I know all that.’

  ‘Right,’ she says, pressing her lips together.

  ‘I mean, why, as in it’s not fair. That this has to happen to me every month until, until I’m like old. Every month, Mum. How do you put up with it?’

  She wants to laugh in solidarity with her daughter but she is so earnest, so intent, she knows that it will break this precious equi
librium.

  ‘I hated it, too,’ she says. ‘I did, and then, eventually, when Dad and I decided we wanted you, I realised how brilliantly lucky I was.’

  ‘But I don’t want to have kids.’

  Essie has always said this. Has always been averse to even the cutest babies. It twinges sometimes, in Mim’s chest, the thought that her daughter might so vehemently reject the thing that she herself has chosen.

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll –’

  ‘Don’t say it, Mum. Don’t say I’ll change my mind. I won’t. It’s irresponsible. To have a baby in this world. You’re only doing it for yourself.’

  Mim nods, is quiet. How did all the children get so wise?

  Sam’s voice trills, the sound of a flush.

  ‘That’s exactly what your uncle used to say. But look, I got you, huh?’ She touches Essie’s hair. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter about the baby stuff. You choose whatever you want.’ Essie is looking at her now, she only has a moment before Sam is back. ‘You are stronger and braver than you know. You are.’

  Essie holds her gaze for a second more. ‘Okay, Mum,’ she says and looks away, scribbling again.

  But Mim knows, she knows she has planted it. Sometimes, just sometimes, she feels like she gets it right.

  Sam throws his arms around her neck. Squeezes. ‘That was such a great poo, Mum!’

  ‘That’s great, darling,’ she says, squeezing him back. ‘Love you both, sleep well.’

  ‘Goodnight, Dad,’ she hears Sam whisper. ‘See you tomorrow, I hope.’

  Her heart crunches. The bed ghost-rocks around her. She waits for the oblivion of sleep.

  25

  Knocking on the door. Not frantic, but insistent. Weak light of early morning through the curtains.

  She rolls over. Let me sleep, she thinks.

  The rhythmic knock continues. A soft voice. ‘Miriam?’

  Swimming up through the sediment of sleep. Who would call her by her name, here? She rolls, rubs her face, feet on the cool floor.

  ‘Yes?’ she says, sharply, attempting to sound competent, in control.