In the morning, Wally is gone but the side of the bed that he sleeps on has been disturbed in that way that says he’s been there recently. Watching his side of the bed for a few moments before I start my day has become a part of my routine too. Then I move on to the usual routine: breakfast, coffee, yoga. I have just settled myself in lotus position when I notice the date on the calendar on my wall and a thought comes to me, so clear and fast it is as though it’s been tucked just out of sight, just waiting to be retrieved.
My period is two days late.
According to Google, a period that is up to five days late is normal and a typical part of a healthy cycle. What’s more, cycles can be influenced by a great many things – changes to routine, excessive exercise and travel. This information is a great comfort to me. While I haven’t travelled in recent weeks, I’ve certainly had my fair share of exercise (yoga, karate, sex) and changes to my routine (Wally), so those things combined would certainly explain my late period. And, so, I spend the next few days carrying out my daily routine with almost painful precision, hoping this will rectify things.
Before I know it, my period is six days late.
‘Fern? Come and look at this,’ Rose says. Rose is in the corner of IKEA, hovering by a white BILLY bookcase, inspecting it with what feels like an inordinate level of scrutiny. ‘This will work, don’t you think?’
Rose continues to say something, but I can’t hear very well because I have my earplugs in. I still am not quite sure how Rose managed to convince me to come to IKEA. She knows I don’t like shopping – and IKEA, let’s face it, is the mother of all shops. I do almost all of my own shopping online and, frankly, I don’t understand why anyone would do anything else. Virtually everything, including IKEA, is available online, and pretty much all of the larger department stores offer free delivery and returns. And if there is an item I desperately want but can only get in a big shopping centre, I ask Rose to get it for me.
Ironically, it is exactly this logic that Rose used when convincing me to come.
‘I don’t like shopping!’ I had whined when she asked me.
‘Fern.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘You know when sometimes you ask me to go to the store to get you something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do I go?’
I roll my eyes.
‘Do I go?’ Rose repeats.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not asking you to understand why this is important to me. I’m only asking if you can do it.’
And, so, here I am, at IKEA. It smells like cinnamon rolls and meatballs, an eye-wateringly disgusting combination, and it’s as bright as a summer’s day. I’d wanted to wear my swimming goggles, but that would have meant a detour to my flat, so I’d settled for sunglasses.
‘What do you think?’ Rose asks and I lip-read, gesturing to the generic-looking bookcase.
I think I’d like to get out of here before I get a migraine. But I give the bookcase a cursory glance. ‘It’s not very big,’ I say.
Rose frowns. ‘I’m sure they sell bigger ones–’
I curse silently. If I’d only said ‘I love it’, we could be writing the number down and heading to the warehouse area (the one area of IKEA that I, if not enjoy, appreciate for its resourceful organisation). Instead, Rose is wandering distractedly to another section of the store, looking for someone to point her in the direction of bigger bookcases.
‘Fern?’ she calls. ‘Come and look at this!’
The store is uncomfortably full, and I have to push past several people to follow Rose. Everyone is saying excuse me and sorry and smiling at each other, but my head is starting to spin. How can so many people be buying bookshelves?
‘Let’s just choose one and go home,’ I call after her. She says something in reply, and I have to remove my earplugs to hear her. ‘What did you say?’
‘I want to make sure I find the right one,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to rush into it.’
We emerge from the crowd of people and I make a beeline for a little wedge of space I spot next to a toddler bed and wrap my arms around myself. Even with my sunglasses on, the lights are making me woozy.
‘I was thinking white, but what do you think of this natural timber?’ Rose says, gesturing at the wooden frame of another set of shelves. ‘And look, it comes with a matching lamp!’ She lifts the timber lamp and it flashes directly into my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think my sister was deliberately trying to set off a sensory attack.
‘Rose,’ I say, ‘I have to go outside.’
‘Just one more minute! I want to look at the bedside tables. Then we’ll go.’
She takes my hand and pulls me back through the crowd. We pass several young couples, arguing. A pair of twin toddlers bounce on a bed in frenzied joy as their heavily pregnant mother screams at her husband to control them. Rose continues to pull me but when we come to a clear space, I plant my feet.
Rose looks back over her shoulder. ‘Fern? What are you doing?’
Nausea overwhelms me. I sink into an armchair and drop my head into my hands. Rose’s nude ballet flats appear in my small field of vision.
‘Fern!’ I hear her exclaim. ‘For goodness sake. I just want to show you one more–’
I vomit on her shoes.
‘Here,’ Rose says, holding out a plastic cup of water. ‘Drink this.’
We are in the parents’ room, on a chair designated for nursing mothers, which strikes me as ironic, all things considered. Rose is rubbing my back in rhythmic circles, saying ‘Shhh’ and ‘Everything is going to be all right’. From the moment I vomited, she’s taken care of everything, collecting a roll of paper towels from a sales assistant, cleaning everything up, waving away offers of help. She found me water, and told everyone it was fine, her sister just wasn’t feeling well. She seems so serene, so in control. It reminds me why I need her so much.
‘Are you feeling better?’ she asks, after I have finished my water.
I nod. ‘A little.’
‘What happened in there?’ she asks. ‘Did it all get a little too much? Or was it something you ate? Maybe–’
‘My period is six days late, Rose.’
Rose stops rubbing my back. After several beats, she says, ‘What?’
I repeat myself. Rose takes a couple of steps away from me, then lowers herself into another chair.
‘Fern . . . have you and Rocco been having sex?’
I wonder why else she would think I’d be worried about my period. ‘Yes.’
‘And you think you might be–’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think I’m pregnant.’
Back home, Rose and I cram into my little bathroom. The pregnancy test sits flat on the bathroom vanity before us. One line is clearly visible, and a second fainter line is starting to appear beside it.
‘Well,’ Rose says, holding her temples. ‘You’re definitely pregnant.’ She takes a deep breath and sits on the toilet.
I remain standing, leaning against the wall.
‘I wonder what Wally will say,’ I say.
Rose looks up. ‘You’re going to tell him?’
‘Of course.’
Rose looks startled, which is puzzling. I have a rudimentary understanding of common courtesy, after all, and the only times I have heard of people not telling the father of their baby that they are pregnant are in daytime television shows when the pregnancy is the result of an affair or a one-night stand. When the two parties are exclusively seeing each other, the custom appears to be some kind of excited announcement.
‘Surely that is the expected thing to do under the circumstances?’ I say. ‘Inform the father of the baby that he is going to be a dad?’
‘Yes,’ Rose says slowly. ‘If you’re going to keep it.’ She is quiet for a long time. ‘Is that what you are suggesting?’
I’m not sure what I’m suggesting. The fact that I’d originally decided to have the baby for Rose feels like a million years ago. Back then, there was no Wally. The b
aby was nameless, faceless. Now, the baby is inside me. It is ours. And everything feels, all at once, completely different.
‘What if I were suggesting that?’ I ask.
Rose closes her eyes for a short moment. ‘Do you really want to know what I think?’ She opens her eyes.
I nod.
‘All right. Honestly, the idea worries me. We both know you’ve had your . . . difficulties in the past.’ She doesn’t say it explicitly. She doesn’t have to. ‘What if something happened when you were with the baby? Babies are vulnerable, Fern. Bad things can happen, even by accident . . .’ Rose sighs. She looks like she might cry. ‘The only possible way this could work is if you had a stable, level-headed partner. And . . . Rocco isn’t, is he?’
I regret telling Rose about Wally’s nervous breakdown. I’m not entirely sure how it happened. One minute we were eating chicken satay for dinner and talking about how the library was abolishing fines for overdue books, and the next, Rose knew everything. Her gift for getting information out of people is truly astonishing. Owen used to say she’d make a great interrogator.
‘Think about it, Fern. Rocco couldn’t cope with some basic business pressure. He found it so stressful that he had to leave his country, abandon his whole life and start a rudderless existence, living out of his van! What would happen if he were presented with real difficulty, like disease or death? Or a baby that just wouldn’t stop crying?’
I open my mouth to answer the question, then realise I have no idea. She’s right, of course. I couldn’t be trusted with a baby. Neither could Wally. How foolish to even consider it.
Rose stands and takes both my hands in her own. ‘I wish it were different, Fern. I really do.’
I nod.
‘I’m here for you,’ she says, wrapping her arms around me. ‘Now, don’t worry. We’re going to figure this whole thing out. I promise.’
I hold still, waiting for the hug to end. But Rose just continues to hold me, pinning my arms to my sides. I feel like I’m imprisoned, stuck. Wearing a straitjacket.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
Fern is pregnant. The crazy thing is this is an eventuality I’ve never considered. Sadistically, I can’t help but think how different it would be if it were me who was pregnant. If I was suddenly carrying the baby I’d yearned for. Instead of being in damage control, we’d be celebrating. It’s like the universe is playing a game with me, pushing me as hard as it can, seeing when I will break.
I should be used to these kinds of curve balls in my life. Growing up, whenever I got used to one set of circumstances, something happened to throw me off. Like after Mum broke up with Gary. For a while, things were normal again. Better than normal. Living with Mum’s moods seemed a small price to pay to be free of Gary’s abuse. But things didn’t remain normal for long.
I’ll never forget that morning when I was twelve and I woke up and heard Mum singing. Singing! It was too bizarre. Mornings were always quiet at our place. In our normal routine, Fern always woke first – her body clock was very reliable – and then she would wake me. From there, we’d creep around the house, careful not to wake Mum. Mum was bad enough after a good night’s sleep, we certainly didn’t want to poke the bear by waking her up.
But that morning she was singing!
As Fern and I slunk out of bed, even Fern was worried. My sister has always been a creature of habit, and this change to the routine didn’t sit well with her. When we arrived in the kitchen, Mum beamed at us.
‘Good morning, beautiful girls! Who feels like eggs?’
At twelve, I was old enough to know about alcohol, and my first thought was that Mum must be drunk. Drinking didn’t usually make her nicer, admittedly, but there had been a couple of times when she and one of her new friends shared a bottle of something and she’d been something resembling warm toward me (until the next morning). But ‘beautiful girls’? Mum never said anything like that. She occasionally made comments about our looks, but only insofar as they referenced her own. (‘You take after me, Fern, tall and skinny as you are.’ And then, of course, ‘Rosie Round’.) But that day, we were beautiful!
She served us eggs and we ate them in silence as she prattled on about the weather (‘Lovely!’), the day ahead (‘What are you girls doing at school?’), and the things we were looking forward to. Fern answered all of Mum’s direct questions, agreeing that the weather looked nice. I remained suspicious.
That afternoon, when Fern and I got out of school, Mum was waiting for us. That enough was cause for alarm. Mum didn’t pick us up from school – she hadn’t since we were seven. Her smile did nothing to comfort me; Mum always smiled in public.
‘Surprise!’
Both Fern and I walked toward her slowly. She went for Fern first, picking her up and swinging her around in a way that parents did with much younger children. Fern went so stiff it was as though Mum was spinning a metal rod. Finally, Mum let her go and took a deep, excited breath. ‘Girls, I have someone I’d like you to meet.’
She turned and gestured toward a smiling man in jeans and a rugby jumper, leaning against a shiny silver car.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is Daniel.’
My blood ran cold. I knew that Mum wanted to find someone else. After she’d broken up with Gary, she got a computer and was always having Fern or me take her picture for one of those dating websites. Now, it appeared, she had found someone.
‘Daniel is a friend of mine,’ Mum said. ‘We’ve known each other since we were babies–’
‘So a long, long time,’ Daniel interrupted, grinning.
I glanced at Mum – if there was one thing she hated, it was people telling her she was old. But to my surprise, she laughed, a strangely pitched laugh that landed wrong somehow.
‘I have been asking your mum if I could meet you for weeks, and finally she agreed,’ Daniel said. ‘You have a very protective mother!’
To look at, Daniel did not seem intimidating. He was a few years older than Mum, I guessed, with the face of a soccer coach or trusted schoolteacher. He had no moustache, which was comforting, but only slightly. He gave an impression of being . . . unpretentious. Nice. A . . . dad. The ones you saw on the telly.
‘I told him I don’t introduce just anyone to my girls, but as he is such an old friend–’
‘Enough of the old!’
They both laughed. It was so strange. Mum even looked different. Her eyes danced. She looked . . . beautiful. Her hair was in a ponytail and it looked thick and shiny and she was wearing a white-spotted purple sundress that swished about her ankles.
‘So . . . I was thinking maybe Daniel could accompany us to the playground this afternoon. What do you say girls? It’s completely up to you.’
Another bizarre thing. Mum never asked our permission. About anything.
As for the playground, I had a handful of memories of going to the playground when we were five or six, but it had been years since Mum had taken us. She said that perverts loitered in public parks and that we must never go there.
Fern and I were silent for so long that Mum laughed. ‘My girls like to think these things over. They don’t make rash decisions.’
‘You’ve taught them well,’ Daniel said.
‘It’s okay with me,’ Fern said eventually, and Daniel whooped and tried to give her a high five, but Fern just stared at his hand silently. I simply nodded, because what else was I supposed to do? I’m not sure if it was because Mum noticed my hesitation, or maybe because she didn’t notice it, but as I made my way to the car, she intercepted me and started swinging me around like she’d done to Fern a few minutes earlier. I may have even drawn some comfort from the interaction had I not noticed Mum glancing over my shoulder in Daniel’s direction as she swung me, making sure he was watching.
FERN
On Monday morning, I go to work as usual. After the weekend of high drama with Rose, I derive some comfort from the normalcy of it, thinking a typical day is exactly what I need. However, I am sorely let
down when I arrive in the staffroom to find Carmel sitting at my desk.
‘It’s shadow day,’ she says brightly. ‘I’m going to follow you as you work today.’
I had completely forgotten about ‘shadow day’. And though I’m not opposed to it, per se, I fear it will present an issue when it comes to ducking off to the secret cupboard intermittently for a nap. Which is a shame, because I’m tired today.
‘You don’t have to perform for me, Fern,’ she says when I don’t say anything. ‘You should act as you would if I weren’t in the library at all. Imagine I’m out of the office and you are in charge,’ she says, with a little laugh.
‘All right,’ I say when I see no viable way to protest. I place my backpack in the filing cabinet’s empty bottom drawer and lock it, then quickly scan my schedule and emails. After that, I head for the floor, Carmel hurrying after me.
Out in the main library, I make my way to the children’s section.
‘I thought you were on the front desk this–’ Carmel starts, but instead of finishing her sentence, she gives herself a little shake. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Carry on.’
I nod. My eye has already been drawn to a group of mothers in yoga pants sitting cross-legged on the floor, drinking coffee and chatting. A few metres away, their toddlers happily pull books off the shelves and drop them in piles. I make a beeline for the kids.
‘Would you like me to read you a story?’ I ask a little boy with red hair and pale blue eyes.
He nods eagerly as a couple of the mothers glance over and start to apologise half-heartedly for the mess. I ignore them, pick up a copy of Incy Wincy Spider and sit in a small wooden chair I’ve grabbed from a nearby aisle. One by one, the other kids plant themselves at my feet. When I finish, a small girl hands me another book and I read it. I read two more books before an elderly lady with a walking frame approaches.
‘Excuse me, Fern, I’m sorry to interrupt while you’re reading but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed Cat’s Eye. I was utterly transported from start to finish.’
The Good Sister Page 13