Gravity Well

by Melanie Joosten

  Where are you at the moment?

  His reply was garbled as his words bounced up to the satellite and back down again, distorted by the hundreds of kilometres between them. It was mid-afternoon; most likely, Vin would be sitting on the edge of his desk, one arm across his body, the other holding his phone. He would have kicked his shoes off as soon as he walked into his office; he’d be flexing his toes as he dialled her number. She knew him so well; surely he would understand.

  I found a house we can look at, it’s got an open inspection tomorrow, said Vin, his voice clearing the static. It’s three bedrooms, with a study, and it’s probably only a twenty-minute drive for each of us because I could take the Parkway.

  Lotte jerked the handbrake free, continued rolling down the hill. She would tell him tonight, in person. Right now, she needed to be moving, to feel like she was actually going somewhere. Vin kept talking at her; she picked up speed, and his words were lost beneath the glockenspiel of the gravel flicking up from the road, pinging against the car’s undercarriage.

  That sounds great. Sorry, you keep cutting out — I’m going to have to go, I’ve got to get some petrol.

  That’s okay, we can talk about it when you get home. What time will you be?

  Hopefully by around ten.

  Alright, drive safe. Love you.

  Love you, too.

  And if he heard the sigh in her voice, she hung up before he could say anything about it. The sun stepped behind a bank of cloud, and shadow lumbered across the national park. Lotte turned left at the T-intersection toward Coonabarabran, the jumbled topography of the Warrumbungles retreating to the horizon in her rear-view mirror. She would tell him about the job offer tonight, over a glass of wine. Or maybe it would be better left until morning.

  Out on the flat, Jupiter thrust its portly belly towards the road, its festoons faded from years of relentless sun. Lotte noticed for the first time that its stripes were like a cat burglar’s shirt: fitting for a planet known as a stealth body, hiding from any radar courtesy of its lack of surface. There were nine of these in all, billboards with 3-D models protruding, haunting roadside rest stops at measured intervals all the way from Pluto at the Visitors’ Centre in Dubbo to the observatory at Siding Spring, where the main telescope represented the sun. Lotte had always felt disappointed by this. To have come so far and then be greeted by what was, essentially, a large white shed, rather than a massive yellow globe? It was something of a let-down, even with its domed roof.

  Her own mother had been part of the group who’d created this series of billboards, prosaically named the ‘solar system drive’. All over the country, amateur astronomy groups raised money through sausage sizzles and raffles, passing a hat around at the end of talks at the local observatory, and earnestly pleading on local radio, and to anyone who might listen, that it was important to nurture children’s bona fide curiosity in the universe. Lotte had already moved away to university when the project started, and she recalled sketches strewn across the dining table when she came home to visit, detailing what each planet billboard would look like, how big they would need to be, what they could be constructed from. In the beginning her mother was adamant that the model would be an exact replica, thirty-eight times smaller than the real thing — the diameters of the planets, their location in orbit, everything had been calculated to a precise scale. By the time local-council regulations and the road authority had intervened, arguing over who’d be responsible for maintaining the recycled-plastic picnic furniture, and ensuring it wouldn’t distract drivers, the model had become skewed, more representational than scientific. At the time, Lotte had been embarrassed by her mother’s fanaticism for the project, the way she treated it as though it were serious scientific research when it was basically an overblown school-project diorama. Now she wished she had paid more attention.

  She drove into Coonabarabran, turned right at the clock tower, and drove out again, the small town traversed in under a minute. And to think, she wouldn’t be back here for at least twelve months. The excitement built in her gut — a position at the International Astronomical Observatory; it was what she’d been working towards all these years. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with being in Australia; on the contrary, Australia had some of the clearest skies and most useful equipment in the world. But to be in Chile at the IAO, and to be working on the newly launched planet-hunting project? It would put her right in the thick of things, give her a basis for all the other research she wanted to do. Surely Vin would understand.

  Anaemic-looking, Uranus clung hopelessly to its billboard background of midnight-blue sky as Lotte drove by. She could guess what was in the pithy description printed beneath the fibreglass model: something about Uranus being the only planet tipped on its side, its axis running almost horizontal so it seems to trundle about the Sun, rather than gracefully twirl. These were the kind of descriptions her mother used when she gave talks at the local observatory, animated and passionate. Lotte remembers sitting in the back row, both proud and slightly embarrassed by her mother’s zealous delivery. Uranus’s vertical ring system is so dark it’s unable to reflect the meagre sunlight the planet receives, thus remaining near invisible, Helen would tell the audience with awe, her enthusiasm impossible to resist.

  A position at the IAO: her mother would have been proud.

  •

  Five weeks after leaving Siding Spring, and only a few days before Christmas, Sydney’s streets were overrun with anxious shoppers. She had sailed into the waiting room that morning full of confidence, only to be told that her appointment had been delayed until four o’clock. Anger and a curt manner had not helped: in the kindly-yet-firm tone for which she had surely been hired, the receptionist told Lotte to come back later. Lotte had tried to reason with her: she’d come all the way from Canberra, what was she to do all day? Not to mention, the information she was there for would already be sitting in her medical records. The receptionist could even glance at it if she wanted, she could give Lotte a little hint — positive or negative — and she would be on her way. The receptionist had turned back to her computer, lips pursed, and Lotte had slunk out of the room, defeated.

  In a department store, she bought a new pair of shoes as a gift for herself; she liked them very much. The heels of the shoes unfurled beneath her own, nudging her hips forward, an invitation. She pictured Vin bending down to unbuckle one strap and then the other, his delight infused with serious intent. They were lipstick red, a small buckle on the ankle of each, and she wore them out of the store. On the street, the glass-fronted shops blasted their chill at the passers-by.

  Snatches of frenetic electronica sailed over the crowds, scrapping with the Santa-hat-wearing Salvation Army choristers stationed at the entrance to a mall. The smell of cinnamon drifted from a churros shop, followed too quickly by the cold reek of salmon, sushi rolls laid out on a cushion of frilly lettuce. Her stomach clenched and revolted, scrambling at her ribs. Feeling faint, Lotte lunged toward the curve of a metal bench, but a doughy woman who already sat there heaved her shopping bags onto the only empty bit of seat.

  Can I sit for a moment?

  But the woman rifled through her bags, determined not to see or hear Lotte, who paused, swallowing down her sudden nausea, and then walked on. She had no reason to be nervous, she told herself. Whatever she would find out in the appointment would be simply information; it wouldn’t change what was already inside of her. Her ankles were tentative in her new shoes, forcing her to mince when she wanted to stride. Suddenly, it was all too much. The tears came on without warning, her face tense and teeth clenched as she tried to keep from sobbing. Searching for sanctuary, Lotte veered into the lobby of a large hotel, catching a glimpse of her own startled face in the revolving door. Dropping onto a couch, the impetus to cry left as swiftly as it had arrived. Why could the day not go as planned? How was she to get through the hours of not knowing until four o’clock? She was suppo
sed to get her results and drive back to Canberra. All the information at the ready — and then, finally, she would tell Vin about the job.

  It had been over a month since she had accepted the position at the IAO, but still she hadn’t found the right time to tell her husband. Every Saturday was spent at auctions and open-for-inspections, Vin determined to take advantage of those vendors who wanted their property decisions settled by Christmas. To Lotte, the houses all looked the same. Bedrooms, bathrooms, garages. All of the necessary and much of the superfluous; nevertheless, Lotte managed to ask the right questions, share due considerations. She would only be away twelve months, she reasoned. She found herself leaning toward the houses that needed renovation — the more complicated the better, as if Vin could be distracted from her absence with a torrent of tradesmen and visits to Bunnings.

  In all the years they’d been together, Vin had only ever been supportive; yet that didn’t stop Lotte from swallowing the words down, and failing to even hint that by the end of January she’d be halfway across the hemisphere. He’d be insulted to think she was ‘asking’ him for permission, she told herself. Which she wasn’t, of course — she was simply telling him she’d been offered a prestigious twelve-month position that happened to be in Chile. He could come over in the middle; they could travel to Machu Picchu, and the salt plains of Bolivia. Hike in Patagonia; he’d love that. And still, she hadn’t told him.

  Lotte pulled out her phone, but it wasn’t Vin she called.

  Hello!

  Hi! How’s things?

  Good. Guess what? I’m in Sydney for some Christmas shopping. What are you up to? Lotte blinked away her tears, and settled back into the couch. She watched an older couple scurry out of the revolving doors into the hotel lobby, looking startled by the wheeled suitcases that chased them.

  You should have told me you were coming, said Eve. I would have taken the day off work.

  It was a last-minute thing. I thought there might be a few things I’d need before I go overseas.

  I’m so jealous. I’ve heard there’s some excellent mountain biking in Chile. Down south, I think.

  As long as you’re not thinking about that road in Bolivia that all the tourists go down. Hundreds of people have died there.

  Amateurs! Eve laughed. So, what did Vin say about it all?

  Lotte didn’t answer. She watched the couple advance to the service desk, lean over their luggage to talk to the concierge. As one man spoke, the other rested his hand on his partner’s shoulder.

  You haven’t told him, have you?

  Lotte could hear Eve’s disapproval, imagine her steely-eyed gaze.

  What are you waiting for?

  I don’t know, said Lotte. He’s just so intent on this house-hunting thing, I feel bad telling him I won’t be there for the next year.

  He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. It’s only for twelve months.

  I know. I will tell him. Look, do you want to grab a drink tonight? I’ve got a thing at four, but it should only take half an hour. We can have a Christmas catch-up.

  Sorry, I can’t, said Eve. I’ve ... I’ve already got plans.

  A date? Who? Tell me!

  No one you know.

  I’d hope not! I want to hear all about it. Are you sure you don’t want to come to Vin’s parents’ for Christmas lunch? You know you’re always welcome.

  Thanks, but no, I’m going to take the van, head out of town. When do you leave for Chile?

  End of January. Lotte watched the couple head to the lift, now liberated of their luggage. Come and stay with us before then, okay?

  That would be great. Just make sure you tell Vin, alright? Tonight.

  Promise, said Lotte. Talk soon.

  When she hung up, the ill feeling returned. She considered her reflection in the mirrored column opposite. Straightened her shoulders, lifted her brown hair off her shoulders and tied it up with an elastic from her wrist. She had been eating badly, working nights to avoid Vin, and it showed in her skin, too pale for summer. What sometimes, to her eye, looked voluptuous now looked heavy, dragging. She really should do some exercise, but even the thought of those endless, repetitive hours bored her.

  •

  Four years ago, the summer her mother was dying, Lotte had given up making any effort with her own health. Helen had been admitted to hospital after her final round of chemotherapy, fatigued and nauseous, her body telling her what her mind already knew: this time, the treatment wasn’t working. It was the middle of summer, the accumulated heat of each day lingering into the next. Lotte’s dad was working mornings at the council offices while Lotte slept in her childhood bed, willing the day not to start. After breakfast, she would walk up the town’s wide main street, the thick northerly wind buffeting every surface so that breathing was like drinking. When Lotte came into the hospital ward she would count the heavy, nodding heads of the roses outside her mother’s window, noting any casualties that had occurred since her previous visit. At the base of each bush was a brass plaque, the hospital beautification committee unperturbed by the thoughts that might haunt a patient looking out the window and seeing a roll call of names and paired dates.

  As her mother’s body had shrunk, Lotte’s had grown. She could see her choices reflected in its sway and give, her waist soft and seemingly limitless beneath her own curious fingers. She’d gone up at least two dress sizes since her wedding six months before. She knew exactly what was to blame: hastily racing across to the shopping-centre food court and eating hot chips and dim sims, so as to avoid sitting down to lunch with her father. Cheese-and-salami panini in the hospital canteen, mugs of sweet and foamy chai lattes and, most of all, the odd, firm coolness of the protein-enhanced puddings that were tucked onto her mother’s tray with every meal. Lotte had acquired a taste for these puddings, unsure whether they actually dissolved or simply dispersed around her mouth. The pastel strawberry and banana flavours reminded her of childhood, a place she would rather be, even as her ballooning thighs and belly took her further from it.

  One morning, squashing spoonfuls of pudding against the roof of her mouth and counting the roses, Lotte didn’t notice her mother was crying until a nurse appeared by the bedside, dabbing at Helen’s cheeks with a tissue.

  Is it the pain, Helen? asked the nurse. Would you like something more for it? Just let me know if you do.

  No, no.

  Helen attempted a smile. She bared her teeth, loose in their gums, and Lotte watched, horrified, afraid that her mum might fall apart in front of her. Every part of her body was rickety and rattling, with too many empty spaces.

  The nurse did not comment on Lotte’s silent presence, nor on Lotte’s seeming inability to wipe away her own mother’s tears.

  Are you uncomfortable, is that it?

  The nurse tugged at one of the three pillows her mother was leaning against, jammed in so tightly they seemed poised to catapult her from the bed. A plastic sheet crackled beneath the starched hospital linen, reporting on every movement.

  I just …

  Lotte looked away, not wanting to watch her mother scrabble about for words. So often Helen started a sentence only to trail off, unaware that she was leaving it unfinished, growing irritated if prompted to continue but upset if no one seemed to be listening. Lotte had taken to waiting silently, seating herself just out of her mother’s direct line of sight; she was having trouble masking her boredom. Taking tiny spoonfuls, she concentrated on her pudding, following it around her mouth with her tongue as it disintegrated.

  Or is your mouth dry? Just take a little sip, dear, you’ll feel better.

  The nurse held a plastic cup with a straw to her mother’s lips. Lotte looked back just in time to see the water, mixed with whatever else was in her mother’s stomach, splash over her chest as she spluttered and vomited.

  Whoops! A little too much, maybe. We’ll just clean you up.r />
  Sorry, sorry.

  Helen’s face crumpled as she looked down at her chest then up at the nurse. She had become meek in front of the nursing staff — apologising for any inconvenience she was causing, prefacing every comment with: when you have a moment. You’ve never been so kind to us, Lotte had joked, after her mum had simpered at a nurse who’d brought an extra blanket. I never needed to be, remarked her mother, showing for the first time just how defeated she was.

  It’s okay, these things happen, said the nurse. She turned to Lotte, nodding at the cupboard.

  Can you just grab one of your mother’s nightgowns?

  Lotte found a nightgown, then helped by holding Helen’s slight body forward as the nurse changed her, staring at the wall, not wanting to see the intrusions on her mother’s abdomen. Extrusions was more accurate. The wide tube of the colostomy bag and its stent; the stubby opening where the chemotherapy had been delivered once the IV had proved ineffectual.

  You can go, said Helen, as Lotte gently placed her back onto the pillows. You don’t need to stay with me all day. It’s bad enough that your father’s been working these ridiculous hours, let alone you coming all this way. You should be at work, you can’t let things slide just because you’ve got a contract now. You’ve got to keep up with the others.

  It’s fine, Mum. I want to be here. Besides, it’s university holidays — it’s always quieter this time of year.

  This isn’t much of a holiday.

  Her mother closed her eyes then, letting her head drop to the side, and the nurse scribbled something in the folder at the end of the bed before leaving the room.

  Seriously, Lotte. Just go.

  Mum, stop it.

  It was yet another version of an argument they’d had many times over the last few years — ever since her mother had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. From the beginning, Lotte had wanted to move home to help. Not sure that her father could cope, not sure that her mother would want him to. But Helen had insisted that everyone carry on as normal; she didn’t want the world to come to a grinding halt, just because of an illness. She’d beaten breast cancer, she’d beat this one, too.