by Lisa Heidke
Bella becomes engrossed in the many nimble fingers weaving her hair. ‘How will I wash it?’ she asks. ‘You don’t think bugs can get inside the braids, do you?’
I shrug. I’m a million miles away, wondering what’s going to happen with Max and Alana. Will she cry, I wonder. Will she beg him not to leave her? In the distance, I hear the sound of the waves on the beach.
‘Come for a swim,’ Sam urges.
‘I will,’ I answer, distracted. ‘But first I need to change into my swimmers.’
Maybe a swim’s just what I need to take my mind off Max. I blow Sam a kiss and walk back to our suite. Pushed under the door is a letter from the Australian Embassy. The gist of it: … Australians concerned for their safety should consider departing Bali … the possibility of further explosions cannot be ruled out … exercise extreme caution.
I sit on my bed and can’t help crying for the destruction of this beautiful island, for those poor families I saw yesterday at the hospital, looking for their loved ones and fearing the worst. With so many dead, not everyone can have a happy outcome like mine.
I switch on the television. There’s saturation coverage of the bombings. The latest number of dead is twenty-three.
I hope Max comes back soon. We have to talk to Bella and Sam and tell them we’re leaving. We have no choice: I can’t keep them in danger like this, despite what I’ve been saying to my mother. And I want to make sure that Max comes with us.
I ring the number listed on the embassy printout to book the three of us on one of the additional Qantas flights to Australia. Engaged. No doubt clogged with desperate travellers frantic to leave Bali and return to the familiarity of home where they can put this tragedy behind them.
I try the number again and finally get through to an operator. I book this evening’s midnight flight home for me and the kids, then ring Max. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message.
I walk back down to the pool. Water gushes from sandstone gargoyle fountains. The palm trees sway and the scent of frangipani lingers in the air. People sit on beach towels, reading magazines and shielding themselves from the heat of the sun. I can just see the waves on the beach as they crash onto the sand. But for me, this paradise is lost.
Sam waves me over. He’s joined up with a couple of boys his age and they’re swimming backstroke across the pool, much to the annoyance of the Japanese honeymooners canoodling in front of them.
Nearby, a camera crew is setting up and looking for people to interview, preferably those with first-hand reports of the explosions. All their dreams would come true if they could actually interview the relative of someone seriously maimed or, better still, dead.
Gloria would be in her element here.
As people notice the cameras, the holiday mood shifts. Just near me, a couple whisper to each other, then gather their belongings and leave. A dozen more people quickly do the same.
‘Mum! Mum, are you okay?’ Bella asks. Her hair has thirty-eight tiny plaits, she tells me.
‘Come for a swim,’ Sam calls again.
The sun is scorching. To satisfy Bella and Sam, I jump in the pool and we all hug each other. I’m thankful that we’re all okay.
To take my mind off Max, I settle down with my book, keeping an eye on the kids in the pool. It’s a novel about adultery, which should upset me, but I can’t help smiling because the wife stabs the adulterous husband, who, as a result, becomes impotent and the mistress drops him. I don’t think it’s meant to be a comedy.
I notice a man, probably in his early forties, swimming with two teenage girls, both blonde. One has her hair braided and is wearing a red polka-dot bikini. The other wears a one-piece with dark green and brown Pucci swirls. They’re laughing, hugging him and smiling. A woman joins them. I assume she’s their mother. She sits by the side of the pool, careful not to get her straight, blonde, blow-dried hair wet. She’s wearing a red hibiscus tucked behind her ear. The dad and the red polka-dot girl swim into the centre of the pool leaving Mum and the Pucci teen alone. I hear the girl call the older woman by her first name, Pat. So she’s not the mother! The plot thickens. But she’s wearing a wedding ring, and when the dad swims back she chats animatedly to him.
Then it clicks. Pat is the second wife. I close my eyes, imagining Alana as Max’s second wife.
‘Mum, Mum. Save me!’ It’s the girl with the polka dots calling out to another blonde woman who’s just arrived. The woman shakes her head and laughs as she takes off her sarong to reveal a plain black one-piece. She removes her black bug-eyed glasses, dives in and swims to the man. They hug and kiss. The girls swarm around them both.
I find out later that the other woman is the father’s sister. A good omen for us, I can’t help thinking.
By two o’clock, Max still hasn’t shown and the kids are ‘starving, Mum’. So we head outside the hotel grounds to eat at one of the many food bars nearby. It’s the first time since the bombings that the children have left the resort.
It’s quiet. The sun is burning and the breeze is nonexistent. I closely eyeball passers-by, daring them to mess with me or my children. Quite harsh really, because the only people around are the Balinese with their welcoming smiles and sore hearts. I am the only foreigner walking the streets with children.
The markets and shops are open, and the restaurants and bars still blast upbeat music from tiny, tinny sound systems, but there aren’t any customers, just an air of unease and unrest.
Every couple of metres, a local tries to sell me an Australian newspaper. I shake my head and turn away. I don’t want to read what the papers have to say. But Bella does. She’s mesmerised by headlines shrieking: AUSTRALIANS KILED, DOZENS INJURED IN BALI BLASTS.
Over satay chicken and nasi goreng, I broach the subject of going home.
‘Mum, we can’t leave. We’re on holiday,’ Bella says.
‘I don’t want to go home,’ Sam adds.
I’m torn between wanting to return my children to the quiet safety of their everyday lives and staying so Bella and Sam can continue the holiday they’re enjoying so much.
‘You promised we’d stay a whole week,’ Bella says.
‘That was before -’
‘I know it was before, but everything’s fine now. It’s over, isn’t it?’
I smile at her and continue eating. Every time I see a person in a puffy parka, long dark trousers and a black helmet, I have a mini panic attack. The children are oblivious.
As we walk back to the hotel, several Balinese stop us. One woman hawking silver jewellery tells me, ‘Bali finished’. Another woman rests her hand on my shoulder and apologises for what’s happened. ‘Please be telling your friends, Bali safe. Bali good place,’ she begs.
Bella looks at me. ‘We can’t leave, Mum. Not now.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Gloria, when I phone her for advice. I don’t mention spending the night with Max, or that he’s breaking up with Alana. ‘You’re over there now - nothing more will happen. Besides, it’s freezing here. Stay. Have fun.’
‘You’re up to something,’ I say.
‘No, Paranoid Pam. It’s just that your house and life are a mess back here - you may as well finish your holiday. Though I hope you’re keeping a diary so you can write about it when you get back.’
‘No, Gloria.’
‘But I can get you airtime on radio and TV -’
‘No!’ I say, and hang up.
Knowing that we won’t be coming back to this island any time soon, I relent and promise the kids I’ll cancel our flight home. They’re delighted.
Nevertheless, I’m still being swamped by massive waves of fear and sadness. What if the island is unlucky enough to be hit again? We have a chance to escape tonight and I’m turning it down. Am I the most irresponsible mother in the world? People have accused me of such a crime for much lesser incidents. Imagine what they’ll say about me now, putting my children’s lives at risk?
I think about Max’s dismissal of the incident as ‘
one of those things’ rather than an ongoing war of terrorism. I bet he wouldn’t be so blasé if he’d been at the hospital with me and seen the mutilated bodies for himself.
As the afternoon eases into early evening, Max still doesn’t come back or call. Bella and Sam don’t seem worried. They’re happy to keep diving into the pool, yelling, ‘Look at me, Mum, look at me!’
It’s a different story when Max doesn’t show for dinner. ‘I thought Daddy was coming back tonight,’ Sam says. We are all hurt and confused. I call Max’s mobile several times but it goes to his message bank. I have a sinking, gut-wrenching feeling and, as the night drags on, I become increasingly agitated.
At eleven o’clock, about the time we would have been boarding our flight home, I turn out the lights.
From Max there is no message, no phone call, nothing. He’s a total no-show.
Day 45
I don’t sleep well, and when I do nod off I dream about Sanglah Hospital. I’m running down endless corridors littered with lifeless, limbless bodies, searching for Max, hoping he won’t be among the dead. People scream but are silent. I shout as well but no sound escapes my mouth. Everything’s completely and eerily noiseless. I turn over countless dead bodies, searching. Finally, I see Max. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s him and I know he’s dead. I inch slowly towards him, knowing I have to face the truth regardless of how terrifying it is. Just as I reach him, he jumps up, turns and smiles. I wake shaking, twisted in the sheets.
When I fall asleep again, I’m in the midst of dozens of weeping, wailing people holding their dead and dying loved ones in their arms. I’m sobbing, hugging Bella and Sam and telling them that their dad has died. It’s horrible and I wake in a sweat.
It’s just a nightmare, I tell myself, but can’t help but get a sick feeling in my stomach about Max and me. He didn’t call last night. Were the dreams my subconscious mind trying to warn me?
I check that the children are safely asleep in their beds, then I doze.
Bella, Sam and I head to the beach for an early morning walk. Again, I eyeball every walker we pass. Any one of them could be a maniacal suicide bomber waiting for his or her opportunity to pounce. Common sense tells me that no one is going to target three scruffy tourists at seven-thirty in the morning, but I still keep the children within safe snatching distance.
We’ve gone only a few metres before an Indonesian woman comes up to us offering sarongs for sale. I wave her away but she tells me I don’t have to buy. ‘I just practise my English.’
She introduces herself as Betty and says, ‘Your name, ma’am?’
‘Lucy.’
‘Loo-see. Very pretty. How many children you have, Loo-see?’
I point to Bella and Sam. They smile and she smiles back.
‘Very beautiful children,’ she says, her eyes wide. She holds up several sarongs. ‘You like, you try, you buy.’ From her bottomless black plastic bag she also pulls out skirts, cotton shirts, pants and trucker caps in different colours and styles. How can I not buy clothes from her after she’s said nice things about my children? Besides, she’s only asking the equivalent of a couple of Australian dollars.
I glance at Bella and Sam, now doing cartwheels in the sand - yes, they are beautiful. I am so relieved and happy. Then I feel guilty because I haven’t always been the most involved parent, but I’m determined to try harder. After all, I did promise God, back when I prayed Max would be found alive.
As Betty lays out the clothing on the beach in front of us, another local, Bob, appears, selling watches, wood carvings and wallets.
‘You here for bomb?’ he asks.
I nod my head. ‘Yes.’
‘Very bad, very bad for Bali. Terrible,’ Betty says. She looks my age but is probably ten years younger. ‘Nobody come here. All tourists go home.’
‘We’re not going home, are we, Mum?’ Bella says, bounding up.
‘Not yet,’ I say quietly.
‘No, silly,’ says Sam, ‘we have another two whole days. I’m having THE best time.’ He manages a spectacular handstand to prove his point. ‘Can I buy a watch?’
‘You like?’ Bob says, his dark brown eyes pleading with me to buy. It works. I buy three watches and six sarongs in different colours. They are so cheap I feel as though I’m stealing.
‘You come back tomorrow, Loo-see, for manicure and massage?’
‘Maybe,’ I tell Betty. ‘Maybe.’
We finish our walk and head up to the hotel for breakfast where we gobble eggs and bacon, followed by coconut pancakes. We spend the day poolside again, and still there’s no word from Max. I’m trying to remain calm but a bigger part of me is trying to signal danger. If he meant all the things he said the other night, then why isn’t he here? With me. With Bella and Sam. Why is it taking so long to break up with Alana?
Day 46
I take Bella and Sam to the kids club soon after breakfast. Thank goodness this morning’s activity is handfeeding the fish in the hotel’s many ponds, so there are no protests from either of them. I need some time alone to get my head together, to figure out what the hell is going on with Max. I’ve left several messages for him.
Minutes after I get back to our room, he turns up.
‘Luce, don’t be angry,’ he begins.
I want to kick myself. I want to gouge out both my eyes with my bare hands because I know Max well enough to predict what he’s going to say next.
‘Alana needs me.’
Bingo!
‘You told me you loved me,’ I say, without conviction. I’m so angry with myself. Did I really think this story could possibly have a happy ending? You can’t fix something that’s beyond repair. If I wasn’t so furious, it would be funny. Hysterical.
‘I do love you,’ he says.
‘Just not the way you love her,’ I finish for him.
I hate him. I hate myself. I’m an idiot and I deserve to be treated this way.
‘Lucy, I’m sorry. I still love you, but it is what it is.’
‘What does that mean? What are you telling me?’
‘Alana and I happened. I can’t deny it.’ Max shows no remorse. His face is devoid of expression and he speaks without passion, anger or sadness.
‘Do you love her?’ I demand.
‘She’s so young.’
‘That’s not an answer, Max. Do you love her?’
‘I love you too.’
‘But not enough to stay with me? With the kids?’ I’m furiously wiping away tears.
‘I’ve never felt like this before.’
‘That makes me feel so good.’
‘You know what I mean … Alana is my soul mate. I’m sorry, Lucy, really … This is a really difficult time for her. You understand.’
I understand? Who am I? Bloody Mother Teresa? Yes, I understand, you C-U-Next-Tuesday arsehole. I feel the roller-coaster of my emotions threatening to derail. Where are my Omega-3 fish oil capsules when I need them?
Max looks over to the buddha statue less than five metres away and I see that Alana’s standing there. Max gestures to her and she starts walking over.
Shit!
‘Why the hell is she here, Max? Tell her to go away. She’s not part of our family.’
‘Maxie,’ says Alana in a bored voice, staring at me like I’m some neurotic over-exaggerating hausfrau, ‘you said we’d go back to the Four Seasons today.’
‘Four Seasons?’ I say. ‘At Jimbaran Bay?’
Max shoots Alana a warning glance then looks away from both of us.
‘Yeah, we stayed there the other night,’ Alana says.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I force the words out through clenched teeth. Surely, I haven’t heard right.
‘That’s enough, Lani,’ Max says.
‘No, no,’ I say, feeling sicker by the second. I think I’m going to faint. ‘That’s why we couldn’t reach you at the Sheraton. You were at another hotel. While I was going crazy with worry, ringing the embassy and searching hospitals lookin
g for the pair of you, fearing the worst, you couldn’t have cared less. You were completely clueless. Have you any idea what you’ve put me through? And Trish too.’
I’m seething with rage but neither of them says anything. It’s like they haven’t heard a word I’ve said.
I have an overwhelming desire to push Max into the pond. I imagine him losing his balance, totally unprepared for my shove, and hitting the sandstone edge, his head cracking open, his face sinking below the water’s surface, his ridiculous puffy white linen shirt turning pink as the blood gushes from his wound.
‘Max, haven’t you got anything to say?’ I ask with as much control as I can muster. ‘And, as for you,’ I turn to Alana, who’s started walking back towards the foyer, ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing with a man more than twice your age?’
She doesn’t look back or answer.
‘Lucy, Alana and I are moving on with our lives. You need to as well,’ Max says matter-of-factly.
I’m lost for words.
He hesitates before putting his hand on my shoulder.
‘I really do love you, Lucy.’
When I shake free, he looks wounded and confused - as though I’m the one who’s had the affair and broken his heart.
I rush back to my room, slam the door and run into the bathroom where I destroy a full box of tissues mopping up my tears. I can’t stop crying. This is my own fault. I have no one to blame but myself. I have wasted years of my life on an emotional fucking cripple who clearly doesn’t give a damn about me.
I glance into the bathroom mirror. My face is blotchy, wrinkled and sad. How could I ever have had any hope against the youthful Alana?
I’m shaking … numb. Somewhere deep inside I’m howling. Completely broken. Crying for Max, for the life that we had together, a life which is over. Finished. I want to hate him but right now I’m too sad. Some day, months from now, I’ll look back on this and realise it was a turning point: the end of an era, a new beginning. But right now it’s too raw. I can’t open my eyes without crying.
My marriage is over. Max isn’t coming back. Why would he? I’m old. Old and wrinkled. It’s over. It’s one hundred per cent completely over. I wonder if Alana has seen the real Max yet. Or is he still on his best behaviour with her? Does he pick his nose in front of her? Belch? Fart? Become an inarticulate slug after three drinks? Wait till she finds out what he’s really like. She might find out that shacking up with a middle-aged man is not all it’s cracked up to be.