by Lisa Heidke
I twist off my wedding ring. There’s a white band of skin on my finger where it’s lived for eleven years. I should take the ring down to the beach and throw it into the sea forever, or better yet, give it to poor Betty, but I can’t bring myself to. Instead, I throw it into my make-up bag.
I agonise over the ‘could haves’, ‘should haves’ and ‘what ifs’, and when I glance at my watch I smack the back of my head against the bathroom wall, annoyed because I’ve wallowed far longer than I’d intended.
I wash my face, brush my hair into a high ponytail, then head down to the kids club in search of Bella and Sam. They’re playing ping-pong and eating donuts, oblivious. And as pissed off and emotional as I am, I’m also determined to enjoy these last couple of days with them so they take home good memories of Bali.
When I suggest we take an afternoon cruise, they jump at the chance. After sailing around Lembongan Island, the boat anchors and the kids and I spend our time collecting shells along the shore and swimming. The kids love the banana boat rides and snorkelling, but their absolute favourite activity is the ride in the glass-bottom boat along the fringe of the coral reef, where they can see all the sea creatures up close. Unfortunately, the captain has a penchant for Dr Hook and ‘Living Next Door to Alice’ is on high rotation.
My favourite is snorkelling in the crystal clear water, which gives me time to think without Dr Hook playing in my ear. To think about how much of my life I’ve wasted on Max.
In the evening, after much pleading from Bella and Sam, we walk along the block of shops near the hotel. Speeding scooters and cars zoom through the streets, narrowly avoiding stray dogs, but the taxis are empty. It’s sad and depressing. I feel bad walking into the deserted stores, but the shopkeepers plead for the kids and me to buy, knowing that when this batch of tourists leave, very few will come in their place.
‘You don’t see that in Sydney, do you, Mum?’ Bella says, pointing out two policemen gripping machine guns who ride past on the one motorbike. She has no fear in her voice. Seconds later, she returns her attention to the pirated movies, as if she could possibly buy any more. Perhaps the joy of buying inferior clothes and DVDs takes the fear away. I don’t know.
‘You’re having fun, aren’t you?’ I ask her as we try on bracelets in a bead shop.
‘Yeah, but I wish Dad was here more.’
‘Bell, about your dad and I -’
‘I don’t want to hear,’ she says, covering her ears.
As we walk out onto the street, Sam says, ‘Are you and Dad getting a divorce?’
‘Dad and I are trying to sort some things out but it’s going to take a while. We both love you very much.’
‘So you are getting a divorce,’ Bella says, stopping in front of a reflexology shop. ‘Dad’s not going to live with us anymore, is he?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I stare at my bare ring finger; it feels weird, naked. My bottom lip trembles with the knowledge I’ll never wear my wedding ring again. But I have to keep repeating my mantra: Max and I are finished. It’s over.
‘That’s sad,’ Sam says, hugging me. ‘I’ll always want to live with you, Mummy.’
We’re all silent on the walk back to the hotel. Near the foyer, Bella picks a frangipani flower. ‘Smell this,’ she commands, and pops it behind my ear when I lean forward. ‘You look pretty, Mum. And you’re not frowning so much anymore.’
‘Do I really frown that much?’
‘You used to frown all the time, but you don’t now.’ Bella takes my hand and squeezes it tight.
Waiting in our room is a message from Max. He wants to take the children to Sanur tomorrow. I want to say, ‘Damn you! You can’t take my children away from me on the last day of our holiday’, but then I think: I have to do what’s right for the kids.
I go to bed depressed about Max and humming ‘Living Next Door to Alice’.
Day 47
Max has the surprising decency to arrive alone at eight o’clock in the morning to take Bella and Sam to Sanur. He asks me along (how very civilised - I hate him!) but I decline, much to his bewilderment. The man has no idea at all. I’m happy for the kids to spend the day with their father and am polite to a point, but I certainly don’t wish to play happy families when we’re anything but.
After they leave, I figure I have a choice. I can stay in my room all day and cry, or I can go out and have fun. I opt for the latter, deciding to make it an ‘I Love Lucy Day’. It’s been years since the last one.
For the first two hours, I sit by the pool and read a new psychological thriller. (Husband mysteriously disappears on a yachting expedition; wife is the main suspect. I hope she has a watertight alibi.) Fantasies of Max similarly disappearing, or getting fatally bitten by a funnel-web or accidentally ingesting rat poison, keep me amused for some time.
Nearby, a father is teaching his son to swim. The boy is all of three years old and nervously clings to his father’s shoulders and neck. ‘Don’t let me go, Daddy,’ he pleads, his chubby arms wrapping tighter around his father’s neck, almost choking him.
A moment later, a woman and a girl, maybe a year or two younger than Bella, jump in beside them. They’re laughing. The father hands the boy to his mother and turns to pick up the girl and lifts her high in the air. ‘Throw me, Dad, throw me!’ she screams. He obliges, and after a splash she disappears under the water. The mother looks at the ripples on the surface, waiting for her daughter to break through the water. Nothing happens. I feel a lurch of panic. But seconds later, the girl’s head appears and she’s giggling. ‘Throw me again - higher this time!’
I turn away, realising I’ll never have that family time again. Max is right: it is what it is.
Over at the pool bar, a couple sit on their submerged stools and talk. He’s drinking a Bintang beer; she’s sipping what looks like a pina colada … honeymooners probably. He leans over and kisses her on the lips. She smiles and playfully pushes him away. I wonder if they will grow old together the way married couples are supposed to? Max and I will never grow old together. It is what it is. I wonder whether Max and Alana will still be together when they’re sixty. Sorry, when he’s sixty and she’s forty. And if by some miracle they are, will they finish each other’s sentences and repeat each other’s stories the way Max and I used to?
Every Christmas, Max likes to tell the story about the Christmas before Bella was born, when he was served a dodgy prawn at Doyles. (It had nothing to do with the two bottles of chardonnay he’d drunk.) It’s tradition … at least it was when Max and I were together. But now that he’s with her, the Christmas prawn story would be off limits, wouldn’t it?
And what about the kids’ birth stories? At Sam’s future birthdays, Max won’t be able to recount to his new in-laws the drama of me going into labour in the middle of the David Jones food hall. They’re our stories … our truths.
He’ll have to find new stories … with her. Together, they’ll have to build their own catalogue of anecdotes. So does that mean all our shared stories will disappear from his new life?
I leave the pool, throw on a green sundress and red thongs and leave the hotel grounds. The streets are still empty of tourists. I buy three pairs of totally impractical but gorgeous beaded sandals, numerous beaded bracelets and necklaces, and two rather exotic caftans, one blood-red, the other a piercing aqua.
Exhausted and hot by the time I get back to the hotel, I drop off my goodies at the room and wander over to the day spa. It’s outrageously expensive but I go for the three-hour total relaxation package - Balinese massage, pedicure, manicure and herbal facial. The works.
First, my therapist, Widi, paints me with a thick layer of green marine algae, then wraps me in foil and linen. ‘Very good,’ she assures me as I sweat it out uncomfortably.
Then it’s on to body scrubbing, which Widi particularly seems to enjoy. Yes, my skin feels revitalised but also a little raw. Thankfully, we move on to the body massage and I use the time to think. I try to
slow down the images as they rush through my mind: the hospital, the dozens of critically injured people, the overwhelming sadness that the Max part of my life is over. I wonder if things might have turned out differently had Max been injured, or at least been at the hospital to witness the gut-wrenching chaos and destruction first-hand.
After the spa, I walk down to the beach and search for Betty. She’s startled when I tap her on the shoulder.
‘Loo-see! You come for massage?’
I shake my head.
‘Manicure?’
‘No, Betty, I have a gift for you.’ I give her my shampoo, conditioner, face cream and body lotion.
‘Loo-see, you very kind lady,’ Betty says, her eyes bulging.
‘I have something else as well.’ I search my pockets and hand over my ring.
‘Is this … is this wedding ring?’
‘It used to be,’ I say. ‘I don’t need it anymore. It’s yours now.’
I could have thrown the ring into the ocean, but it would be a waste - probably gobbled up by an unsuspecting fish. I know Betty will put the gold to good use.
As I wander along the sand back to the hotel, I wonder if I’ll ever come to Bali again. And if I do, will the island have changed? Will I have changed?
The kids are wildly excited when Max brings them back, and loaded down with T-shirts and a million other trinkets. They unwrap their treasures and spread their massive haul over the beds. I motion for Max to join me outside.
‘I don’t want to talk about this now, Lucy,’ Max says, as I close the door behind us.
‘Well, I need to, Max. The kids and I are about to fly home. I need to know what you’re doing.’
He doesn’t say anything.
‘Our marriage is -’ I start.
‘I’ll always love you, Luce.’
‘I want to hear you say the goddamn words, Max. Tell me our marriage is over!’
‘This isn’t what … Look, let’s not do anything hasty.’
As usual, Max would rather not think about or discuss the problem. No doubt he’s hoping that if he ignores it (i.e. me), it (me, again) will go away or, at the very least, shut up.
‘Hasty?’ I repeat. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that? What? You want your wife, your kids and your mistress, all of us, on a short leash at your beck and call?’
‘If you’re going to get hysterical -’
‘I’m not hysterical. Under the circumstances, I feel I’ve been very patient. But now we have to tell the children.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘Max, I’ve been behind the eight ball from the very beginning. Okay then, if our marriage isn’t over, tell me you’re going to leave Alana and come home with us.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘I thought so.’
Max goes to hug me but I throw my hands up in front of him. ‘Don’t ever touch me again.’
Blinking away the tears, I walk back inside and tell the kids, ‘It’s time to pack up, we’re going home.’
Bella and Sam look at their dad. For a moment Bella looks as though she might burst into tears.
‘So you’re not coming with us,’ she says to him.
Max avoids the question. ‘Let’s get you guys packed,’ he says.
Fifteen minutes later, the four of us, standing in the foyer and surrounded by bulging suitcases, paint a glum picture. Bella’s on the verge of tears, Sam’s confused, I’m exhausted. And Max? He appears shockingly devoid of any emotional understanding about what has transpired over the past few days, or the weeks before that, back at home. Perhaps it’s a front - how he’s chosen to protect himself. He’d rather pretend this isn’t happening.
While Wayan crams our bulging bags into his van, Max hugs Bella and Sam tightly. ‘I’m going to see you guys real soon,’ he tells them.
I force myself not to hope he means it. This is the kind of person Max is. When confronted, he’ll tell you what he thinks you want to hear, rather than take responsibility and tell you the truth.
He goes to kiss me on the cheek, but I pull away just in time. ‘Take care, Luce,’ he says.
Moments later, Bella, Sam and I are sitting in Wayan’s van, ready to begin the long journey home.
‘Is that the man you were looking for at hospital, Loo-see?’ Wayan asks me as Max waves goodbye.
‘Yeah, he is.’
‘Ah, I see. All good now.’
*
At the airport, tight security, the lengthy time it takes to check in our bags and the endless wait for our boarding call makes for a very long and tiresome evening. To keep Sam and Bella amused, I buy lollies and toys even though they’re outrageously overpriced and satisfy them for all of two minutes.
Three hours later, we’re on our plane and flying home. Surprisingly, I feel at peace. If I can take anything away from this holiday it’s that you really don’t let go of the things you love. That old saying, ‘If you love something, set it free’, is bullshit. You try with all your might to hold on to it, and go down screaming when you lose it.
But I’ve done my screaming.
Max has made his choice.
Day 48
We arrive at Sydney airport, weary and flat, at six-thirty in the morning.
‘Wonder what our house will look like,’ Sam says as we stand in the goods-to-declare line after having collected our luggage from the baggage carousel.
‘No idea,’ I say absentmindedly, cursing myself for buying several wooden picture frames and woven placemats I’ll probably never use. For that moment of impulse buying, I’ll be standing in this line for the foreseeable future.
‘It’ll be a mess,’ Bella says, shaking her head.
I silently agree with her. Without me cracking the whip I’m sure progress will have been minimal.
Along with extreme tiredness, we have only vague memories of swimming, ping-pong and sucking on crab claws with our fingers.
The kids are bored and bickering and I’m fast losing patience - reality hits hard. But I guess disowning them won’t help me much. I have to stay in line.
‘Would you two just be quiet?’
They look at me and giggle, then poke out their tongues at each other.
There’s a commotion up ahead in the line and everyone cranes their necks to see what the kafuffle is about. Drugs maybe? A minute or two goes by before a customs woman holding a grey megaphone stops beside me and begins shouting. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is against Australian law for anyone - adult or child - to bring in fruit or meat from foreign countries. Please check your luggage NOW. Rest assured that if you’re caught smuggling fruit - and you will be, mark my words - you will be fined … even if you do blame your child for bringing in a rogue bag of rambutans.’
A hunched couple and their screaming toddler are ushered into a small windowless room to the right of our line. People around me half-heartedly peer into their bags as maroon-jacketed quarantine beagles parade up and down the lines of people, tails high in the air as they sniff out trouble.
‘Neither of you have got a banana in your bag, have you?’ I hiss at the children.
Finally, we arrived at the head of the queue. A customs official unwraps our wooden photo frames, and whacks them on the table searching for bugs. Finding nothing, he hands them back and waves us through to the outside world.
We’re standing in another unbelievably long queue, this time for a taxi, when Gloria taps me on the shoulder.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say as I hug her, trying to keep any suspicion from my voice.
‘What? Can’t I pick up my best friend and her children from the airport?’ Gloria says, smoothing out the folds in her black sweater dress.
‘I guess.’
‘Tell me all about it. I want to hear everything.’
‘Okay, well -’
‘Excellent. Before you start,’ she says, taking the laden luggage trolley from me and wheeling it towards her car, ‘I’ve primed the media. They want to talk to you
- television and radio, of course. Probably print -’
‘Gloria, I told you I didn’t want to do all that.’ So that’s why she’s at the airport. Witch!
‘But now that you’re back and you’ve had time to think -’
‘I really don’t want to talk about it. It was horrible … depressing … really sad.’
‘Yes, of course it was, darling,’ she says, wrapping her free arm around me. ‘I get it. But -’
‘No, I really don’t think you do get it,’ I say, shaking myself free. ‘That’s my point.’
Gloria hesitates, then turns her attention to the kids. ‘Love your hair, Bella, and the two of you are so tanned. Did you have fun?’
‘It was great,’ says Sam.
‘Awesome,’ says Bella, swinging her plaits from side to side.
On the drive home Gloria starts up again. ‘Lucy -’
‘No.’
‘Just hear me out. I’ve been hard at work for you, hitting the publicity trail to get you back in the public eye. As I said, I’ve alerted the media - told them you narrowly escaped the bombs, and feared for the safety of your children as they played at Jimbaran Bay, metres from where the bomb exploded.’
I turn to the back seat to make sure Bella and Sam are plugged into their new iPods and oblivious to our conversation. Then I glare at Gloria. ‘By the time the bombs went off we’d been back at the hotel a good couple of hours.’
‘The public don’t know that,’ Gloria says. ‘And, more’s the point, they don’t care. All they want to know is that you were in Bali and you survived. You’re a survivor, girlfriend.’
‘I’m not a survivor, and please don’t call me girlfriend. You know I hate it. I had nothing to survive and I’m not going to lie about it.’
Gloria sighs. ‘We’ve talked about lies before, and clearly this particular tale falls into the category of white lie. The truth is, you were in Bali, you were at Jimbaran the night of the explosion, and you were eating dinner barely twenty metres away from where the bomb blew up. No one need know the finer details.’