by Anna George
‘She didn’t want me to,’ she whispered back.
‘Didn’t you say she’s four?’
‘Or five.’
She looked from his puzzlement to the sky through a high window. The moon was almost full and trapped in a cluster of clouds, rendering its centre luminous. Godly.
‘She wants to stay with me, and I can’t imagine a better place for her, than here.’
Sal sagged against the wall. If he was surprised by her candour, he did not let on.
‘On Thursday, I saved her from the sea. Jumped right in and saved her.’
‘Okay. Right.’
‘I had to. There was no one else.’
Sadness settled on his face like dust. He looked from her to the closed nursery, as if Cliff had murmured. He wasn’t listening to her properly, it seemed. She yawned. He bent to retrieve his jacket again. His economy of movement was still evident. But he seemed heavier with it. Weighted. His gaze came to rest on her crossed arms and her one exposed hand; they both saw its tremor. He seemed doubly, triply disappointed. In her.
He nodded again to himself, as if agreeing with a hypothesis he’d recently developed.
Neve felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘You didn’t see the state she was in, battered and bruised.’
His face contorted; he seemed troubled, bereft.
‘Neve . . . You need to rest. And I . . . I need to go.’
__________
Sal drove a hundred metres along Spindrift Avenue and pulled over. He wasn’t sure whether to risk leaving her, and leaving Cliff.
Oh Neve.
Her behaviour had been uncharacteristic from the start: ranging from distracted to outright needy. Which was why he’d cooled their jets. It was too quick. She’d been too . . . strange. Her comment about integrity especially had been ringing in his ears. And now he knew why. Somewhere in that head of hers, she knew that she was off. Off-balance, off-kilter. Off.
At first, when she told him about the girl, he’d been disappointed. He’d thought she was better than that, not like the worst of his clients. But there she was, ignoring the law, elevating herself above its reach. Like the client who knowingly built a swimming pool on the public land next to his holiday house. And the client who’d claimed another 50 metres of beach, as his own. Like her father. But then, as he’d listened, he’d thought: Keeping a child? That was very different. As she’d explained, he’d tried not to judge her. Could be she saw the bigger picture – knew things he didn’t. But, as she’d continued, his alarm had shifted up a gear. It didn’t make sense. A sane woman wouldn’t have kept a stranger’s child. Not for days. And he’d seen no child. Heard no child. There was nothing on the news. Either there was no child or – the child was hidden.
Either way, as he’d suspected, Neve Ayres had flipped her lid.
He peered into the birdless night sky. Mum, say something! What should I do?
His old boss Bill knew Neve and her father, but Bill was dead. Sal’s doctor would be closed. Self-exiled Sam Ayres was on another continent. Even if Sal could locate him, what could her father do? Did this warrant an ambulance? He suspected it might. Whether it was lack of sleep, or hormones or insanity. When his cousin flipped, her mother had taken her to the Emergency Department at Frankston Hospital and the medics had rallied. Was that what he should do? At what, midnight? They would, he suspected, have to forcibly remove her from the house. And what of Cliff? Where would the baby go?
He was way out of his depth here. As interested as he was in her, he hardly knew her. It wasn’t his place. And what he was learning now was shocking. Distancing.
He waited for his mum to answer or do something. Anything. It bothered him that he was forgetting the sound of her voice. But the answering machine, he’d realised, was not the solution. He waited. In the end, only one person came into his mind. Neve would hate it. Might even hate him. But he could think of no one else.
He straightened his body in the seat to get his wallet from a pocket. But then he remembered, he’d given the man’s card to her. A moment later, inexplicably, he saw it, on the dash.
Oh Mum, was that you?
35
On the foreshore a single light was fading and Neve couldn’t tell how far away it was. Disorientated, she ran through long grass on the rise, the sand at her side stippled with shadow. She fell over, twice. The foreshore looked completely different to its daylight self. It had become a meadow of grey goosebumps stretching in every direction. The play of light and shade was distorting her sense of distance. Across the bay, the lights of Phillip Island blinked and stared, yellow and white and red, collapsing the distance between the shorelines. She concentrated on keeping her torchlight low and herself upright. Fortunately the breeze was offshore, sweeping her footsteps back towards the pier, and the lashing of the sea was loud, its force reverberating in her chest.
The instant Sal had left, she’d known what to do. She’d spent two days waiting for this woman. Yesterday, she’d had the makings of a speech: children require care and attention, kindness and patience from us all, but especially from their parents . . . Then she’d hatched her slightly indistinct but well-intentioned plan. Now she had a better idea. A superior proposal! The elegance of it was startling.
Fired with indignation, she recounted to herself the friends and acquaintances from school and university who were politicians, doctors, lawyers. In the morning, she’d call each one if necessary. She’d garner every piece of advice she could and ring in all and any favours. She’d designed houses for more than a few of them. Given jobs to their cousins. Referred clients. They owed her.
And she was right. Completely morally right. It’d always been important in her life, perhaps too important, to be right. But she was right now, and prepared to risk her reputation on that fact.
The sea boomed its agreement, while the moon was an oblivious chunk of pearl, low and near, obscured by wisps of cloud. Stumbling about, she slipped in and out of its pools of light. The faint glow on the shoreline, which she’d spied from her balcony, was further along than she’d anticipated. She buttoned her trench coat across her thighs, where the cold was piercing her jeans. Cigarette smoke and the tendrils of conversation drifted towards her. She tried not to inhale. She could make out two husky voices but not their words.
She dropped to her knees.
Truth be told, she was feeling ever-so-slightly rash and absolutely nothing like her normal self. But, by the end of the week, she assured herself, if this went according to plan, she’d be able to take Jessie out, properly. Visit the nearby maze at Arthur’s Seat and the chairlift, go to the sculpture park at that glorious winery in Red Hill. As soon as next term she could enrol Jessie at that kindergarten in town. In the meantime, she’d need to find a child seat for the car and a special bed – something fun like a bunk with a slide.
Inland, she was 10 to 15 metres from two figures sitting in a cleared patch of weed. A torch lay at their feet and pointed like a pathetic beacon towards the sea. They were facing each other; one hugging her knees to her chest and rocking, the other, with long, long hair, smoked as she talked. The beach here, too, was a desolate moonscape.
So close to the mother, Neve hesitated. What to say? How to say it? I want your daughter to live with me. Permanently. Because she would live a richer, more productive life if she did. She would have the best chance of happiness. Self-determination. Neve felt her pulse surging in her temple. Surely the woman would agree? And it was feasible, in the circumstances. Anything was, with the right motivator, with discretion. She could buy the woman a car. A house. She felt so excited, she feared she might blurt everything out into the night.
Fragments of sentences carried to her. ‘I’m such an idiot . . .’ said the smoker.
Recognising the voice, Neve drew closer.
‘Leaving the kids to clean that house . . . running out of petrol . . . sick . . .’
‘I should never’ve kicked you out . . . the bastard . . . knackered . . . if he hadn’t up an
d left . . .’
‘. . . I can’t get my head around . . . Mitch . . . now Tayla . . .’
The other woman sighed noisily.
‘Poor darling’s borne the brunt of it.’
The woman was hacked by a teary sob, and the listener rose to hug her. Watching, to her horror, Neve felt herself well up. She knew how it felt to be blindsided by loss.
‘I’m going to lose Cyndi too . . .’
‘Don’t say that.’
But both women were crying now, loudly. And suddenly so was Neve, mutely. Tears slipped down her cheeks. After a moment, the mother shook her head and exhaled, a long thick stream. ‘I’ve screwed up and when mums like me screw up, we go to gaol.’
‘Don’t say that.’
The women separated, to sit facing each other again.
‘It’s true. And you know it.’
Neve smothered a moist gasp. The mother’s clear-eyed perspective was another shock. Wiping her eyes, she sat, facing the roaring sea of molasses. What was she doing? Why was she here? The women continued to murmur and she tried not to listen. Her body ran hot with embarrassment. She saw herself recoiling from the woman’s car, her manky clothes, the way she spoke. She thought of Jessie, dwarfed by that big bed, awed by the pantry, doting on those modest shoes. How arrogant she’d been . . . and how wrong. She saw her superiority for what it was. A wall around her heart. She didn’t know what she’d expected to find on the beach, but it wasn’t this . . . more tears and her empathy. Her elegant plan suddenly seemed ridiculous. Offensive. Acutely ashamed, she longed to dissolve into the sand. Instead, she shifted her weight, readying herself to stand.
The other woman twisted to stare into the bush. Retrieving the torch, she swung it towards the foliage. Neve shrank into a shrub as light spilt across her black-clad legs. The sea tumbled noisily over itself and receded, leaving a frothy film on the sand.
Despite the loudness of the water, Neve held her breath again.
The woman patted the mother’s knee. ‘We got to go.’
The mother nodded, and took a final desperate drag.
This was the moment when Neve needed to spring to her feet – to reveal her complicity. Apologise wholeheartedly. But in the darkness something in her had shattered. Something brittle. Something structural. And she didn’t trust herself. Withdrawing into the bush and out its other side, keeping low, she ran back to her house.
36
Upon Neve’s return, her dismay grew: she’d left her home lit up and open. For a brief, focused moment, her own behaviour scared her. She’d been not only arrogant and selfish but irrational and reckless. Shocked, she didn’t have time to fathom herself. Dashing to Cliff, she found him quiet but too warm and peeled a layer from him. Her nose dripped as she entered Jessie’s bedroom. In the slice of light, she couldn’t see the girl. Then, gradually, she made out the short log beneath the doona. For better or for worse, Jessie was getting a taste for beds.
‘Hey, Jessie, wake up . . .’
The girl pushed herself up and onto all fours. Neve tried to steady her breathing. There was no gentle way to say it.
‘Your mum’s outside, on the beach.’
Jessie squinted into the light.
‘She’s very sad. She’s been looking for you.’
On her hands and knees, half-child, half-pony, Jessie didn’t move. Unable to grasp the urgency.
‘Jessie, this is a lot to take in. But . . . She’s your mum. She’s come back. You need to go with her.’
When Jessie shook her head, her fine hair flopped like a mane.
‘Jessie, listen, you need to be quick. Or she’ll go . . .’
Neve felt so peculiarly entangled in this young child’s life, she understood the reluctance.
‘She didn’t leave because of you.’ Neve’s words echoed in the night quiet. ‘Sometimes mums have so much going on in their heads, they forget what’s important . . . Their most important people.’
To her dismay, her eyes welled again. ‘You need to forgive her.’
Jessie seemed to muster herself. ‘She didn’t leave me because I was bad?’
‘No,’ Neve whispered.
‘She still loves me?’ said Jessie, more boldly.
‘Yes.’
Into the light, Jessie smiled. Then she climbed out of bed, as if she’d been waiting on this conversation. Or for permission.
Yes, thought Neve, children will always forgive their parents. She hugged herself.
And I forgive mine.
As Jessie darted about, dressing, Neve felt lighter, but her certainty began to falter. Would Jessie be safe? That, after all, had been her objective. The mother was regretful, but would she be more attuned? More careful? And what would the mother make of her role in this? She shuddered. The mother might decide to involve the police, press charges. Charges Neve couldn’t shake.
‘Can I visit you?’ said Jessie.
‘Yes. Any time.’
Neve and Jessie faced each other. Instead of her new clothes, Jessie had put on the faded, striped windcheater and cherry-patterned jeans. They seemed to fit her better, as if she had indeed grown in the night. Neve had the surreal experience of looking at a miniature of herself again. And of bidding part of herself goodbye.
She raised her hand to stroke the girl’s fine hair.
‘I’m here if you need me.’
Jessie nodded. ‘Will you be okay without me?’
‘Yep.’ Neve gulped, a happy-sad-guilty cocktail. She laughed.
Abruptly, high-pitched beeping filled the upper level of the house. Neve jerked and stiffened. The adrenalin hit was instant but she didn’t move. Was it a fire alarm? The car?
‘Cliff!’ said Jessie.
In the nursery, Neve bent stricken over her baby. By the window, he was in his bassinet, with his monitor wailing. Lying on his back, he was facing the glass. Unmoving. Her heart thrashed, untethered in her chest. His teddy-bear-patterned sheet was snug and tight, the way she’d left it. And the second wrap was on the carpet where, minutes earlier, she’d dropped it. Her thoughts were scrambling, as she pulled the smooth cloth from him. Leaning in, she rested her fingertips on his cheek. It was faintly warm and utterly still. She felt the flesh at his chest bone. Time stretched and warped and nothing moved. A cool breeze tickled her skin.
Beyond the window, a bright face appeared. Jessie? The child put her palm to the glass.
‘No . . . Hang on . . .’
This was too much, happening too fast. A part of Neve wanted to run and make the girl wait, so they could go together, and say . . . what? Another part was immobilised by shame. A third, bigger part, couldn’t leave her baby.
‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘Wait!’ She blinked and Jessie’s face disappeared.
She returned her focus to Cliff. A split-second passed, then the tiny torso filled with air and her fingertips lifted. She swept him into her arms. She didn’t care if she woke him. Pressing his cheek to hers, she felt the soft flicker of his eyelashes.
‘Oh, my little love!’ she said. ‘You gave me a scare!’
easter sunday
37
Waking the next morning, Neve felt heavy with sleep. She roused slowly, becoming conscious little by little of her breasts, hard and sore, swollen with milk. She eyed the time: 7.10. The sun was under-lighting the blinds, a breeze humming against the windowpanes. She pushed a button, lifting the blinds to find the sky, scrubbed blue. And her extraordinary night, over. Beside her, Cliff was in his bassinet, alongside the monitor. She blinked, not understanding. She pulled the bassinet closer. Cliff’s head was turned to the left, his eyes were closed and his mouth open. He was wrapped as neatly as she’d left him hours before. Snug and tight.
She sat up, her gaze swinging from him to the clock and back. Until she understood the magnitude of what had happened. He’d skipped a feed! He’d not fed since around midnight, she was certain. Relieved and emotional after the alarm had gone off, she’d fed him and resettled him. In her room, h
e’d gone down without a murmur. And he’d slept through the night! For the first time in nine weeks, she’d slept uninterrupted for six hours. She focused on his monitor, flashing green, and settled into her mattress. A trickle of milk escaped from her left nipple, its meandering path down her breast like a tear of relief.
Thank you.
Twenty minutes later, she’d managed to shower and wash her hair. Propped up in bed, she lay with Cliff at her breast and a bag of Easter eggs by her side. Stroking her baby’s forehead, she watched him feed as she ate. He was faster at it now, more efficient each day. His jaw was pumping as he gulped the warmth. His cheeks were filling out and she marvelled. Everything that went into his body came from hers. She was all he needed. Until now, she realised, that had bothered her. His ever-present need. Today, her milk would be laced with chocolate. She smiled. His miniscule fingers squeezed the flesh around her back, his arm outstretched in half a hug. He was pinching through her pyjamas, in half sleep, as if checking she was all there. That this attached to that. That this entire being had her smell, her skin, her warmth. It was all connected, all accessible. His eyes lifted to hers as he drank. Sleepy, satiated eyes. They did not blink. They watched, as if waiting for her to speak. He watched her and she watched him. This tiny, perfect person melded to her body, yet still, yes, separate to her. Her son. She lifted her index finger and stroked his cheek. His eyes shut, seemingly in bliss. She leant forward and kissed his temple. He smelt like milk. Like her.
He was all she had now. And that was ample.
On the balcony, Neve stretched, with her arms wide, embracing the view. The sun was high, the air cold and the water endlessly smooth. ‘It’s like blue honey,’ she said to Cliff. She smiled at her baby in his bouncer, at his charmed wide eyes.
Could he see the difference in her?
Cormorants were gliding near the water’s surface, as if admiring their own perfect reflections, and then swooping under. ‘I bet they’re having fun,’ she said. ‘Plucking fish from the honey.’