Let Her Go

by Let Her Go (retail) (epub)

  Then all the adults began to bustle and chatter at once, filling the gap so there was no room for questions.

  * * *

  After her dad dropped Martin and Rosemary home later that afternoon, Lou and her mum went for a walk with the dog. To her surprise, Lou enjoyed it. They talked easily, about places in the world they’d like to visit one day, as they walked along the clifftops, looking down at the spit snaking out into the river, the boats bobbing in the bay, and the Rottnest ferry sailing upriver. It was nice to talk about something other than Lou’s behaviour. This was how things had been between them before, when Lou was in her early teens, before everyone started fighting. She missed it.

  They ate leftovers for dinner, picking at bread rolls and cold lamb. Later, Lou sat on the floor with her back against the couch and her laptop resting in between her stomach and her bent knees. Her mum was on the couch behind her, watching the news as well as keeping an eye on what Lou was doing on the internet. Her dad was on the smaller couch with his own laptop on his knees, typing work emails, she assumed.

  When the cooking show they’d been watching ended, Lou’s mum changed the channel to the seven o’clock news, as she did every night at this time. Lou wished she could go and watch TV in her own bedroom, but her set was still confiscated; it sat on an old single bed in one of the unused bedrooms.

  The news droned on. Lou looked up at the television every so often without really watching or listening. But the next time she glanced up, she stopped suddenly. She was looking at the lake: the lake from the photograph.

  The news reporter stood at a lookout. Behind him, a long, narrow railing stretched across the top of the concrete dam wall above milky blue water. On TV, there were no clouds in the sky, or reflected in the water, but Lou knew it was the same place and that she had been there. Something stirred, rippled, in the depths of her memory. It was impossible – she had only been a baby in the photograph – but as she looked at the television screen, she was sure she heard the cackle of a kookaburra, the echo of a cry, someone singing.

  Lou blinked. The image was gone from the screen. Now it showed a car park; she could see the tourist map on a wooden board behind the reporter. ‘The body of a man was found this morning in the Mundaring Weir,’ the reporter was saying. ‘The man is believed to be in his thirties. Police are at the scene now. At this stage, his death is not being treated as suspicious, but police are appealing for anyone with information to come forward.’

  Lou sensed a change in the atmosphere in the room. She turned around; her mum was staring at Lou but smiled blankly when she caught Lou’s eye. Lou glanced over at her dad; he was staring at her too, pale. She thought of the photo again. With that flicker of recognition, something in her had shifted; the air around her had stilled. And from the way her parents were carefully avoiding each other’s eyes, Lou knew they had felt it too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zoe woke with a jolt, and lay in bed with her heart hammering. She tried to settle her breathing, frantically rewinding her memory to work out what had woken her. Had it just been a dream? It wasn’t Louise who’d disturbed her, she was certain. She lay still, but her eyes flickered towards the clock on her bedside table: one am. She was sure she’d locked up the house before going to bed: she visualised herself locking the security screens, the front door, then latching the front door with the chain and bolting the patio doors. All the windows were locked. The only way someone could get in would be to smash a window, and that wasn’t what she’d heard. She lay, her muscles tense, but all she could hear was her heart.

  Then a car drove off outside, and she released the breath she’d been holding. That was all it had been, a car door opening and closing, one of the neighbours coming home from a night out. If Lachlan had been home, or even before Louise, she wouldn’t have stirred, but when she was home alone with the baby, she always had one ear twitching. Though she craved being alone with Louise, when she didn’t have to worry about anyone other than the two of them, the responsibility was huge. As she locked up each evening, she was plagued by anxious thoughts. What if something happened to her in the night? What if she fell and knocked herself out when she got up to go to the toilet, or what if she died in her sleep? What would happen to Louise?

  The front gate creaked. Zoe jumped as uneven footsteps thudded onto the verandah. She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her phone was charging in the kitchen. The handle of the screen door rattled. She froze, even though every muscle in her body was tense and ready to run. He can’t get in, he can’t get in, she repeated to herself.

  The door rattled again.

  This time, animal instinct took over. Zoe threw back the blanket, scrabbled across to Lachlan’s side of the bed and felt underneath it for the cricket bat he kept there in case of a situation like this. She jumped out of bed and held the bat in two hands, shaking. It was heavier than she remembered; she doubted she had the strength to swing it. Was it more dangerous to be holding a weapon? she wondered. What if the intruder wrenched it from her and used it against her, or Louise? But what if he had a knife, or a gun? Zoe blinked back her tears; she needed something to protect them both. She’d always thought that in such a situation she’d lie still, pretend to be asleep, and let the burglar take what he wanted. But that was before Louise. Hearing a scraping sound at the front door, she tightened her grip on the bat.

  She switched on all the lights in the hallway and on the front porch, then walked backwards into the kitchen, keeping an eye on the front door. The scraping continued outside. ‘My husband’s calling the police!’ she shouted, trying to deepen her voice. ‘They’re on their way!’ She quickly put the bat down on the kitchen bench, grabbed her phone and dialled triple zero, then moved her finger over the button to connect the call.

  ‘It’s me!’ a male voice shouted from outside.

  Zoe stopped, her eyes wide, finger still trembling above the phone. ‘Go away! The police are coming!’

  ‘Zoe, it’s me, sorry …’

  ‘Lachlan?’ She moved towards the front door.

  ‘Yeah, the door’s locked. Let me in.’ His voice was slurred but unmistakable.

  She lowered her voice so she didn’t wake Louise. ‘Of course the door’s locked, it’s one in the morning! What are you doing? You’re meant to be at work.’ Acid spilled into Zoe’s throat and burned the back of her tongue. He wasn’t due home until next week. What had happened?

  ‘Open the door, Zoe …’

  ‘Where’s your key?’ Although she knew it must be Lachlan, for some superstitious reason she felt she needed to test him, to be completely sure before she opened the door.

  ‘I don’t have a key to the screen door.’ He sounded weary now.

  ‘Yes you do, I put it on your key ring.’

  Her adrenalin began to ebb away; of course it was him. She didn’t know whether to cry with relief or anger. She rested the bat against the wall, and slid open the security chain, then turned the latch on the door handle and opened the door. Through the security screen, she saw that it was no spectre. It was Lachlan. He swayed slightly, like someone finding his land legs. His checked red shirt was stained with sweat under the arms and he reeked of smoke and stale alcohol.

  Zoe opened the screen. Lachlan stumbled back as it swung outwards. Zoe shook her head, cold fear instantly replaced with the heat of anger. ‘Get inside, now!’ she hissed. ‘Shit, Lachlan. What the hell’s going on? I was about to call the police.’

  He stepped inside, his work boots clomping on the wooden floor. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Shh, the baby’s asleep! It’s one o’clock in the morning! Why didn’t you call?’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘What? No, you’ll wake her!’

  ‘I miss her …’ His voice quavered.

  Zoe pushed him out of her way, dragged his bag inside, then closed and locked the door. When she turned around, he was stumbling down the hallway, his arms hanging by his sides. His head lolled onto his chest. He veered t
o the left, steadied himself on the wall, then managed to pull out a chair from under the kitchen table and sat heavily on it. He put his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands.

  Zoe bit her lip. She wanted to shout at him, but something about the way he looked frightened her. His moods had been getting worse in the past month. She’d wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Nadia had moved back to Perth now. Nadia had been around a lot more, spending lots of time with Louise, but whenever Zoe had tried to bring it up with Lachlan, he’d either been completely uninterested, or incredibly agitated. Louise was four months old now, she was developing a beautiful little personality, and she needed her dad. Zoe had watched, helplessly, as Lachlan continued to withdraw from them both. In some ways, she wasn’t surprised to see him home; she had no idea how he could cope with the pressures of work, the way he was. She walked quietly down the hallway. In the kitchen, she took the jug of cold water out of the fridge, and poured him a glass. She put it in front of him and touched his arm. He jumped and looked up at her, then back down at the table.

  ‘Drink this,’ she said softly.

  Lachlan nodded. He reached for the glass and gulped down the water.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said, sitting down next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Zoe’s heart thumped. ‘Why? What for?’

  He shook his head.

  Zoe gritted her teeth and spoke in a loud whisper. ‘Lachlan! For God’s sake! You’re meant to be hundreds of kilometres away, and you turn up in the middle of the night, pissed, without telling me, and scare the shit out of me! What the hell is going on?’ Her fists were clenched. ‘You tell me right now.’

  His palms were flat on the table, and he stared at the back of his hands. ‘I quit.’

  ‘You quit? Quit what? What do you mean?’ While she knew exactly what he meant, she refused to accept what she was hearing.

  ‘Work. I quit.’

  ‘How can you have quit? Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it now.’ His eyelids drooped.

  Zoe stared at him. ‘Lachlan, you can’t just tell me you’ve quit and not tell me why!’

  ‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You’re always complaining that I’m away too much, that I don’t spend enough time with you and Louise. Well, now I can!’ He stood up, scraping the legs of the wooden chair on the floor.

  ‘Keep your voice down! Where are you going?’

  ‘Bed …’ He looked around as if he wasn’t sure he could find the bedroom.

  Zoe paused, then shook her head. ‘Fine. If that’s all you’ve got to say, why don’t you just go to bed. No, actually, the state you’re in, sleep on the couch.’

  She braced herself for an angry response, but instead Lachlan’s eyes filled with tears. He walked to the linen cupboard in the hallway, got a blanket, then went into the living room.

  Part of Zoe wanted to go to him, but her anger was stronger than her concern. She bit her bottom lip and tried not to cry, knowing that if she did, she wouldn’t stop. She heard the thud of his boots dropping on the floor, one after the other. How could he have quit? How could they survive without his job? They’d used all their savings on the lawyers and doctors for the surrogacy; they had nothing left. How were they going to pay the mortgage? The car repayments? Food? She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Surely it was all a mistake. It must be the drink talking. They would sort it out in the morning, when he was sober. She got up and poured herself a glass of water.

  There was no sound now from the living room. She peered in. Lachlan was lying on his back along the couch with his feet on the floor, fully dressed, mouth agape. She turned and walked away. Let him wake up with a stiff neck, stinking clothes and a raging hangover; let him realise how pissed he’d been. Let him come to her and apologise.

  She turned out the light, checked the front door was locked and went back into her bedroom, certain that she wouldn’t get any sleep tonight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nadia pulled over but didn’t get out of the car. Instead, she stared at the entrance to the church on the corner of the street, wringing her hands. There were three cars parked in the spaces perpendicular to the side wall of the limestone building. The large wooden doors at the front were open, and there was a sandwich board on the pavement with a piece of white A4 paper taped to it. She couldn’t make out the black writing from her car, but knew that she was in the right place. Last week, Nadia had sent the organiser, Tracey, a brief email explaining how she felt. Tracey had responded the same day saying that while Nadia’s situation was ‘unusual’ for this group, she was very welcome to come along. Nadia had been so overcome to find someone who finally validated her feelings that she’d sent another, long message describing how she felt. Tracey had then insisted she come, saying she was sure that it would be helpful.

  Nadia turned off the engine, then listened to the tick as it cooled down. She’d come here straight after dropping the children at school and it had taken her longer than she’d thought to drive to the northern suburbs through the morning traffic. There were five minutes until the meeting started at ten am: perfect timing. She didn’t want to be there early enough to have to make small talk, nor to walk in late and have everyone look at her.

  She glanced in the rear-view mirror and drew her finger along the edge of her lip to wipe away a tiny smear of lipstick, then tucked her hair behind her ears. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat and got out of the car.

  She hesitated for a moment at the entrance. In the middle of the wooden floor of the church hall was a circle of eight grey plastic chairs. Two were already occupied; the women, probably in their late fifties, sat with their backs to the door, murmuring to each other. In the opposite corner was a beige trundle table with a hot water urn, a jar of instant coffee, a cardboard box of tea bags and a plastic carton of milk. Next to the table stood an elderly woman with cropped grey hair and red-framed glasses, holding a blue clipboard close to her stout chest. Nadia walked towards her, looking at the floor rather than meeting the glances of the seated women. As she got closer to the table, she saw a stack of paper cups, and a saucer with a discarded, soggy tea bag.

  The woman smiled. ‘Nadia?’

  ‘Yes, hi. Tracey?’

  ‘Yes!’ Tracey said warmly. ‘Lovely to meet you. Now, I’ve made you a name tag.’ She peeled a rectangular sticker off the sheet on her clipboard and handed it to Nadia, who took it by the corner and slapped it onto the left side of her chest.

  ‘Thanks. And thanks for letting me come along today. I know it’s not —’

  Tracey waved her free hand in the air. ‘You’re very welcome. You and I are not that different.’

  Nadia nodded. Another woman arrived and greeted Tracey. Grateful for the distraction, Nadia smiled briefly and made herself a cup of tea, then slowly walked towards the chairs and sat down, leaving an empty chair between herself and the three other women. When Tracey closed the heavy wooden doors, a hush fell over the room. There were only the five of them. Nadia had hoped that there’d be more so she might go unnoticed, but there was nothing she could do now. She had made the decision to come here; she needed to see it through.

  Louise was six months old now. Nadia had read, in all the pamphlets from the surrogacy counseller, that it was normal to grieve for six months, but that after that, she should really be getting on with her life. But Nadia couldn’t. Instead of things getting easier as she’d approached that six-month mark, things had been getting more and more difficult. She couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t concentrate, she couldn’t enjoy anything, not even her own children because all she could think about, day and night, was Louise.

  For the past month, Nadia had spent her evenings looking online for other surrogates to talk to. There were plenty of sensational stories, of course, magazine exclusives and tabloid headlines shouting about extreme cases when it had all gone wrong, but those seemed mainly about money. She was lo
oking for the ordinary surrogates, the women like her. She wasn’t sure if she was the exception or if people were lying to themselves, but those she did find in chat forums enthused about how wonderful the experience had been for them, and how they’d do it again. Maybe there were other women like her out there, women whose overwhelming feelings were of loss and regret, but like her, they were silent, lurking online late at night while their husbands and children slept, trying to find someone who shared their shameful, secret feelings. Feelings that didn’t fit with the image of what surrogacy was supposed to be like.

  Perhaps it was her own fault; perhaps she had let herself get too attached to Louise. Or maybe it was easier for women who did it for strangers, knowing they’d never see the child again, or for women who were paid – it was an act of trade, of a thing, not a person. She didn’t believe it, though. Why didn’t those women talk honestly? Where was the shame in saying that you loved the child that you’d carried, that handing her over was like wrenching out a chamber of your own heart? All she could find online was doublespeak, a language that turned her, Nadia, into a carrier, an incubator, a walking womb, sites where people described themselves as socially infertile, commissioning parents, intended parents, consumers and recipients, where they had gaybies and twiblings and compared notes on the cheapest country to buy an egg or embryo or hire a surrogate, the places with the most lax emigration laws. But what had happened to her in all this? Where was the recognition of her not as a carrier but as a mother, a person? And what about the Louises – the twiblings and gaybies? Who was looking out for them? While she was searching for someone who would admit to feeling the way she did, Nadia had found this group with its own doublespeak title: a ‘relinquishing mothers’ group’.

  Tracey welcomed them, then looked at Nadia and smiled. ‘And this week we have a new member, Nadia.’