by Kylie Kaden
When Molly didn’t answer, Gwen waved her hands about. ‘It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me. I know you’ve suffered a lot, losing your mum, dealing with your father’s problems, everything else you’ve gone through. You’re a wonderful young woman, despite, or perhaps because of, the hardships you’ve faced. You know what they say, mountains cannot rise without earthquakes.’
Molly looked perplexed. ‘Wait. I’m the mountain? And that’s a good thing?’
Gwen laughed. ‘I know your father had a rough time with that sister of yours – always off with one fella or the next – but you’re something to be proud of. You know that, don’t you, Molly?’
Gwen reached over and squeezed her hand. It was rare not to flinch at a stranger’s touch, and she was bolstered by the realisation that she hadn’t. That she let her. No one other than her dad had seen her scars. Had touched her without her wanting to recoil. She had improved, incrementally.
She wanted to reward the old lady. For what she’d done for her. Relationships were give and take. So, she tried to put into words why she did what she did. The ritual of it, the cloud that always hovered that she could grab onto when needed. ‘I used to cut because it’s impossible to worry about anything else while you’re bleeding. You get a whole minute with no problems.’
Gwen was trying to wrap her head around it, Molly could tell. She was reining in her judgement of the ridiculousness of it. ‘Except for, well, the fact that you’re bleeding.’
‘But that wasn’t a problem at all. I controlled it. It was the only thing I could. I never felt in control of anything else.’
The woman’s wrinkles deepened as she processed her words. Words that Molly herself had never quite put that clearly, until now. ‘But now you do?’
Molly nodded.
‘Because it’s all in the past now?’
‘Not just that. I met some people who don’t suck. That helps.’ Molly shrugged.
Gwen gave a wry smile. ‘So full of compliments today.’
Molly was seven when she realised that no one knew what was inside her head – they only saw what she chose to show them. So, whenever she was out of control, the easiest way to get it back was to act like she had it. Eventually, she’d fool herself. Confidence wasn’t something you gained if you deserved it – you had to actively work on improving it, like a muscle. Fake it till you make it.
Somehow, lately, it didn’t seem so much like an act.
Gwen’s face relaxed. ‘I’m proud of you, young lady. I’m so glad you delivered that awful butter chicken to me all those months ago.’
‘Sorry not sorry.’
Gwen made a face and Molly gave a sweet smile. An extended silence followed, allowing things to return to the default in Gwen’s little house on Howard Lane.
‘What did you mean by Dad having a rough time with my sister? Like, when Mum died. All the stress-eating?’
Gwen’s eyes darted about. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you should ask your dad about that.’
They had nibbled cashews through Family Feud when an ad for The Project filled the tiny screen.
Gwen poked Molly. ‘Ooh, I like that Waleed.’
The daily headlines flicked up. Political leadership spill. Cyclone brewing in the tropics. And then this.
Gwen glanced up from her handiwork as the voiceover bellowed: ‘Identity revealed of body part found in Tidy Town Finalist; murder suspected.’
Molly held her breath as a photograph of the victim, presumed dead, filled the screen. His small but friendly emerald eyes, greying stubble, broad shoulders.
The foot was that of retired principal and popular local resident, forty-eight-year-old Trevor Adler.
Molly stilled. She kept watching, and saw the shocked locals pour out their grief for the loss to their community. ‘That’s the bakery!’ Molly was grateful she didn’t work Tuesdays. That she wasn’t on television. ‘There’s Jay!’
Gwen turned the TV off with a flick of her wrist. She’d never seen the woman move so fast. In the quiet, without the noise of the TV, Molly was forced to think. ‘What will happen now?’
Gwen shrugged, and gave her a wink. ‘I never did care for the man.’
‘Did you even know him?’
‘Not well. I knew his friend though, Malcolm Hawley.’
Molly felt her lungs contract. ‘Dentist Malcolm? The man driving the car that crashed into my mum?’
Gwen gave a quick, ashamed, nod.
Molly shot out a frustrated breath. ‘He’s up for parole, you know. He might be out, soon. Spose you’re glad about that, are you?’
Gwen looked pained, as if to prove she wasn’t. ‘I heard that. I’m sorry, Molly. But, you know, he did an awful thing, there’s no excuse for it, but he wasn’t a bad person.’
Molly’s jaw fell. ‘Except for the fact that he killed my mother.’
Gwen’s miserable face made Molly regret her comment. It wasn’t Gwen’s fault.
‘And you know how absolutely broken he was about the decisions he made that led to your mother’s death, love. To this day, it haunts him.’
‘How would you know?’ Alarm bells rang.
Gwen swallowed. ‘He writes.’
Molly’s eyes glazed with tears. ‘You’re pen pals? How nice for you!’
‘It’s not like that, Molly.’
‘Even if he poured acid in his eyes every stinking day, it still wouldn’t be enough. It still wouldn’t bring her back.’ Molly felt an unravelling she hadn’t felt for years. She hadn’t felt anything much for years, until now.
Gwen held her gaze, despite how difficult it seemed for her. ‘I know, dear. But I know he’d change places with her in a heartbeat if he could.’
‘Or he could have not got behind the wheel drunk. Not lost control of his car.’
Gwen didn’t shy away from the raw grief Molly was hurling her way. Her face didn’t go all rigid, like her sister’s, and somehow it seemed to make it okay.
‘Darling, what he did was monstrous. Idiotic. Totally irresponsible and inexcusable,’ Gwen reasoned. ‘But he’s just a man who made a mistake. And besides, my relationship with him was before that. I’m so sorry I kept this from you. I’ve enjoyed my time with you so much …’ Gwen coughed the words out, her emotions welling. ‘I just didn’t want to ruin it.’
‘How could you be friends with the man who did that and not tell me?’
‘It was an accident, dear. A horrible accident.’ Gwen was shaking. ‘And you of all people know how good people can make wrong choices – choices that have consequences you never expected. Choices you live to regret.’
Molly felt heat rush to her head. ‘It’s not the same. It’s not even close.’
* * *
Gwen went to bed, heartsick. She remembered the night Angela Worthington died. She remembered everything about it. Not just because she had been in love with the man driving the car. The man who took the corner too fast, who didn’t see the reflectors of the bicycle Angela rode to the corner shop to buy two litres of milk. But because the same man had dropped Gwen home, like he did every night that her wretched husband was away that summer. Gwen turned the conversation over in her head hundreds of times, changing the blame from him to her, depending on her mood, so often that she’d forgotten the real dialogue. But the crux of it was still clear. She’d asked Malcolm to stay because he’d been drinking, but when he hesitated, she didn’t insist. He needed to get home to his wife. She remembered that he’d kissed her longingly on the lips on her porch (the very porch Molly had turned up on ten years later), before he slammed his silver Prado into the glossy-haired, bright and beautiful mother of two girls who needed her more than they knew. And a husband who couldn’t accept it.
But life wasn’t fair. Life was a series of random acts you had to survive.
And she just had to accept it, like everything else.
Chapter 22
36 DAYS AFTER THE MOON FESTIVAL
Red Hot Chili Peppers billowed in the kitchen as
Abbi poured olive oil in a skillet. She sliced red onion into circles of crimson until she heard the door click. ‘Hi, hon.’
Will grabbed a beer, his new arrive-home habit since the news was sprung on him three days earlier, and the number of empties filling the bin was growing. He kissed her cheek in an obligatory kind of way that only confirmed things had changed. That something had broken between them that she didn’t know how to fix. It occurred to her for the first time that, despite divulging everything to him, it was too late. Like termites, her lies had gutted the foundations of their marriage.
Abbi had never really expected a life of domestic bliss. Being surrounded by foster kids exposed her to the realities of broken homes, shattered dreams. There were no Ken and Barbie in her concept of family. Her own parents’ marriage hit the skids early on, so she tried to forge a life without relying on others for happiness. But then she’d met Will; wise, protective, dependable – so easily relied upon. He and Eadie set a new bar for contentment. When had she allowed herself to be so reliant on someone else for something as basic as happiness? Was that love, or dependence?
She told herself she’d covered up the crime for him, but it wasn’t an entirely selfless act. She needed him home. She couldn’t do this on her own. His daughter, too, needed him, now more than ever. After the festival, Will had reluctantly agreed to manage any signs that Eadie wasn’t coping after what happened that night. He’d counselled many kids through worse when he’d worked in paediatrics. But now that everything had come to light, Abbi wondered how much of that decision was based on her fear of Will being found out, her fear of letting another stranger anywhere near her child, and not what was best for Eadie. Perhaps they all needed professional counselling. Eadie seemed unaffected at the time (or so Abbi told herself) but had started bed-wetting again. Was keeping her daughter’s treatment in-house another mistake she made to conceal the truth? She could never forgive herself if it had.
Blake had forced Will to be a reluctant player in their game (not unlike the way that Abbi had forced Blake) and now Abbi tiptoed around him, ever observant, trying to read his mental state, because he simply didn’t connect with her anymore. He was on autopilot, going through the motions. Surviving.
Abbi always knew what kind of day he’d had by the way his eyebrows sat. What mood he was in by the lines of his lips. She had to. Because without killer observation methods, fine-tuned over the six years that she’d known him, Abbi wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on behind that unflappable composure of his.
She started chopping more quickly, ripping basil leaves from the plant like it deserved to be punished. Abbi put the knife down, took a deep breath, and gazed at her husband. He lay on the couch; six foot three inches of man folded onto a cheap two-seater. She wanted to turn off the stove, climb onto his lap, reach him. She wanted to take his cheeks in her hands and tell him she didn’t blame him. That she supported him fighting to protect them. That she loved him more for it. But she knew he’d heard it all before, and so she went back to her chopping.
Were these moments together the final threads of her family? As tainted as they were, she felt compelled to bottle them, savour each moment, in case they were the last. ‘You know, maybe we need a weekend away? Take Eadie to the mountains.’ Space. Greenery. Forgiveness.
Will’s expression failed to mask his contempt. He sat up, peeked down the hall to make sure Eadie wasn’t listening, and in an angry whisper, asked, ‘You think this’ll all go away if we do? I can’t stop thinking about it, wondering when the cops are going to barge in here. It’s no way to live, Abbi.’
Her knuckles were white, she was gripping the knife so hard. He was going to do it. Turn himself in. ‘We’d all go down if you admit to it. Eadie would be alone.’
‘You don’t think I know that? Why did you do this?’ Will asked. ‘All these lies, the cover-up.’
‘I thought you’d lied to me, that you bashed the shit out of him the second I left that shed with Eadie.’
‘I’ve never lied to you. Why would I start then?’
‘I knew you’d have done anything to protect her. When Blake caught me in there, I panicked – I had no choice. I’d already told Blake what Trevor did to Eadie – any parent would want him dead.’ Will’s hand covered his mouth, his eyes slammed closed. She went and sat next to him. ‘Blake was seconds away from discovering a murder scene. It was either me or you.’ She told him the painful truth. ‘And I knew he’d cover for me.’
His eyes narrowed, a slight shake of his head. ‘Since when is the truth something you take or leave when it suits?’
‘Your precious fucking truth. It’s not that simple. Sometimes coming clean is just a way to make yourself feel better, rid yourself of guilt with no thought to the impact telling it has on other people. Do you think lying was easy for me? That I wasn’t bursting to get all the guilt and shame off my chest? And yet I’m the baddie, for choosing not to burden you with all this. The truth is over rated, if you ask me.’
‘What do we have if we can’t trust each other? If I have to question everything you say?’
‘You never have to question that I love you. That my actions were in our best interest. You act like the world would be a better place if everyone was honest, but if we didn’t edit what we say to each other there’d be riots in the street. Most couples would split if they knew exactly what the other was thinking at all times – but at least the awful truth would be spoken, right?’
‘This is not about tact. Don’t make excuses for your deceit. A man died!’
Abbi crossed her arms and laughed a dreadful, ugly laugh. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Will? You can hardly take the moral high ground. You’re the one who killed him.’ Like that honesty, Will?
As soon as the words were out, Abbi wanted to catch them and shove them back in. Her eyes slowly closed. He was right. Only a horrible person would ever attempt such a sham. How did she manage to hurt the very people she was trying to protect?
Will got up, paced to the kitchen and slammed the empty bottle in the sink. ‘I’m going to the pub. Don’t wait up.’
* * *
Will was drunk. In public. He was contemplating mustering the energy to stumble home before he did something foolish, like speak the truth. He’d pretended to care all day, listening to patients’ menial ailments, prescribing treatments, when he was fighting a condition that had no cure.
The Project was on the TV screen and blared through the room. The headline, Identity revealed of body part found in Tidy Town Finalist; murder suspected glared at him. It had been on the local radio morning news as well.
Paranoia festered. Now that the town knew it was one of their own that had washed up on their beach, Will was sure every conversation he’d heard all day focused on Principal Adler. Everyone was an expert on what really happened. Even now, he could hear the outpouring of grief, the locals in a flurry over his death. The array of theories he’d overheard astounded him.
‘It must have been his heart. Runners always wear them out, don’t they? Only get so many beats, you know. Why use them up exercising? Can think of better ways.’ Coming from morbidly obese Brian Mills, the theory was almost laughable.
‘News make me sick. I mean, where is rest of body? No good for tourism. No good for my cafe!’ Jay had piped up, as if the bastard died to spite her. No wonder she had high blood pressure.
‘Reckon he just fell off his tinnie after one too many beers!’ Micky-with-the-dodgy-ticker added to the think-tank while sucking on a full-strength lager. He hadn’t listened to Will recommending he cut down.
Sitting next to Micky was Don, the cancer survivor. He pressed on his throat, stuttering a few words through the breathing stoma, a lasting legacy of the disease. ‘Trev was a keen angler. Mighta just fell overboard after one too many beers, sharks got the rest of him.’ Will admired the bloke – socialising despite his challenges.
‘I’ll miss his cumquat jam. So tangy!’ Don’s wife added, and they all dr
ank to that.
Betty Grambower – skin like leather, smoker’s teeth, chronic acid reflux – insisted she’d always thought Adler was gay and that his ‘risky lifestyle choice’ had finally caught up with him. ‘Never trust a bachelor. They’re like priests. It’s unnatural.’ Will had to fight the urge to shut the woman up by letting slip that one of her own kids, eighteen-year-old Oliver, had come out to him in the surgery last year. Nice kid, despite his toxic parents. She kind of deserved the heartburn. You reap what you sow. He didn’t buy into all that religious instruction, but the thought made Will contemplate exactly how he’d be held accountable for his own evil deed.
‘Trevor taught all my kids – a natural born teacher!’
Trevor Adler. Trevor Adler. Trevor Adler.
Will considered himself a compassionate man, able to step easily into the shoes of others. He’d tried to muster sympathy for the man. What were his last words – that he only wished he could love someone who didn’t make him loath himself? Perhaps Adler was a survivor of abuse himself, or had been cursed with a sickening genetic permutation of human sexuality that was no more a choice than Will’s own natural desire for women. Did that make that bastard the real victim?
No. His neighbour was the epitome of everything he despised; his public presence projecting the impression of integrity yet the image proved to be as unsubstantial as a hologram. Up close, knowing who he really was, Will could see right through the illusion, see him as a mirage of false doorways and trickery, but if he stepped back far enough, the image of the town’s respected principal clicked back into place. Perhaps Abbi was right. Perhaps he’d done the world a service by ending Trevor’s life. Will didn’t believe it, but he figured pretending might make him feel better as the beer certainly hadn’t.
Will had to get out of there. He drained the last foamy dregs in the pot.