by Susi Fox
‘Five?’
His face softens. ‘The two we lost early on. And then one for Simon. One for Damien’ – I hadn’t realised he’d remembered his name – ‘and one for …’ His voice trails off. He doesn’t say the name. He doesn’t have to. We both know what happened; what I did; what I should have done.
I wrap my hand around Mark’s bony one, clasping the balloons. ‘Thank you.’ What I want to say is: thank you for finally taking my side, after everything at the hospital. Thank you for not questioning my decision to raise Toby as our own. Thank you for giving us another go. So many things remain unsaid between us. But thank you is enough for now.
He stares towards the goalposts at the far end of the oval, their long shadows falling like gravestones over the dewy grass as the light begins to fade on the edge of town.
It’s like Bec said. Mark is a good guy. I’m lucky, I suppose. At least he didn’t leave when it all got too hard. Adam, on the other hand, left Bec six months ago, right after she finally became pregnant, saying he wanted nothing to do with the child. After falling apart for a while, she decided to move back to Australia. Bec is committed to being a single mother, and to telling the baby about the donor egg.
‘When she’s old enough to understand. I’m fine about using a donor now. A child’s a child; what difference does it make who their biological mother is, right? Better any baby than no baby, from my point of view.’
I almost told her, then. At the last moment, I held my silence. But I’ll be there for her as she makes her own motherhood journey, like Lucia would have wanted for both of us.
A hush falls over the crowd. It’s time.
We form a large, loose circle. Others begin to release yellow balloons into the air: first one, then another, freed by their owners, curling on airstreams, floating higher and higher into the falling dusk.
Mark plucks one string from his cluster, closes his eyes and mouths inaudible words. The balloon soars from his hand, diminishing into a small egg, then a pinpoint, before our eyes.
‘I used to think it was a dishonour to release him. Like he would be forgotten, I suppose,’ Mark says. ‘Now I know I can say goodbye.’ He presses a yellow ribbon into my palm. ‘Your turn.’
Damien. I think of him less and less these days. He no longer occupies my nightmares. He’s a dream-baby; an afterthought; a wish that things could have been different all those years ago.
I thrust open my palm and liberate him. He soars into the air, towards the clouds, until he’s just a speck in the darkening sky.
The next two balloons are easier. I recall the voices I heard in my head: Harry and Matilda. Their squeals of delight, the faint chattering. Their spirits are already free. I say a silent prayer as they drift high above us: May you find a family who loves you as I did. May you find a happy home.
Ondine’s face surfaces in my mind. Now that she’s again living with her husband and son, she has reclaimed her own happy family. After her medication finally kicked in, she was able to avoid having to endure ECT. We catch up for coffee and chats regularly, in our own incarnation of the Mentally Ill Mothers’ Group; we call ourselves the Mad Mums.
Mark passes me the final balloon. It hovers overhead in the space between us. His eyes, creased and struggling to meet mine, say everything.
I reach for his hand and coax him to hold the string with me. He acquiesces, drops his head. ‘For Jeremy,’ he says.
‘Gabriel.’ My smile flattens. A sob spills out of me. ‘Her baby.’ I press my arms tight around Toby, hugging him.
‘He was ours, Sash.’
Mark is right. He was, for such a short time.
‘Sash, look.’
The balloon has pulled itself from my grasp and is floating above us, luminescent in a shaft of setting sunlight, as though lit from within.
Mark wraps his arm around my shoulders and leans into me. We watch the balloon as it soars into the sky, towards the stars, until it is no longer visible.
He takes my hand, squeezing neither too soft nor too hard. ‘Come, Sash. It’s time to go.’
‘You go. Give me a minute.’
He wanders back to the car, his feet laying trails in the grass. The crowd begins to disperse, until it is only Toby and me standing alone under the deepening blue sky.
Toby shuffles against me. I look at his beautiful face and remember the times I wasn’t sure if I would ever love him; the time I hadn’t known whether he would live or die; the way in which we claimed each other’s hearts at the last possible moment.
A chill pulses through the air. I pull down his red woollen jumper, the one that’s finally the right size, and tuck his blanket securely over him.
He snuffles and nuzzles into me. I kiss the top of his forehead, his fuzzy hair tickling my nose, and whisper to him, ‘I’m so glad we found each other.’ Then, pressing him close to me, I mutter words of adoration in his ear. He shifts his head, almost smiles, squeezes my finger tight. I smile back and, almost imperceptibly, whisper his name.
Toby.
My baby, Toby Gabriel.
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to all those who have provided support and encouragement over the years. I could not have done it without you.
To my learned teachers – Mrs Mason, George Papaellinas, Antoni Jach, The Story Suite’s Mark Dickenson, and the RMIT Professional Writing and Editing staff, especially Ania Walwicz, Michelle Aung Thin, Olga Lorenzo and Penny Johnson – thank you for teaching me what I needed to know.
To my sage mentors and supporters – Inga Simpson, Toni Jordan, Kate Torney, Alison Arnold and Elizabeth Whitby – thank you for pushing me further than I believed I was capable of travelling.
To my dear friends, fellow writers and readers – Rosalind McDougall, Yolanda Sztarr, Jennifer Coller, Kali Napier, Mark Brandi, Imbi Neeme, Bella Anderson – my heartfelt thanks for all your pertinent feedback and advice. To my loyal writing group – Jennifer Porter, Margaret Kett, Caitlin Ziegler, Jasmine Mahon – thank you for your vital encouragement and incredibly insightful comments. To my fact-checkers – Kate Irving, Amanda Furber, Evan Symons – thank you for picking up the important things. To the Tifaneers, thank you for your support. And to Kym Riley, I am so thankful for your faith in me, for your invaluable suggestions and for listening to my brainstorming over many years.
To Varuna, The Writers’ House, and Queensland Writers Centre, enormous thanks for your faith in me.
To Grace Heifetz, I am indebted to you. Thank you so much for giving me much-needed time and space to develop this work, and for your tireless patience and support. To Kimberley Atkins, thank you for your belief in and enthusiasm for my writing. And to Tom Langshaw and Rebecca Starford, thank you for getting me over the line.
To Mum and Dad, thank you. To Annie, thank you. Finally, to Milly and Sebastian – thank you. I am so grateful for you all.
THE BEGINNING
Let the conversation begin …
Follow the Penguin Twitter.com@penguinUKbooks
Keep up-to-date with all our stories YouTube.com/penguinbooks
Pin ‘Penguin Books’ to your Pinterest
Like ‘Penguin Books’ on Facebook.com/penguinbooks
Listen to Penguin at SoundCloud.com/penguin-books
Find out more about the author and
discover more stories like this at Penguin.co.uk
PENGUIN BOOKS
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd 2018
This digital edition published in Penguin Books 2018
Copyright © Susi Fox, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-93465-7
bsp;