Lost Girl

by J. C. Grey

  The day of the scan arrives and, as usual when Dr Chan prods my belly and the image appears on the monitor, it is a pulsating, writhing soup of shadows and light. I do see a couple of hands. At one point I think I see three, but the angle is constantly changing so I am not particularly worried about the prospect of a tri-armed child.

  All of a sudden there’s a distinct face—two eyes, a nose and mouth. Marc and I see it at the same time, crying out. Dr Chan offers a professional smile before the usual small frown creases his deceptively youthful face as he checks the heartbeat.

  ‘So,’ he says a few minutes later as we sit at his desk. ‘Did you see what I did?’

  Marc’s eyes are so fixed on the latest printout, clutched tightly as though someone will try to rip it from him, that he doesn’t pick up on Dr Chan’s tone of voice.

  ‘Is it a boy? I think I can see a penis.’

  ‘I certainly hope not,’ the doctor says.

  My eyes widen. ‘You mean—?’

  ‘You’re having girls,’ Dr Chan says. ‘Two of them.’

  Seventeen

  Present day, late morning

  The library is tucked away in a narrow side street, around the corner from the main shopping strip in Lammermoor. It is nothing like the architect-designed ultra-contemporary Surry Hills library that my Sydney neighbourhood enjoys; it is an old shopfront that seems to have its origins in the Victorian era, with an uninspired 1960s makeover that hasn’t been updated since. I am not even sure it is open; the inside appears shrouded in gloom, but the opening hours suggest that I have come at the right time, and when I twist the handle the door opens.

  No wonder it looks dark. The shelving has been positioned to prevent as much light as possible from reaching deep inside, and the light bulbs are those eco-friendly ones from about eight years ago shaped like a goat’s innards that had everyone blundering around in a sickly green light inspired by a zombie movie. I thought everyone had instantly realised these were truly appalling and had dispensed with them, but clearly not here.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Is the library open? I’m looking for information on Lammermoor House and wondered if you had a local history section?’

  No voice replies, but now my ears are attuned to the atmosphere I believe I hear a vibration from the far reaches of the room. Making my way past towering shelves, and stacks of books where the shelves run out, I reach what appears to be a vast heap of books and paper, but a closer inspection suggests a desk is hidden beneath the pile. A tiny wrinkled prune of a lady with fluffy white curly hair and papery skin sits behind it fast asleep. At least I hope she is asleep.

  She makes no sound for long seconds before her chest rises and a soft snuffle emerges from her open mouth. I back off, not wanting to startle her for fear of what might happen.

  As I am here I decide to make the most of it, though I despair of finding anything in this jumbled heap. As I move down the crooked aisles, I see the remnants of an old cataloguing system that appears to have been swamped by the sheer volume of books, most of which seem to have been donated as they bear no serial number or barcode. Nothing I come across seems to have been published more recently than the 1990s, and there is a complete absence of digital information.

  This library seems to be an informal community relic rather than something the council actively manages.

  I am in the third of three aisles and thinking I have just wasted forty-five minutes when my foot shifts a pile of books on the floor. As I reach down to right the stack, I see a narrow-spined hardback entitled Lammermoor: A Century in Pictures. I lift it and take it to the front of the shop closest to daylight and open it up.

  Published in 1986, it is divided into ten decade-specific chapters. I am intending to head straight for the 1950s, but before I reach it—at the start of chapter two—is a black-and-white photo of Lammermoor House, imposing, stark and slightly forbidding without the softening effects of colour. There is scant information; just that the house was completed in 1892 as a country retreat for a Sydney merchant. It is disappointing until I notice the minute fine-print below referring to the Curse of Lammermoor House and directions to turn to page 142.

  There in a panel is another smaller picture of the rear of the house, taken across the backyard with its fruit trees and vegetable plot, dated 1958. I suppose it is as Robert Sanders must have seen it in its heyday.

  CURSE OF LAMMERMOOR HOUSE

  Occupied for most of its history by textile merchant Walter Jenkins and his descendants—

  by most accounts happily—Lammermoor’s only grand home has been bedevilled by a series

  of unfortunate incidents in more recent years. Most serious of these involved the house’s

  gardener, who in 1965 lost a foot in a gardening mishap. In 1971, a woman

  was knocked unconscious when she stepped on a carriage from a train set in the attic, and three years

  later, another woman suffered an almost fatal asthma attack in the library. Perhaps Lammermoor

  House’s anticipated transformation into a conference centre will put to rest its dark past.

  It is an overly dramatic way to describe three events years apart but two things jump out at me. Assuming the gardener was Robert’s father, this is confirmation Robert has not revealed all he knows. It is also proof that in the early seventies there had been access to the attic.

  I glance through the rest of the book but I can see nothing else of interest. Returning to the desk, I see that the wizened little lady is still deeply asleep so I cannot even check the book out, although to be honest I doubt if anyone would notice if it went missing for a few days. Eventually, I return it to its position in the shelves, make a mental note of its location in case I need to find it again, and head outside.

  The wind has whipped some of the cloud away, and I turn my face to where the sun is making some attempt to break free as I consider whether to confront Mr Sanders. In the end, I go to the hardware shop only to find it is closed for a full hour for lunch. I consider whether to drive on to Saddler’s Bend and the council library there but the couch is being delivered later and I need to get home. In any case, having been cooped up inside for days, I decide to take advantage of the break in the weather and work in the garden this afternoon.

  Before heading home, I stock up on groceries in case more bad weather is due. The newsagent makes colour prints of my photos and I buy two new interiors magazines and a gardening book by a well-known author, which I’d completely forgotten to do last time I was in town. It seems comprehensive, and in any case as it is the only one the general store offers, it will have to do for the time being.

  Determined to make the most of the afternoon outside once the couch has been safely delivered, I set to with purpose, yanking weeds, deadheading, pruning and turning earth until my boots are caked with mud and my hands are tingling with heat. When I stand back to take stock, the front garden is looking cropped and bare, and I realise I am at the point when I can stop removing and begin the plantings that will shape the garden.

  Before that can happen, I need to refine my plan—currently still at draft stage—and confirm what I can and cannot recycle. This is the difficult part as many of the plants are difficult to identify at this time of year. In a stroke of inspiration, I decide to invite Robert Sanders to the house to advise me on the plantings. Almost certainly, he will not accept but it will give me an opportunity to speak with him again and turn the conversation to the matter of his father’s accident.

  The wind has died and the rain has held off, but the last of the daylight is about to be extinguished when I walk inside, cold and exhausted. I think of the old roll-top tub in the bathroom that serves the master bedroom, next to the locked room, and decide that this will be the night to christen it. I usually prefer showers to baths, but today a long relaxing soak is an appealing prospect.

  Although the plumbing protests when the hot tap is turned on full, the tub is soon two-thirds deep in steaming water, fragrant with some cru
mbled lavender brought in from the garden. With the overhead light off and only a candle for company, it is easy to close my eyes and ease down until the water is up to my chin.

  Having flicked through the gardening tome, I know I still want a grand spring-flowering magnolia for the front garden, and wonder what Sanders will have to say about that. I can recycle some of the arum lilies from the back garden—where there are big clumps of them—in the shadier corners of the front. From glancing at the book I know there is a new creamy-white clivia cultivar that I can interject as a connection to the fiery orange variety in the back.

  One thing that will need to be replaced is the turf in the front garden, which is patchy with age and lack of care, and the recent rain has turned it to mud. Perhaps Sanders—

  My daydreams are broken by the creak of the door as it opens a little wider. The wind must be picking up again. Or maybe not. As I open my eyes, the candle sputters out, plunging the room into shadow, illuminated only by a sliver of light from the landing. The matches are naturally out of reach. In any case, time is getting on and while the fire is laid in the library, I have soup to prepare with the last of the leftover lamb.

  Cold air brushes my skin, raising goosebumps. Nervously, I reach for the towel draped over the edge of the bath, and wrap it around me as I step out onto the mat. When I have re-lit the candle, the bathroom is empty except for me. I dry off, carefully moisturise my face and slick body lotion onto every piece of skin I can reach.

  I turn and that is when I see the words clumsily drawn in the condensation of the full-length mirror on the inside of the door.

  I AM LOUIS

  My breath catches and I stare at the words. Even as I do so, they are disappearing before my eyes in the rain of condensation. Already, they are almost illegible and a moment or two later the racing droplets have swallowed them.

  It all happened so fast that my mind is scrambling to keep up, but I know I have not imagined it.

  Louis. I breathe his name twice, first pronouncing the s and then not, wondering which is right. Rather than fear, I am filled with a feeling of immense triumph at this latest approach. My little friend has shared his name. I try his name louder, but even before I open my mouth I know I am alone. Still it is enough, it is more than enough! Perhaps, in time, he will share his identity and I will understand his relationship to the St Johns.

  Swinging into my robe, I belt it tightly around my waist and ensure my hair is still securely pinned in its topknot. Through the cascade of droplets on the mirror all I can see is me. My face is rosy and shiny, my eyes the emerald-green they turn when I am excited and happy.

  When I have hung the towel and bathmat up to dry, I pick up the candle and matches, and run down the stairs. I am almost down when I look towards the door and see a broad, square-shouldered silhouette of a man outlined through the decorative glass panes.

  December last year …

  Brendan has spent six exhausting hours shooting me for his latest collection, and now it seems as if most of the portraits for his show will come from the final fifty minutes of that session, the period during which my husband has been in the studio looking on.

  Apparently, my sensual power is laid bare when Marc and I lock eyes, Brendan tells us matter-of-factly as I duck behind the screen to unwrap the gauzy, flame-coloured layers he has asked me to wear for the shoot, and dress for dinner.

  We had agreed that Marc would pick me up as my belly is starting to make it difficult to get behind the wheel of the Audi. However, as he arrived forty-five minutes prior to the agreed time, I am certain he was also motivated by a wish to see the images.

  When I told him about the shoot several weeks ago, he was still so buoyed by the surprise announcement of twins that I think he would have let me cavort naked around the city had I wished. In the last few days, however, he has been asking subtle questions, trying—I think—to ascertain exactly how much of his wife will be on display.

  In the end, I think he is beguiled and not just a little turned on by what he sees. When I come out from behind the screen in an empire-waisted maxi dress that leaves my shoulders bare, I can see the dark line of colour that slashes across his cheeks—a sure sign of arousal. Despite this I am determined to get my pizza tonight before any funny business.

  I have also had a glance at some of the images Brendan shot earlier and recognise the ‘elemental’ nature that he has conjured and captured, particularly in the images where the shadow of my belly and breasts are visible. The images are dark, the light turning me to flame in some. In the most arresting, I am whirling, blurred, my face raised to the sky, eyes closed.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask Marc, en route to Upper Crust in Waterloo.

  His eyes are steady on the road. ‘Breathtaking.’

  ‘But you’re okay with them?’

  ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘You can’t buy them all this time.’ When I first moved into his apartment, the shots he’d bought from the previous exhibition lined the corridor between living areas and bedroom. One has been moved to his study, the others are in storage. Staring at myself day after day became too weird and narcissistic; it is the reason I never take selfies anymore unless it’s a group thing. I see no reason why Marc would want to stare at photographs of me, either, given that he now has the real thing. But he insists the one in the study stays.

  ‘I doubt I can afford them,’ he admits of the new shots. ‘Brendan’s stocks have risen considerably in the last year. But he’s promised me one of the out-of-exhibition ones.’

  I think I know which one—it’s the simplest, of my hands on my belly. I like it too.

  Marc has been preoccupied recently, rather like he was just prior to, and after, our marriage. I am no longer worried that he regrets tying himself to me, but it occurs to me that the time he is taking away from work because of my pregnancy is having repercussions at the firm. He is the boss, but that just means he has to work harder than anyone else.

  A couple of times, I have woken in the night and found him in his study, working to make up for hours lost during the day. He has already advised his staff that he will be away from the office for a minimum of two months when the babies are born, and even though he will be available by phone and for the occasional meeting, I gather from Will that this caused some uproar. Furthermore, he plans to cut back on his responsibilities in the longer term in order to take a major role in rearing the girls.

  I am hugely relieved. The announcement of twins knocked both of us for six, and for me it has been terrifying. I’d barely got my head around one kid and suddenly there are going to be two. Since the initial shock, Marc, though, is taking the whole thing in his stride. Night feeds and nappy changes will be accomplished with his usual calm efficiency I’m sure, and he’ll be fun too and occasionally tough. I suspect I will come into my own when they are older and need fashion guidance.

  ‘We will need help,’ I say now as we wait at the Anzac Parade lights. ‘It’s not realistic to think we can do it all, and you may change your mind about the amount of time you can be out of the office.’

  He gives me a brief look of surprise, then turns his attention back to the road as the traffic begins to move. ‘No I won’t. Other people can take over at work. No one else can look after our kids as well as us. Don’t worry, I’ll do most of the messy stuff.’

  ‘The two of them mean double the work.’

  ‘We’ll get help if we need it, but I’d rather not have anyone living in. I think I’d find it … restrictive.’

  So it wasn’t work he was worried about, then. Perhaps his mother’s comments about the apartment had hit the mark.

  ‘If you want to move to a house with a yard, we can talk about it.’

  ‘Do you want to move?’

  ‘Well, no.’ I would hate to be shunted out to Double Bay or Vaucluse. ‘Not unless you do.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay then.’ I am at a loss so I push the boat out a bit. ‘If it’s your terminal
brain tumour you’re worried about, now’s the time to tell me.’

  Marc brakes a little harder than strictly necessary, gives me a look and reverses into a tight parking space.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Oh God. ‘You don’t do you?’

  ‘Have a brain tumour? No, of course not.’

  ‘Or anything else vaguely fatal?’

  He starts to smile. ‘That’s got to be a contradiction in terms.’

  Exasperated, I roll my eyes. ‘So what’s going on when you look like this?’ I pull a face meant to replicate his preoccupied expression but feel myself going cross-eyed so it may not come across as intended.

  ‘If that’s accurate, I’d say constipation.’ He snorts with laughter.

  ‘Stop it, I’m serious.’

  ‘So am—what the hell?’

  His grin falls away as his eyes drop to my belly which has taken on a life of its own. Abruptly, I’m reminded of that scene from Alien.

  Tentatively, I touch the rippling mound. In response, something foot-shaped juts out on the right-hand side. Marc brushes it with a gentle finger and after a second it retracts. This goes on for another couple of minutes before the activity slows and stops.

  ‘They’ve gone back to sleep,’ Marc murmurs.

  ‘Good,’ I reply. ‘That was seriously creepy.’

  ‘Em.’

  ‘It was. Anyway, can we get something to eat now? Your children are starving me to death.’

  Eighteen

  Present day, evening

  Time falls away. Moments, seconds, minutes are meaningless. Is it two minutes or twenty we have been standing here, me on the step, he in the shadows of the porch? It might even have been two hours.