Daughter of Mine

by Fiona Lowe

  Charlotte rounded the corner, pushing Tasha in her wheelchair. ‘Race you to the palm tree,’ she yelled, dashing past the twins. Tasha squealed in delight.

  ‘Thanks for setting up the hunt, Mum,’ Xara said as she sat in the shade of the centenary oak, sipping Pimms with her sisters.

  ‘You won’t be thanking me when they’re high on chocolate tonight,’ Edwina said wryly.

  ‘You always made us wait until Easter Sunday for the egg hunt,’ Harriet commented, an edge of criticism in her voice.

  ‘I thought Charlie needed the distraction today.’ I think we all need the distraction.

  ‘She needs to knuckle down and study if she wants to get into medicine,’ Harriet muttered and refilled her glass from the pitcher.

  Edwina chose not to reply. Apart from going to the hospital for a ward round at seven this morning and spending an hour sequestered in Glenora’s library on the phone with a Melbourne lawyer, Harriet had spent Maundy Thursday at a loss. It hadn’t gone well. Just like Richard, Harriet floundered without structure and in her attempt to create a system to make herself feel better, she’d tried to organise everyone else. So far today she’d tied Charlotte to the desk while she devised a detailed study program for her and she’d lectured Edwina on the state of her messy pantry. Edwina had taken the path of least resistance, knowing that Harriet needed the distraction, and had left her to it. Stacking Tupperware and sorting spices was much easier for Harriet to think about than the fact that her husband had lied to her and the district, torpedoed their marriage, put her beloved house in peril and upended her social standing. Edwina knew all about the short-term benefits of a frenzy of cleaning and reorganisation, but she also knew it didn’t last. Once everything was cleaned, stacked, restocked and alphabetised and there was nothing else left to do, all the thoughts and feelings the work had held at bay rushed back in like a king tide: longer, stronger, higher and with an undertow that sucked you under, leaving you gasping.

  When the inevitable tide finally hit Harriet, she’d need a lifeguard. After decades of entrenched emotional aloofness stretching between them—thanks to guilt on her side and resistance on Harriet’s—this time Edwina planned to be that lifeguard. Committing to that, however, didn’t lessen the dismay she felt at the prospect of Harriet being at Glenora full time across the four-day holiday break of Easter. Not that Edwina wished an emergency or an accident on anyone, but for all their sakes, if Harriet was called in to the hospital and was required to be in theatre for quite a few hours, it would give the rest of them some much-needed breathing space. Edwina had spent the day biting her tongue so when Xara had arrived with the children, it had seemed the ideal time to break out the Easter eggs for the kids and the Pimms for the adults.

  ‘Are we still doing the full-on family Easter Sunday lunch this year?’ Georgie asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Steve wouldn’t miss it,’ Xara said. ‘He’s bringing the lamb.’

  ‘James will not be attending,’ Harriet said icily. ‘James can rot in hell.’

  ‘You won’t get an argument from me,’ Xara said, raising her glass to Harriet’s.

  Her sister clinked it and drained her glass. Edwina refilled it, making sure to scoop plenty of fruit into the highball glass before pouring herself one. She sat in a teak armchair and squared her shoulders. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for and she wasn’t going to let it slip past.

  ‘We’ll still be ten for lunch. I’ve invited Doug.’

  Three sets of blue eyes turned to her. They held the full spectrum of emotions and some burned more brightly than others—she detected delight, intrigue and anger. ‘And he’s accepted my invitation.’

  ‘God, Mum. Really? On top of everything else? Can’t it wait? Why do we have to do this now?’ Harriet protested.

  ‘Because he’s my friend and it’s time you all met him properly,’ Edwina said firmly, thinking about the other times in her life she’d allowed herself to be talked out of things that were important to her. ‘I know you were all upset I ambushed you at my party so this is the perfect opportunity for you to sit down and get to know him.’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Georgie said, ever the peacemaker. ‘He seemed nice, based on the brief conversation I had with him about party decorations.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ Edwina appreciated that she had at least one ally.

  Xara stirred a halved strawberry in her glass. ‘He’s a brave bloke if he’s prepared to meet us all at once. We better sit him next to Steve for solidarity.’

  ‘But if Doug’s coming, it’s hardly a family Easter,’ Harriet said tartly. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Harry, we know you feel like crap, but without James, it was never going to be a normal family Easter,’ Xara said. ‘At least meeting Doug gives us all a new focus.’

  Harriet’s eyes lit up. ‘You’re right. And I do have a lot of questions to ask him.’

  ‘Be nice,’ Georgie warned.

  ‘When have you ever known me not to be polite?’

  But Edwina, who’d been raised to put good manners ahead of everything, knew that polite words masked nothing: they could be wielded as ruthlessly and cause as much hurt and damage as the unambiguous crassness of swearing. She couldn’t stop hurtful words being spoken but this time, with age and experience on their side, she was determined she and Doug would survive them.

  * * *

  The full moon spilled into the library at Glenora. With it came the clicking and croaking sounds of contented frogs nestled in the ponds and the dark, damp hollows of the garden. The house was quiet in a way only a house built of stone could be when most everyone in it slept. Harriet appreciated the silence as she sat at her father’s antique walnut desk, sipping wine. Since the police still had her laptop, she was using her mother’s desktop, preferring the large screen to her smartphone. With four women in the house sharing one computer they almost needed a booking system.

  On her first night at Glenora, she’d come into the library and sat at the desk surrounded by the musky scent of leather and the dusty bouquet of old books. She’d felt as if her father was back in the room with her discussing the latest surgical techniques. The library had become a comforting haven and visiting it an evening ritual. Each night she retreated to its bookcase-lined walls just like her father had done, only she sipped wine instead of top-shelf whiskey.

  She refilled her glass, took a solid sip and steeled herself to check her mail. For the past week, she’d been bombarded with emails with subject lines ranging from OMG Harriet! to Die Evil Scum Die. Most of the vitriol was from self-appointed defenders of the people James had defrauded. The bulk of the sympathy notes were both faux and voyeuristic, sent from people who really just wanted the full story so they could rejoice in the fact that their husband hadn’t done something illegal and brought them down with him. For her own peace of mind and to prevent herself from being sucked into the quagmire of rancour, she’d disabled receiving emails on her phone. She’d also taken the step of creating a new email account reserved for her lawyer and Debbie, her practice manager, so important documents didn’t get lost in the maelstrom of splenetic mail.

  Yesterday James had vented in a vicious email after she’d refused to take his calls. He hadn’t appreciated the letter from her lawyer proposing new financial arrangements between them. Nor had he responded well to the fact that she’d emptied their joint bank account before he’d got to it first. She didn’t care. In fact, she took perverse pleasure in having done to him what he’d done to her and so many others.

  She moved the mouse and the computer screen flickered to life with a click and a whirr, waking from inky hibernation. Whoever used it last hadn’t closed down the browser so she immediately directed the cursor to the URL box. She was about to type in her webmail address when she stalled. Coming into focus on the page was the distinctive blue and white banner of Facebook.

  She recognised some of Charlotte’s school friends in happy school-holiday-fun photos. C
urious, she scrolled down to see more but as she read a post, her eyes drifted right. The three advertisements on the side of the screen reached out and grabbed her. Leaning in closer, she blinked. The first was a picture of two pregnancy test sticks, one showing a plus sign, the other a minus sign. The middle promotion was a picture of a glowing pregnant woman wearing a bright red poncho with the words ‘Chic Maternity Fashion’ written underneath. The final advertisement was for a family planning clinic.

  A low moan escaped across her suddenly dry lips. She knew these advertisements were no random thing. She understood that companies used cookies and had the ability to store information about internet searches and target advertisements accordingly. She could have shrugged away the ads if they’d been on a search engine. She could have considered that perhaps Georgie had been looking at baby stuff as a way of grieving. But when she matched these very specific advertisements with Charlotte’s Facebook page, her fatigue, thinness, emotional lability and recent erratic behaviour, she couldn’t ignore the very strong possibility that her daughter was pregnant.

  The word screamed in her head, making her flinch. No. Doubt hovered for a moment, quickly doused by a need to know. God damn it, Charlotte. She pushed back from the desk, the wheels of the office chair skating over the plastic carpet protector as rage enveloped her. Not caring what time it was or that her stomping footsteps boomed through the silent house, she stormed into Charlotte’s room and turned on the light.

  ‘Wake up!’

  One of Charlotte’s hands flew to her squinting eyes while the other pulled the sheet over her head. ‘Turn it off!’ Her muffled indignation rose from under the covers. ‘I’m asleep.’

  ‘Sit up.’ Harriet pulled at the sheet. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  Charlotte tugged in return and the sheet stretched taut between them. ‘In the morning.’

  ‘No. We’re talking now.’

  There was silence and then a grumbled, ‘This better be good,’ before Charlotte begrudgingly wriggled up against the pillows. She stonily crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘What?’

  Harriet crossed her own arms to match Charlotte’s hostile pose but mostly she did it to keep herself from shaking. She swallowed and then forced out the words she didn’t want to speak. ‘Are you pregnant?’

  Charlotte’s eyes shot wide, her inky pupils almost obliterating the distinctive blue of her irises. ‘Wha—what sort of question is that?’

  But the stunned shock that had preceded Charlotte’s chagrin gave Harriet her answer. Her roiling stomach stilled; the contents now a lead weight pressing low and hard in her belly. A raw and biting chill crawled through her veins until it encased her heart. ‘You stupid, stupid, girl.’

  Charlotte blinked rapidly. ‘I only had real sex once.’

  ‘And that’s all it takes!’ Harriet threw out her hands, wanting to hit something, wanting to feel the shattering pain of her fist against plaster or wood and welcome the jolt radiating up her arm. It would be easier to bear than this gut-wrenching twist of devastation. ‘For God’s sake, Charlotte. Didn’t you heed a single thing I ever told you about contraception?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her daughter’s voice sounded small. ‘And we used a condom.’

  ‘But it didn’t work, did it.’ Harriet’s voice rose. ‘Because you’re almost eighteen and pregnant. You’re in your final year of high school with your life stretching in front of you and you’re pregnant. You’re going to med school next year but you’re pregnant.’ Now she was yelling and the words fell hard, fast and brutal. ‘You’re my daughter and you’re bloody well pregnant! How could you do this to me?’

  Tears spilled over, streaking down Charlotte’s cheeks, making her look younger than her years and desperately forlorn. ‘I d—didn’t m—mean—’ She gave an almighty, shuddering sniff. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen.’

  Harriet knew she should feel sympathy for her daughter but she was numb with the enormity of the news. God help her, she was still dazed and spinning from the magnitude of James’s deceit and the week’s events. All of it had drained her ability to provide comfort to a level below empty. A week ago she couldn’t have conceived James would betray her and put her in financial jeopardy, that her family name would be mud and that she’d be a social pariah. Now Charlotte was pregnant? What had she done to deserve all of this? What other axe was yet to fall and strike her down?

  ‘Jesus, Charlotte! You may not have meant for this to happen but it doesn’t change the fact that it has. Who’s the father?’

  ‘You don’t know him.’

  ‘Who. Is. The. Father?’

  ‘A Melbourne Grammar boy. I met him last year at the rowing ball.’ Charlotte winced as a combination of guilt, embarrassment and hurt slid across her face. ‘We’re not really together. We just like …’ her gaze slid away, ‘… hook up at parties.’

  Harriet ploughed her hands through her hair savagely, needing to feel the sting of the strands tugging hard against her scalp. If the district found out Charlotte was pregnant, the weight of that disgrace would sink any remnants of the already tattered Chirnwell reputation.

  Think! She went into damage control. ‘Who knows about …’ The word ‘baby’ embedded itself in her throat, refusing to be voiced. ‘Who knows about this?’

  Charlotte wound the sheets tightly around her hands. ‘I tried to tell Auntie G when I went to Melbourne but I couldn’t. I was too scared to tell you over the phone. I thought I’d tell you after Mardi’s party but then Dad—’

  ‘What about Mardi?’ Harriet blurted, horrified that Edwina might already know. Somehow the idea that her mother knew about the pregnancy was infinitely worse than anyone else in the family being privy to it. Edwina had always lived in a sanitised version of the world—first growing up on Murrumbeet, protected and sheltered by the wealth and position of her family, and then the safety of her marriage to Harriet’s father. Not only wouldn’t Edwina cope with this ruinous news, she’d be absolutely horrified and aghast.

  ‘Tell me you haven’t told your grandmother.’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘I haven’t told anyone.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ she said pacing. ‘How pregnant are you?’

  ‘I … um … the test said eight weeks.’

  Thoughts raced through Harriet’s head and she sorted and filed, forming a plan. ‘Well, we can’t do anything about it until Easter’s over. I’ll call in a few favours and we’ll go to Melbourne on Tuesday to sort this mess out.’

  Charlotte’s hands stilled on the tangled sheet. ‘What do you mean?’

  Staggered by the question, Harriet stared at her bright and intelligent daughter. ‘Isn’t it obvious? You need a termination.’

  ‘No!’ Charlotte leaped from the bed, her cheeks bright pink. ‘I’m not doing that.’

  ‘Oh, yes you are.’

  Charlotte squared her shoulders. ‘No. I. Am. Not.’

  ‘God, help me, you’re seventeen and clueless about responsibility. You got drunk, had sex and got pregnant. You leave your wet towels on the bathroom floor as if a genie will magically fly in and pick them up. You spend all your allowance on designer clothes and you don’t know how to boil an egg. You’re not even mature enough to have prevented this nightmare from happening.’ She paused, preparing to hurl the final salvo. ‘You’re underage and you will do as I say.’

  ‘Harriet!’ Edwina’s voice behind her sounded shocked and yet sternly parental at the same time. ‘What on earth’s going on? I can hear you screeching like a fishwife from down the hall and through closed doors.’

  Harriet spun around on a surge of fear. Her mother stood just inside the room, tying the sash of her silk dressing around her waist. Her lips were pressed together in a tight line of exasperation but her eyes held concern. Exactly what had she heard?

  ‘Nothing’s going on,’ Harriet said breathlessly, desperately trying to still her trembling limbs.

  Edwina glanced at Charlotte, who was standing with her feet
wide apart and her expression stony, before shifting her gaze back to Harriet. ‘It doesn’t look or sound like nothing.’

  Harriet shot Charlotte a warning look before addressing her mother. ‘I was just reminding Charlotte that while she’s living at Glenora she needs to pick up after herself and help out more.’

  Edwina frowned. ‘And you chose to do this at eleven forty-five at night after she’s been in bed for ninety minutes? Honestly, Harriet, how much wine have you drunk?’

  ‘Believe me, nowhere near enough,’ Harriet muttered before turning back to her daughter. In a tone that brooked no argument she said, ‘We’ll talk more about this in the morning.’

  Charlotte stood motionless, her gaze fixed on Harriet with a combative gleam. Too late, Harriet recognised the look. She moved fast to intercept the grenade but Charlotte had already pulled the pin.

  ‘Go back to bed, Ed—’

  ‘Mardi, I’m pregnant!’

  The shouted words held no ambiguity. They echoed around the high-ceilinged room before falling like acid rain, cloaking and burning the silent occupants.

  Harriet heard an agonised howl and realised it was coming from her mouth. Edwina sagged against the wall as if she’d been punched and was fighting for air. Her arm pulled across her belly, her fingers clutching the silky material of her dressing gown as she doubled over. She stayed there, frozen—immobilised by shock—and with pain etched on every part of her. A long moment passed before she straightened up and directed her full attention to her granddaughter.

  ‘Are you, darling?’

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte said, biting her lower lip. ‘I am.’

  ‘You must be terrified.’ Edwina opened her arms wide.

  Charlotte burst into loud sobs and rushed into her grandmother’s embrace, burying her head on her chest. Against the muffled noise of Charlotte’s gulping distress, Harriet heard the creaking sound of a door opening. The soft thud of feet on the carpet runner followed and then Georgie appeared in the doorway wearing shortie pyjamas and a pained expression.

  ‘Charlie’s pregnant?’