by Wendy James
‘I want to see the seal show, Daddy, not the Australian animals. They’re boring. ’
‘I want to see the monkeys, Dad, and the elephants.’
‘We’ll go see the platypus first, guys. And then we’ll see.’ Ed tries always to be firm but fair. He is determined that his children will never have any cause for complaint (or lawsuits), that when they look back over their childhood they will remember (and appreciate) this as being both a happy and enriching time. Firm but fair. ‘Now lead the way, Mitch.’
Not that Ed has any real reason to complain when he looks back on his own childhood. Oh, there were the usual difficulties and disturbances, all the expected childhood traumas, but nothing major, nothing of any lasting significance. And since Mitchell and Stella were born, Ed has found that he understands, more and more, those things he’d found inexplicable as a child. He remembers, for instance, his resentment at what he regarded as his mother’s irrational dislike of one of his particular friends, Sam Maiolo, when he was in third grade. Whenever Sam came home with him after school – to play at the park, or go bike riding – she would make him wait out on the verandah while Ed changed out of his uniform. She warned Ed never to share his drink bottle or to eat food from Sam’s lunch box. He was forbidden, on pain of being dispatched, forthwith, to boarding school, to visit the Maiolo’s home. He understands now, of course, that his mother was protecting him, Ed, in the only way she knew how. Sam and his parents were recently arrived Italian migrants. Ed’s mother had heard rumours of a smallpox outbreak amongst the Italian community (unfounded of course, but still). Ed can’t imagine that he’d ever manage such a situation in quite the same way, but is glad that his suburb is affluent enough now to make this a non-issue – the only immigrants who settle here are doctors from Hong Kong and Singapore, or the odd American IT wunderkind.
When they finally find the platypus exhibit (by way of the South American monkeys – Mitchell maintaining that he’s been looking at the map upside down), they discover it’s closed for cleaning. Ed is disappointed – he likes to watch the strange submarine pups snuffling about in their gloomy aquarium – but the children are delighted, race off down the path that leads to the elephants.
‘We don’t need a map anyway, Dad,’ Mitchell crushes the photocopied page into a ball, ‘there are signs everywhere.’ He tosses it at the nearest bin in passing. It misses, but he doesn’t look back. Ed sighs, picks up the paper, follows the signs.
No, Ed’s childhood was remarkable only for its lack of serious trauma (and perhaps, he thinks, it was this very absence of problems, of hang-ups, that initially made him attractive to Susan, and continues to cement his relationship with his wife). His parents were not wealthy, but they were certainly comfortable – his father started his working life as a high school science teacher, but, a keen and capable weekend carpenter, he eventually (after a small seeding loan from his own father) called it quits and established his initially tiny kitchen business. His mother, a primary school teacher, stayed at home after her children were born, going back to part-time work only when they’d reached high school. He has his brother, Derek, who is three years older – to whom he is very much attached, despite their profound differences – and a sister, Pam – six years his senior, unmarried, unhappy – who he tolerates. His family had moved house only once during his childhood – and that was to a bigger house in the same beachside suburb. The Middletons had holidayed two weeks every year at the same caravan park on the Central Coast; spent another two weeks on his (adoring) grandparents’ Bathurst property. Ed had been doctored for years by the same physician who’d delivered him; he attended the local primary and then high school and still has friends he’s known since kindergarten. Ed knows how lucky he was, how lucky he is; knows that his upbringing was exemplary in its solidity and stability – a picture-postcard suburban childhood.
‘Oh God. What is that? ’
‘Oh, that’s gross. I think I’m gunna spew.’
‘Don’t say “God”, Mitchell, and spew is not a nice word, Stella. Vomit. Say vomit.’ Ed follows the children’s disgusted gaze. One of the elephants has a monstrous vine-like tangle of vessels dangling from its rear. They are so heavy, so low, that they almost drag on the ground.
‘It looks like intestines,’ Mitchell says. ‘God, Dad, do you think its intestines have come out?’
He searches for an explanation. ‘I think they’re blood vessels, kids. They’re called, um, haemorrhoids. And I think the elephant might be pregnant. Watch its stomach.’ The animal’s huge belly ripples, contracts. ‘See.’
‘Oh, g-ross. ’ Mitchell simulates severe retching.
‘Imagine having a baby elephant in your tummy,’ Stella giggles. Then: ‘Ugh. I think I’m gunna spew, again.’
The stability and consistency of his early years has, or so Ed believes, made him the strong (but not hard), confident (but not insensitive), motivated (but not hyper-dynamic) individual that he is, and so he tries hard to reproduce (though it is such a different, such a difficult world) the same environment for his own two children. He and Susan have moved house only once since their marriage – and not at all since the children were born. Ed sees this consistency as a kind of insurance policy.
Though he has never seen any real evidence of neurosis or instability in Susan’s behaviour (she does occasionally cry for no apparent reason, and she did once throw a chair at him), he knows that significant emotional disturbances (and God knows that Susy has had her fair share of these in her own childhood) can be repressed and then transferred, invisibly and insidiously, in a type of psychic slow-release, to those most receptive of creatures – children.
So Ed keeps a watchful eye on his precious offspring. He loves Susan, no mistake and certainly no regrets, but his children, his children are the wellspring of his being. They are his future; his posterity. He is a hands-on father. He conscientiously attempts to monitor his children’s levels of self-esteem and bolsters them when necessary. He helps them with their homework when he’s home, and takes them to their various sporting venues on the weekends, where he shouts (not too loudly and always encouragingly) from the sidelines. He has taught them both to bodysurf, to respect the sea; they’re both enthusiastic members of the local surf club’s ‘little nippers’. He makes the space to take them out during their school holidays – to the movies, ice-skating, to museums and galleries. Thus Susan is given the necessary down-time from the children, substantial Self Space, and Time Alone; while Mitchell and Stella receive plenty of Quality Time with their father – such time being the one thing, he has to admit, that he feels was lacking in his own otherwise idyllic childhood.
Today Ed is a little distracted, not as focused as he likes to be, as he should be, on the children and their experience. He is worried about Susan’s meeting with her sister – thinks that this might be the event, might be the trigger, so to speak, that will release Susan’s pent-up grief and anger, and he is concerned not only for Stella and Mitchell, but for himself. He follows the children along the path that leads to the cafeteria. They are hungry and have refused the ham sandwiches and bottles of cordial he’s prepared. ( Boring. Just like school. We want chips. Hotdogs. Milkshakes. Coke.) Ed tries hard to stop worrying, wonders how he can transform all this negative energy into something positive, into something more productive. He decides that after lunch they will go back to the platypus exhibit. Perhaps it will have reopened. He’s firm. Firm, but fair.
Susan
The cafe – it’s a restaurant really – is right on the wharf. It’s a big, airy place, all stainless steel and polished timber, an impersonal place, good for business lunches, or meals with distant relatives. Susan has requested an outside table. That way if the whole thing becomes too awkward, too painful, they can at least watch the water, the ferries, the endless stream of people. That way they’ll have an excuse, or maybe even an opportunity, for silence.
When the waitre
ss comes Susan is alone. She orders coffee, then changes her mind.
‘A bottle of champagne? You’re sure about that then?’ The young waitress is tall, brunette, cool.
‘Yes.’ Susan smiles apologetically.
‘Anything to eat, yet? Or do you want to wait for your friend?’
‘No. Yes. She should be here soon.’
‘Okay.’ The waitress tucks her pencil and pad away, starts back inside.
‘Oh, sorry. Miss? Miss? Excuse me a minute?’
The girl turns back, thin eyebrows slightly raised.
‘I’d be grateful if you’d look out for my sister. She might go inside first. Perhaps you could tell her I’m outside? She won’t know.’
‘What does she look like?’
Susan thinks of the girl in the photograph. What does she look like? The waitress is waiting, would sigh or tap her foot if she could.
‘Don’t worry,’ Susan is apologetic again, ‘I’m sure she’ll work it out. It’ll be fine.’
‘Just the champagne, then?’
‘Just the champagne.’
A woman walks into the restaurant alone. She is fortyish, tall, dressed casually but expensively in pale jeans and a white silk shirt, her blonded hair cut fashionably short. Susan stands up nervously as the woman looks around. She is just as Susan imagined her, just as she dreamed her. She waves, but the woman doesn’t see, so Susan hurries inside. The woman is walking confidently towards an elderly couple who greet her brightly from the rear of the restaurant. The waitress follows, her pencil at the ready. Susan slinks back to her outside table, pours herself another glass of champagne. The bottle is nearly empty. Her hand is shaking. She will have to catch a taxi home.
‘Are you Susan?’
Her hair is blonde – not the golden colour Susan remembers, but peroxide blonde, dark at the roots – and straggles limply to her shoulders. Her face is thin, and pale, fine lines are etched about her eyes and mouth. Her lips are a violent magenta slash. Susan scrapes her chair back, gets unsteadily to her feet. The woman is small – much smaller than Susan remembers, or expects, she’s probably no taller than Susan herself. Her worn black jeans are slung low on her hips, a grimy white t-shirt ends a few inches above her bellybutton. She has a tattoo around her upper arm, and a gleaming silver stud in her nose. Susan stands there stupidly, just looking at her. She doesn’t know what to do, what to say.
The woman smiles. One of her front teeth is badly chipped. ‘You’ll catch flies, Sukey,’ she says, ‘standing there with your mouth open.’
When Ed and the kids get home Susan is sitting at the kitchen table, trying to work out the Herald wordsquare:
Ed puts a video on for the kids, comes back into the kitchen. He kisses Susan on the mouth. Recoils. ‘Jesus, Susan! You didn’t drive home, did you?’
‘No. Yes, I did.’ Sighs. Lies. ‘I didn’t actually drink that much ... two glasses, maybe three. But early, before she arrived. She was very late.’
Susan looks back down at the paper. The letters lurch and dance about the page. She tries hard to focus, but they don’t make any sense; will not form a word.
TENICIPED
CEPITINED
Ed boils the kettle, makes coffee for them both. The smell makes her feel slightly queasy.
‘Well?’ He pulls out a chair, sits down heavily.
‘I just can’t get it.’
‘Not the word.’ He tugs the newspaper away impatiently. ‘Don’t be thick, Susy. What happened? Was it her? What was she like?’
‘What happened?’ Susan would like to be very blunt, to tell him everything. Even the part where she got pissed, then vomited in a public toilet and drove home very slowly.
‘Well,’ she says instead, ‘you know. We had lunch. We talked.’
‘Susy. Is it her? Does she seem like she could be Karen? The way you remember her? What’s she like?’
‘Oh.’ Susan thinks for a moment, decides to keep it simple. ‘She’s small. Blonde. Had pate for entree. Lobster for main. Drinks red wine. Likes animals and small children. She’s okay.’
‘That’s all?’
‘What do you want?’
He waits, counts ten. Tries again.
‘Did you ask her, Susy? Why she left. What happened?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t ask her? What did you talk about, then?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know ... It was just chat, Ed. Nothing deep or meaningful. We didn’t bare our souls or dredge up our dreary past. We talked about the weather, the price of eggs...’
‘Well, how will you know if it’s her if you don’t ask her about all that? You’ve got to sort it out. You’re the only one who can. It’s not a joke, Suse, there’s hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake here. Money that we could use.’ He slams his cup down on the table, grabs the newspaper and pretends to read.
‘If you’ll give me a chance, Ed,’ Susan’s tone is suddenly edgy, serious. ‘I’ll tell you why I didn’t ask her about any of that.’
‘Okay.’ He folds the paper, puts it down. ‘I’m sorry. Why?’
‘Because I’d have known if it was Karen. I’d have recognised her, and I didn’t. I’m not interested in that woman’s past, Ed, because she’s not my sister. She’s not Karen. She can’t be.’ Susan hasn’t cried yet, and she’s determined that she won’t. Not here. Not now.
‘Shit.’ Ed is looking worried. ‘Are you sure?’
She sniffs. Nods.
‘I’m really sorry.’ He frowns. Taps his fingers on the table. Then: ‘Did you ring the solicitor, Susan? You’d better ring him hadn’t you, in case he’s drawn up the documents or something. He’ll still be there won’t he? D’you want me to do it?’ He heads over to the phone. ‘I’ll give him a call shall I? Best to get it over with.’
‘Whatever.’ Susan reaches for the paper, turns back to the puzzles page. Tries to focus on the wordsquare.
‘Howard, g’day. Ed Middleton here. Susan’s husband...’ Ed’s voice is low, expressionless. ‘Sorry to bother you so late, but...’
Susan tries writing the letters out in a line this time.
PECEDTNEI
‘You might be fairly confident, but Susan’s certain that it isn’t her.’
She writes the word cent. Then cede, dent, deep, pent.
‘You said it yourself, mate: Susy’s the only one who’ll know. And she’s a hundred per cent certain.’ He’s speaking loudly now, pulling irritably at the phone cord.
She writes decent, and then she has it. Writes it out in thick black capitals.
DECEPTION
‘Jesus. You’ve got to be joking. She’s changed her name, the DNA’s not conclusive, she’s got no ID, Susan says it isn’t her – how could she take us to court? ... What do you mean Susan didn’t even talk to her? Of course she talked...’
She checks her answer, matches letter to letter, but it doesn’t work – there’s no O, an extra E.
Ed disconnects. He stands by the phone, watches his wife intently. Susan is gazing, just as intently, at her puzzle.
‘Susan,’ Ed’s voice is soft, gentle. ‘Suse. Is there something you’d like to tell me? About today?’
She says nothing. Checks each letter carefully, though this time there’s no need. This time she’s certain.
‘Susan?’
This time the puzzle contains no answers, no signs or mysterious correspondences.
‘Sue. Howard Hamilton says you didn’t even speak to this woman. That you ran away.’
She stays silent. Writes down the word.
‘Susan?’
‘I’ve got it! It’s not deception. It’s nothing like it.’ She holds up her carefully printed answer.
‘Susan?’
‘Centipede, Ed. It’s centipede
.’
‘I don’t get it Susan,’ Anna is already puffing, her face is pink and damp with exertion. ‘How can you know? It’s been more than twenty years. People change. You couldn’t possibly know at a glance.’
On Tuesday mornings Susan and her friend, Anna, walk. They choose any reasonably long stretch of coastline between Manly and Mona Vale, a different beach each week, and walk for an hour or so. Usually they tramp through the soft sand, which is hard work, but today (traversing the stretch between Collaroy and North Narrabeen) they tread close to the water, where the sand is packed and firm and the walking’s easier. This way the talking’s easier too.
‘It isn’t her, Anna,’ Susan treads heavily, for emphasis. ‘I just know it.’ It’s a blustery day and the waves are breaking, dumping sand and weed close to the shore. The women have to speak loudly, shout almost, to make themselves heard.
‘But Suse – you’ve always said you can’t remember Karen anyway. What makes you so certain now?’
‘I just know. Karen couldn’t be that woman.’
‘I think you don’t want it to be her.’ Anna’s step is faltering.
‘What? Why wouldn’t I want it to be her?’
‘I’d say you don’t want her to come back.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Susan says, ‘You’re as bad as Ed. Don’t be ridiculous. I spent half my life wishing for nothing else; why wouldn’t I want her back now?’
Anna stops walking altogether, looks her in the eye. ‘I think you don’t want her back because you don’t want to have to think about all that.’
‘About all what?’
‘You know – the past. Whatever happened. It’s perfectly understandable.’
‘Oh it is, is it?’ Susan starts off again, walks furiously fast.
‘Don’t get the shits,’ Anna pants when she catches up. ‘I’m only trying to work out why you didn’t even speak to the woman. You’ve got to admit that it’s pretty weird, Susan, running away like that.’ Anna’s voice is crisp. Her statements blunt. She’s got no time for hysterics and no stomach for bullshit.