The Near Miss

by Fran Cusworth

  ‘And how do you think he went?’ Nina asked politely. The three of them had discussed this situation in Anna’s absence. She works so hard! Such an unselfish person! And him, so useless!

  Anna looked resigned. ‘No luck. And Tom’s still working, I see? I mean, last we heard he wanted to leave his job and take another year off to do his inventing thing. Gosh, he enjoyed that last time.’

  Grace nodded. ‘Yes! Not leaving. We’ll both work for a while to save some money, and then I’ll take maternity leave and we’ll have another baby.’

  ‘How lovely.’ Anna smiled at her. ‘Well, if we can help with picking up Lotte at all, just say. Clare would love to have a play with her anytime.’

  Grace could not miss the generosity of this; the even-tempered and popular Clare had little patience for Lotte’s princess-like tantrums and could have expressed no such wishes about her neighbour. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, really. Since my sister left her husband, we don’t see as much of the cousins. Clare’s missing them.’

  ‘How is your sister? The property settlement done yet?’ Nina was always keen to learn all the details on people’s divorces. ‘Such a brave thing to do!’

  ‘Lotte really seems to have hit it off with the new boy,’ Verity interjected eagerly. ‘You know, the one whose mother saved Lotte in the accident.’

  This dogged return to the accident would have irritated Grace, except that she, too, was baffled by the strength of her daughter’s attachment to Skip. Lotte had not really had a friend before. She had had competitors for toys, people to dominate, obstacles to her will, but not someone you would call friend. Playing with Lotte was not something other children clamoured to do. Nor had she ever been very interested in other children, until now. But Skipper! Lotte drew pictures of them together, she talked about him, she ran to him when they arrived at kindy. Lord above, she apparently defecated with him. Could it get any more intimate, at age four?

  ‘She does seem to have found a kindred spirit,’ she said.

  ‘And the going to the toilet together! How funny!’ Verity whispered. Great, so the whole kindy knew about it already. ‘I had a friend whose daughter did that. With her neighbour’s kid. Would hold on until he was around.’

  ‘Oh?’ Maybe it was normal.

  ‘Not anymore, though. Child psychologist helped.’ Ah, apparently not normal.

  ‘Oh, that’s overkill,’ said Anna. ‘They’re kids, for God’s sake. Lucky Grace isn’t the type to stress over something so perfectly natural.’

  Grace checked her phone in the hope of some reprieve. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘He’s a sweet little boy,’ said Verity.

  ‘Apparently the mother lives on a commune,’ Nina said. ‘And the father? Separated?’

  ‘Lives on a commune?’

  ‘I think that’s what they said on the TV show, isn’t it? When they screened the accident?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Nina. ‘Commune.’

  ‘But . . . no.’ Grace felt the unease she generally did when talking about Melody. ‘She’s in one of those one-bedroom apartments on Chawton Street, the crappy brown brick ones. She used to live on a commune, up north. The TV show got it wrong.’

  ‘So are you guys good friends now, too?’ Nina was undoubtedly asking permission to talk in a negative way about the new mother, but just feeling her way.

  ‘Noo, although we did have her for dinner. To say thank you. But not really. We’re very different.’ Grace, labouring under her unwelcome burden of gratitude to Melody, found herself eager to hear Nina’s thoughts on the new mother, hopeful they may somehow lessen her debt.

  ‘Very different!’ Nina rolled her eyes meaningfully, and Verity and she cackled in a way that indicated that this conversation, about to be rolled out for further consumption right now, had begun in private elsewhere. ‘She’s—’

  ‘No, I think they’re very similar,’ said Anna, gathering up her bag. The statement was so astounding that everyone stared at her.

  ‘Who?’ said Verity.

  ‘Grace and Melody, of course. Very alike. Gotta grab some groceries before kindy, I’ll see you at pick-up.’

  Grace turned back to the other two, eager to hear their opinions on Melody, but they had been derailed by Anna’s departure and were now remembering errands they also had to run before pick-up. Grace found herself suddenly alone with their empty coffee cups, the froth hardened on the edges in a thousand expired milk bubbles, and the dregs of an abandoned conversation. What on earth did she have in common with a hippy single mother?

  Melody meditated. She knew people who envisioned white lights, who recited chants. She, however, just tried to empty her mind. Every time a thought passed through her, she sponged it away with those very words: empty your mind. Those kindy mums who had gone for a coffee without her, glimpsed through the plate-glass window of Café Romanos? Empty Your Mind. Including Grace, who she had thought might become a friend, especially after the dinner-party bonding? Empty Your Mind. Even though Melody had saved her child’s life, and Skipper and the child seemed to have hit it off, oh Grace was all gratitude one minute and then the next all pretending she was off to go shopping when she was sneaking out with the other mums . . . Empty Your Mind! Shut up Already!

  This beautiful world. A basket of sun-dried, folded washing. A loaf of freshly baked bread. The smell of her son’s hair. She breathed out, and relaxed. She felt the backs of her hands resting lightly on her inner thighs, her legs crossed. She heard a far-off bird, and a train. She was a daughter of the universe, and the universe would provide. It always did.

  The doorbell rang and she opened her eyes. Who was that? An hour until she was due back at kindy to collect Skip. She needed to get on the laptop and look for jobs. She already had an interview lined up for a job putting letterbox numbers into packaging, about which she was hopeful, in a reluctant sort of way. There was no way around it, she could be thrown off the single mother’s benefit any day now. She needed work.

  Melody ran down the stairs and opened the door. It was Van.

  She peered around him; he was alone. He didn’t look good. His face was flushed, his jaw covered in stubble, and the whites of his eyes were red. He glanced furtively behind himself. She led him in and made him a cup of coffee.

  ‘So, how’s your new girlfriend?’

  He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘We’re staying at a friend’s. Just for tonight, and then we’re heading up to a party in the Talna Valley.’

  ‘And Romy’s there?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Has she rung her fella?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  He smelled stale. She was glad Skipper wasn’t here to see him like this. ‘So, what brings you here?’

  ‘Wanted to give you something.’

  She softened, curious. ‘Oh! Well.’ And watched as he brought out a fat white envelope. Her smile faded. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Some cash to get you by.’

  She took it, and pressed it between her thumb and forefinger. About two centimetres thick. She could smell it; ink and paper and the sweaty hands of commerce; the residue of a thousand different cash registers. Grace had shown her the newspaper picture, and she thought of it now. The blurry figure holding the gun, his posture so familiar, his face hidden. The female form beside him.

  ‘Lucky you didn’t shoot the checkout boy.’

  He laughed without smiling, and surveyed her for a moment. He looked exhausted. ‘It wasn’t luck. I’m not that much of an arsehole.’

  ‘Poor kid’s had to quit his job and get counselling. Post-traumatic stress disorder. His parents are completely freaked out, can’t sleep. His little sister’s stopped going to school, scared of men with guns.’

  He snorted. ‘How would you know that?’

  She shrugged coolly. She had made it up. ‘Read it in the paper.’

  ‘Well, it must be true then.’

  She pinched the envelope again, rattled it close to her ear
with a playful smile. ‘Fifties?’

  ‘Hundreds.’

  She whistled, but something trembled inside her. Her will, maybe. ‘Could pay for a lot of counselling for that boy. Could help cover a job he might never be able to do again.’

  Van’s face went cold. He stood up. ‘I thought you had money trouble. Sorry for giving a shit.’

  The trembling thing stilled inside her, and became stone. Skip. How much dirty money was this? How much danger could this draw to them? ‘I don’t have money trouble. I just don’t have money. Give me this and I’ll have trouble. Cop trouble.’

  ‘I don’t care about robbing some multinational. They rob us blind all the time.’

  ‘Ah. An eye for an eye.’

  ‘So when did you get all full of virtue?’

  She sighed, thought of Esme and softened. ‘Are you hungry? I could heat some lentils.’

  ‘Are you going to take my present or what?’

  She laughed. ‘Van. Van, Van, Van. At least you’ve come back. I haven’t seen you since, hmm, since Grace and Tom’s dinner. Since you left me stranded for a lift home.’

  ‘Oh, is that what this is all about? You had to walk home? On your little feety-weety?’

  She didn’t like him like this. She wanted him gone. ‘Oh, please. Give me some credit. But now that you mention it, you did turn out to be a hell of a dinner date. You sort of stole the show when you took off with another guy’s girlfriend and vanished for a month.’

  He laughed nastily at the thought of it. ‘Melbourne people. Easy to shake them up, isn’t it? With their bloody dinner parties. Man.’

  ‘It was mean.’

  He stared at her and she shrugged. ‘He’s brokenhearted. Eddy. Her boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, puh! Give a fuck! Not my problem. So are you going to take this money? It will keep you living well for another good six months, at least. Very well. Or not so well, for twelve.’

  She looked at him, and at the envelope. Six months. Maybe twelve. It was a tempting stretch of time. She thought about the job she’d just applied for, parceling up letterbox numbers. She thought about the kindy mothers who had not invited her out to coffee.

  She thought of Skip.

  ‘Nah. I’ll get by.’

  His face fell and she did not like the look in his eyes. But she had never been scared of Van, and she wasn’t now.

  ‘What if I don’t give it to you? What if I give it to Skipper?’

  She pursed her lips and began to clear away the cups. ‘And why would you do that?’

  ‘Well, you tell me.’

  She stared for a long time into the sink, where she ran her finger around the rim of a saucer. Then she turned around and dried her hands on a tea towel. ‘Look at the time. I have to pick Skip up from kindy.’

  ‘I’m leaving this money for him. I have a right.’

  ‘You think.’

  ‘I do.’

  Why didn’t he just ask her outright? Am I Skip’s father? Maybe he didn’t want to know, for sure. Oh, one drunken night. What a fool she had been. She took the envelope and pushed it back towards his chest. She raised her eyes and stared at him with all the authority she possessed. She jingled her keys with the other hand and moved towards the door. ‘You don’t, actually. Have a right. Now I must go.’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  Van sighed and walked towards the door, the movement seeming to loosen him once again. ‘You’re crazy, Melody. I know you’ve got no money.’

  ‘The universe will provide.’

  ‘You are such a fucking old space-cadet, you know that?’

  ‘Go and tell your girlfriend to phone home. To do the decent thing and stop everyone worrying about her.’

  ‘The decent thing? My, my. Listen to you.’ They were outside now, in front of his motorbike. ‘And she’s not my girlfriend.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Why are you so stubborn? Why do you stay so . . . alone?’

  ‘I’m not alone. I have Skip.’

  ‘Maybe that’s not enough. For Skip.’

  Melody picked up her backpack and averted her eyes, keeping her breathing steady. She let that comment sail freely over her head, until it was safely in the past, and she suppressed the urge to laugh. Such a thing would not even be safe, at this moment.

  He spoke gently. ‘Can I see you after pick-up?’

  ‘No. We’re going out. Seeya.’ She kissed him quickly on the cheek, and their eyes met before she turned away. Pain and hurt were in his eyes, and she and wished she had not looked. The angry roar of his motorbike cut through the air as she walked, and she breathed more deeply and hastened towards her boy.

  In at kindergarten, she pinned up a sign on the noticeboard. Worried about the future? Need advice? Come to a qualified fortune teller. Experienced to the ninth level, Certificate from the Lismore Community Centre; can do tarot as well. Special packages available. Melody. And a phone number.

  Grace stood beside her and read it.

  ‘I’ll do you an extra-special rate,’ said Melody.

  Grace considered it. ‘I don’t know that I really want to know my future. At the moment.’

  ‘May be wise.’

  ‘Oh! Well!’ Grace looked hurt and moved on to read a flier about a first aid course. Melody read the laundry roster. She had offended Grace, she could see. But it was true. There was a colour around Grace, something ominous heading her way. It was always difficult to be the bearer of bad news.

  ‘But the universe provides. Always.’

  Grace rolled her eyes. Provides what? ‘Any word from Eddy? On his girlfriend?’ She laughed falsely. ‘Maybe you can see those things in the cards?’

  ‘She’s still not back.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Eddy rang me. He wanted Van’s number.’

  ‘Did you give it to him?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh, okay. I just thought maybe you might want to, I don’t know, protect his privacy.’

  ‘God, no.’ Melody shook her head. ‘I take the guy out for dinner and he nicks off with someone else’s girlfriend. He gets no protection from me.’ She took a pen and wrote her laundry duty date on the pale skin inside her arm.

  Grace nodded. Over in the home corner, Lotte and Skip had set up a table and were playing dinner parties. ‘Some potatoes?’ trilled Lotte, fussing over Skip like a waitress. ‘Sushi?’ Little Clare Trapper came to sit and join Skip at his lonely table, and Lotte screamed at her. ‘No! No! You’re not playing!’ And pushed her off the chair and onto the floor, where she kicked her in the ribs.

  Grace took a deep breath and closed her eyes. At this moment she really did not want to see into the future.

  Grace arrived at work late. With a heavy heart, she sat down to begin work on the Good Works grant application. There was no question, the loss of the more lucrative federal grant was an unmitigated disaster for the association, and finding new funds would be essential for its survival. This was work she did feel was worthwhile, far more so than getting Bunny into the papers for her moment of glory. And Grace knew her writing skills were truly valuable here; she could persuade, she could cajole, she could mount a good argument and fill in pedantic paperwork as well as anybody. They were lucky to have her. She worked for an hour on the grant, and then went online to find a reference to mental health projects the association had worked on in the past.

  Somewhere searching in the dusty library shelves of cyberspace, she started worrying about Lotte and her outburst at kindy that morning. Lotte had always had a difficult temperament, and Grace was gloomily familiar with the silent and watchful gazes of other mothers as she remonstrated and pleaded with Lotte over some public assertion of irrational will, or worse, like today, some childish act of violence. That morning Lotte had been wildly determined to keep Skip for herself, and to push away anyone who wanted to join in the play. Privately, Grace shared a kernel of understanding for her daughter; if women were havin
g a one-on-one in a coffee shop, it wasn’t like they were obliged to include everyone in the entire café. Imagine it: now everyone, including you, secretive post-Pilates ladies in the corner, and you, book-group baby-boomers by the window, pull your tables together. Let’s all go through each other’s handbags for interesting items, and then we’ll swap phones and read each other’s texts. There would be a riot. However, kindergarten world demanded absolute inclusiveness, and tolerance of Everyone, All The Time.

  Grace looked at various childhood conditions that could be loosely connected to Lotte — ADHD, autism spectrum? — and suddenly realised forty precious minutes had passed. She needed lunch.

  She was standing at the side of the road, watching a tram, when she realised she was doing it again. That thing she did, that thing that was a sign. It started as a fantasy, a small film clip unravelling in her mind, where she stepped out in front of the tram and it hit her. Then she was dead. In her fantasy. Which, to be honest, didn’t make her feel as bad as it should have, although, being fantasy, it probably lacked a few elements, such as physical sensation. It was a pretty tempting prospect, actually. Like a sweet release, a black-hole-esque absence of stress, release from mortgage anxiety and job boredom, of the sheer juggle of working mother-ness. This fantasy of near-death came in various forms; once in chest pains which she had — it was summer and the news was full of stories of midlife executives on holidays dropping dead from the cardiac stress of back yard cricket and negotiating with teenagers — anyway, she had attributed her chest twinges to pending or in-progress heart attack, and had proceeded hopefully to an emergency ward where scans had found nothing.

  ‘Really?’ she had said, from the cool nest of the crisp white bed where she had dreamed of spending weeks and weeks, reading a pile of library books while kind nurses stroked her forehead.