Wife on the Run

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘Don’t forget your guitar,’ she called. ‘Lachie’s left it on the back seat.’

  Ever the mother, she thought.

  ‘Keep it,’ said Marcelo. ‘Without the case, it will damage easily. It already has dents.’

  ‘Oh.’ She reddened, remembering how they’d accidentally left the case in Derby. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘It’s no matter,’ said Marcelo, taking a step towards her. ‘Lachie is learning now. He can have the guitar.’

  ‘He’ll be thrilled,’ she said. ‘That’s really kind. Now here’s something for you.’

  Reaching into her handbag, she passed him an envelope. ‘This is in case you run into any trouble. If you don’t spend it, just take it home.’

  She remembered his family didn’t have much money.

  ‘Thank you, Pow-la,’ he said. ‘You are so kind.’

  ‘Okay, we both are.’

  They laughed, then stood looking at each other.

  How could either of them make sense of what had happened between them in the last thirty-six hours—or over the past month, for that matter?

  Sid sauntered away, pretending to be interested in a tropical orchid growing in the garden.

  ‘Pow-la.’ Marcelo took her face in his hands. ‘You have been so good to me. My mother would be grateful.’ He pointed to his heart, where the tattooed Lili lay beneath his t-shirt. ‘Take this.’ He passed her his leather jacket, still damp from their previous afternoon in the Botanic Gardens. ‘I will come to Melbourne and get it back from you some day.’

  ‘I’m afraid of losing you,’ she whispered.

  It was true. She was afraid of what she’d think about now, without Marcelo as a delightful distraction. Afraid of the decisions she’d have to make, sooner than she wanted to, about Hamish and their life together. Afraid of never again experiencing the sexual chemistry she’d shared with him, unsurpassed by anything she’d ever known before. Afraid of having nothing new and spontaneous and joyful in her life to celebrate anymore.

  He shook his head. ‘You are not losing Marcelo, Pow-la. You have found yourself.’

  His lips brushed hers.

  ‘Time to go,’ Frank called.

  She reluctantly moved away from Marcelo.

  He walked over to Sid, shook his hand and said something that made him laugh, before pulling him into a hug. Sid looked weepy, which made Paula more so.

  ‘Don’t know what you see in him.’

  It was Frank’s voice, low in her ear.

  Paula turned. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Hamish might be farken stupid sometimes, but he’s got heart. This guy, Martino . . .’

  ‘Marcelo,’ she corrected.

  ‘Whatever. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, irritated, ‘you can’t be a very good judge of character then, can you?’

  Frank said nothing. He climbed aboard the mini-bus and took his place behind the wheel.

  ‘Sit up the back, Mario,’ he ordered.

  Marcelo took a seat in the back row, then turned and looked through the rear window at Paula. He mouthed her name, put two fingers to his lips, and pressed them over his heart.

  She smiled through her tears.

  With a one-finger salute in their direction, Frank pulled away from the kerb.

  Paula stood watching the mini-bus, her father’s comforting arm around her, until it disappeared from view.

  21

  They drove in silence, retracing the route to the caravan park.

  What are we going to do, Paula wondered, now that our group is devoid of children and Brazilian lovers?

  ‘Are you okay, Pokey?’

  Paula smiled; her father hadn’t used that nickname in years.

  ‘I don’t know, Dad,’ she said. ‘Everything we’ve seen and done on this trip, then meeting Marcelo, it’s been . . .’ The time of my life, she realised suddenly. I’ve just gone and had it.

  ‘It’s been amazing, Dad. But it’s unsustainable.’

  The road trip had been steadily whittling away at Paula’s ten-thousand-dollar lump sum. Her three-month budget calculation had allowed a modest sum for contingencies, but no nasty surprises; certainly not a one-thousand-dollar Darwin-to-Perth carriage fee for Marcelo. Not to mention the additional money she’d given him for the hospital.

  ‘I think we’re just going to have to go straight home, taking the shortest route,’ she said, defeated. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  It seemed like such a shame, having come this far. But without her children or Marcelo, and with just over a thousand dollars in the freezer now, she didn’t have much choice.

  ‘He was worth it, Paula. A very nice young man.’ Her father paused. ‘But maybe we should go to the airport first and see if we can catch the kids before they fly out?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Great idea.’

  Her father reached forward and turned on the CD player. ‘Let’s play some of Lachie’s awful music on the way, eh? About shovels and rakes and all that nonsense.’

  She laughed.

  As her father fumbled with the iPod connection, her mobile rang.

  She immediately recognised the number: Mr Nelson, principal of Burwood Secondary College.

  ‘Sorry, Dad, I need to take this, I’ve been putting it off,’ she said, pulling over on the side of the highway. ‘Let’s swap and you drive?’ They exchanged places as she answered the call.

  ‘Mrs McInnes, I’m relieved to get through,’ said Mr Nelson.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, feeling her jaw clench. The principal’s voice epitomised everything she hadn’t missed about Melbourne.

  ‘Some new information has come to light in our Facebook investigation. Is now a good time?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, as Sid nosed the ute back onto the highway.

  ‘Facebook investigated the account that created the offensive post,’ he said. ‘It took them a while to do the IP tracing, and they only got back to us ten days ago. I’ve been trying to contact you ever since.’

  ‘I see.’ She refrained from apologising; she’d been more than distracted these past few weeks.

  ‘Facebook discovered that the James Addams account was created then accessed from just two IP addresses.’ Mr Nelson paused. ‘One was a computer in your home, the other in Amy Robertson’s.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs McInnes, but it seems that Caitlin and Amy created the Blow Queens post themselves.’

  ‘What?’ she gasped.

  ‘Our school counsellor, Mrs Papadopolous, spoke to Amy last week. She’s admitted to everything.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Paula closed her eyes.

  ‘I know this must be hard to hear.’ Mr Nelson sounded conciliatory. ‘But school’s finished for the year and we’ve decided, under the circumstances, not to reveal this to the wider school community. We think it will only make the situation worse.’

  ‘But why?’ Paula asked weakly. ‘Why would they do that?’

  Mr Nelson cleared his throat.

  ‘Amy and your daughter are . . . having a romantic relationship. Apparently a Year Eleven boy spotted them together after soccer training and threatened to tweet something about them. So they decided to pre-empt him by creating a false Facebook account under the name of James Addams. Then they created the image of the phallus and posted it to Charlotte Kennedy’s Facebook page. She’s one of the most popular girls in the school, so it went viral quickly. The whole thing was designed to distract the boy who’d seen them and publicly disprove his suspicions.’

  Paula shook her head.

  ‘But . . . Caitlin could have just talked to me,’ she said. ‘She knows that. We could have worked it out.’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘I am so sorry.’

  How had her relationship with her daughter devolved to this? Paula had convinced herself they communicated honestly and openly, but this proved otherwise. At her most vulnerable moment, instead of turning to her parents, Caitlin had hatche
d a foolish plan with Amy that only led to deeper trouble.

  ‘As I said, I don’t intend to share this with anyone. Only the school counsellor, Mrs Papadopolous, is aware of what’s happened. No one was hurt, the post is offline now.’ The principal sounded as if he was trying to justify the decision to himself.

  ‘But when you get back to Melbourne,’ he continued, ‘we’d like to have a joint family meeting with Amy and her parents, as well as Caitlin and your husband. It’s all very unfortunate. We do understand, on some level, why the girls did it, but they went too far. They need some more counselling, and we’re going to have to manage the fact that they are . . . well, they think they are . . .’

  ‘Lesbians.’

  Paula couldn’t imagine the moment she’d be forced to deliver this news to Hamish.

  ‘Talk to Caitlin first, then contact me when you’re home,’ continued Mr Nelson, his tone sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs McInnes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, ending the call.

  She hung her head and cried.

  ‘Paula?’

  Her father looked at her, clearly worried.

  ‘Oh, Dad, this is awful.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Do you want me to pull over?’

  ‘No,’ she said, from behind her hands. ‘Let’s just get to the airport as quickly as possible.’

  She had to see her children before they caught a flight home, to tell her daughter what she desperately needed to know.

  No matter what you do, no matter who you are, I love you.

  ‘The flight’s closed.’

  The Qantas clerk at the desk outside Gate 11 shook his head.

  ‘But my children are on that plane . . .’ Paula clamped a hand over her mouth to stop the sobs bursting out.

  ‘But there’s nothing I can do, ma’am,’ the man objected. ‘They’ve closed the doors, I’m sorry.’

  You’re not sorry, she wanted to yell.

  ‘It’s okay, Pokey.’ Her father pulled her to him.

  She could feel him nodding at the Qantas staffer over the top of her head, as if to reassure him too.

  ‘We can leave Darwin today,’ he said. ‘Collect the caravan, head straight down the Stuart Highway. Be back in Melbourne in five days, tops.’

  ‘But it’s Christmas in three.’ She was hiccupping against his chest, in great gasping sobs.

  Her father stroked her hair. ‘It’s not the end of the world. We’ve survived two months on the road, we can manage another few days. We can make it fun, our last hurrah. Christmas in the bush, just the two of us.’

  The prospect made her cry even harder.

  She loved her father—more deeply than ever, having shared this road trip with him—but she couldn’t contemplate Christmas without her children.

  As she bawled into her father’s shirt, Paula suddenly understood how Hamish must have felt. Waiting for news from his family as they travelled around Australia without him.

  Isolated. Lonely. Bereft.

  The guilt was crushing.

  She didn’t want to punish Hamish anymore.

  The Qantas clerk coughed. ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’

  Paula raised her head from her father’s chest.

  ‘Have you considered a stand-by for tonight’s flight? It’s the red-eye special, there are always no-shows.’ The man tapped away at his keyboard. ‘It’s showing full, but if you’re prepared to wait at the airport until tonight, something’s sure to come up.’

  He placed a box of tissues on the counter.

  Paula took one, checking the man’s name tag.

  ‘Thank you, Roland.’ She blew her nose several times. ‘What do you think, Dad?’

  ‘What about Hillary?’ her father asked. ‘And Clinton?’

  Roland looked thoroughly confused.

  ‘Maybe that’s a job for Frank,’ said Paula. ‘I’ll take Hillary to collect our bags now and catch a cab back here. I can pay the caravan park for every day Hillary and Clinton sit there. I’ll ask Frank to come and collect them the next time he’s up in Darwin.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Her father looked anxious. ‘What about the cost?’

  Paula shrugged. ‘I’m sure Hamish will be happy to cover it—especially if it means we’re all home by Christmas.’

  ‘Alright.’ Sid didn’t sound confident.

  They stood together at the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window, watching the Boeing 767 now pushing back from the terminal, poised to transport Hamish, Caitlin and Lachlan back to their family home in the south.

  The Qantas clerk hailed them again. ‘I’ve just put a good word in for you with guest services. Let’s see if I can get you bumped up the queue.’

  Just after midnight, they found themselves in seats 45B and 45C, adjacent to the rear toilet. But for all Paula cared, they could’ve been strapped to the aeroplane’s wing. Immediately before take-off, she texted her sister.

  We’re coming home tonight! QF 417 arrives 6.30am.

  Jamie’s response arrived just as a flight attendant told Paula to switch off her mobile phone.

  I’ll collect u at the airport. Can’t wait to c u again. U just made my Xmas!

  It was the emotional balm Paula needed.

  She leaned back, squeezed her father’s hand, and closed her eyes for take-off. Listening to the thrumming of the engine on ascent, feeling the slight yawing of the aircraft, floating comfortably in the night.

  This is the right thing, she thought. We’re going home.

  Her father slipped his hand out from under hers. She opened her eyes to see him scrolling through the in-flight entertainment listing, utterly comfortable with tablet technology. She smiled, remembering his Melbourne Cup win at Walkerville RSL in Adelaide. Placing a few token bets using an iPhone app, then changing Barry and Shirl’s life.

  The entire trip had been life-changing.

  Walkerville, the Melbourne Cup, Marcelo. It had all begun only two months back, triggered by a trio of life events that Paula could never have anticipated; the ‘Blow Queens’ Facebook post, Hamish’s bicycle accident and hospitalisation, her chance discovery of his online liaisons. Her wild rage that prompted a spontaneous around-Australia caravanning journey. The unexpected gifts of the road: precious moments with her father, quality time with her children, a breathtaking foreign lover.

  A chance, at almost forty, to do things differently; to lose weight, get fit, shift diehard habits. To hold off on the beers and have a Brazilian wax instead. And then, to reflect on more subterranean truths: her daughter’s emergent sexuality, her own passion reawakened, the malaise affecting her marriage. And the real Marcelo revealed: not a benign Brazilian backpacker, but an unsuspecting drug mule for his wayward brother.

  Will Marcelo make it out of Australia safely?

  No news was good news, she hoped.

  Paula closed her eyes once more.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, shortly we will be landing at Tullamarine airport.’

  Paula craned her neck to see the pastoral patchwork below, glowing pale yellow in the sunrise.

  ‘I’ve missed Melbourne,’ she murmured.

  ‘Me too,’ said her father. ‘But give us a week and we’ll be wishing we were on the road again. It’s the human condition.’

  The ‘grass is always greener’ syndrome, she thought, poisoning the present. Everyone striving for something better; a better job, a better body, a better partner. Rarely cherishing what they already have.

  Paula thought of Hamish. The husband I have.

  She glanced at her father, who looked thoroughly spent. ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

  ‘I just wish we could’ve finished the trip the way we started it, Paula. With the kids, in Hillary and Clinton. You reckon Frank will bring them back for us?’

  ‘First week of January, he’s got it sorted.’ She patted his hand. ‘Frank’s got a transporting mate who can do it on the cheap for us, a semi-trailer backload
to Melbourne. He’ll deliver Hillary and Clinton right to our door. Then you can move straight back in to Clinton.’

  He shook his head. ‘I think I’ll go back to Greenleaves.’

  ‘Nonsense, Dad, you’re staying with us.’

  ‘No, Paula.’ He sounded determined. ‘For starters, I don’t want to see the inside of Clinton ever again.’

  She laughed.

  ‘And you and Hamish need some time alone, without me hanging around. If you’re going to make things right.’

  She leaned back against the headrest.

  ‘I’m not sure I can make things right with Hamish, Dad. I can’t trust him.’

  Or myself, she thought, thinking of Marcelo.

  Sid clipped his tray-table into the upright position. ‘But we all do things out of character every now and then, Paula. Hamish did, with that girl on the internet. You did with Marcelo. It’s equal again between you two now, isn’t it?’

  She doubted it ever had been equal.

  ‘You never do anything out of character, Dad.’

  ‘Not true, my girl. What about all those ladies on the trip, eh? Huey, Dewey and Louie.’

  She smiled, remembering them: Brenda, Linda and Rhonda.

  Her father looked pensive for a moment. ‘They were all larrikin versions of your mother, come to think of it. I spent the trip looking for her replica.’

  The Fasten seatbelts sign flashed above their heads.

  ‘You really loved her, Dad?’ Paula asked.

  His eyes grew wistful. ‘More than infinity,’ he said. ‘Even though she was a benevolent dictator too.’

  Paula didn’t like the inference. ‘Too?’

  ‘Well, you do run a tight ship, Paula. But if Hamish knows what’s good for him, he’ll start appreciating it.’

  Paula pulled the strap of her seatbelt tighter around her waist for landing.

  She wasn’t so sure she wanted to run a ship anymore, let alone a tight one. So many things had changed for her, subtly and radically. She didn’t think she could make love to Hamish again, or at least not for a very long time. But she didn’t relish the prospect of being a single parent, either; the solitude, the hard slog, the financial difficulties. That alone was incentive enough to try to work things out. And then there were Catie and Lachie. Both of them old enough to recognise life’s complexity, yet young enough to hanker after a fairy-tale ending for their parents.