by Anne Buist
The long driveway wound through the thick vegetation that would quickly become a death-trap in the event of a bushfire. Natalie took the potholes at a pace that was possibly faster than Liam would have preferred, and drew up in front of the long ranch-style house. The surrounding veranda looked out across the pool to paddocks and a creek: ten hectares that had once been home to sheep and three of her half-sister Maddison’s horses, but now held only one ageing thoroughbred, a few geese and an arthritic old English sheepdog called Hercules.
The car sent a spray of stones clattering against the garage door as she attempted a handbrake turn. Easier to look impressive on a bike. Hercules meandered out to check on her, gave one bark, slobbered over her boots and returned to where he’d been sleeping. She rolled her shoulders in preparation for two hours of purgatory. Maddison and her husband Miles, along with Blake, were already there.
‘Bloody hell!’ Her stepfather Craig was on the deck, beer in hand, gut lapping over his chinos. ‘Psychiatry must pay better than I thought.’
‘It’s on loan.’ Natalie strode past him, through the glass doors to the living area, wishing she could down a bourbon. She felt as if someone had turned up the dial on her thought processes; ideas had been jumping around her mind throughout the drive. She threw open the fridge door and grabbed a mineral water.
‘Nice to see you, Natalie,’ said Jan, her mother, meaning Why didn’t you ring and why haven’t we seen you for so long?
She was wearing a long colourful top over black leggings, golden hair in a bob that was getting close to needing a trim, long earrings and a large pendant around her neck. Elegant and unfussy. Natalie was in black leather and a T-shirt sporting a Megadeth album cover: Killing is my business with a skull and crossbones. Sometimes Jan and Craig probably wondered if Natalie had been swapped in the nursery.
‘I’ll set a place.’ Maddison was in four-inch heels, with her glossy blonde hair in a French twist. Really?
‘Check out Nat’s latest wheels,’ said Miles through the open door, leaning on the balustrade. ‘What’s LO73?’
‘The registration.’
‘I think he got that, Natalie.’ Maddison to the defence. ‘Presumably it stands for something?’
‘Presumably.’ Natalie sat down as Maddison half-threw a placemat at her. Natalie considered boomeranging it back. Didn’t.
Shit, this was how she started to get when she was going manic. Had she brought any extra pills?
The men wandered over to check out the car. Maddison rolled her eyes as Jan turned to the oven to check the potatoes, her face colouring in the escape of hot air. Natalie looked out at the pool on the other side of the dining space and had a sudden urge to throw her clothes off and go swimming. Would Jan notice? There wasn’t a bulge yet, but her mother had a sixth sense about these things. Deep breath. Concentrate.
‘Are you okay, Natalie?’ Jan asked quietly.
‘Yes, Mum.’ Natalie didn’t meet her eyes, but saw the tell-tale sign that her mother was worrying—looping strands of hair behind her ear.
‘We’re thinking of having Christmas down the beach, what do you think? We could rent a house, a friend’s in Portsea. Plenty of room. You could…bring a friend if you wanted.’
Damian for lunch, Liam for dinner maybe.
‘I’m working through Christmas.’
‘You can come down for the day, surely.’
‘Go like the clappers does it?’ Craig returned from checking out the Lotus and sat down beside her.
‘With me at the wheel, what do you reckon?’ These days, Craig was way easier to deal with than her mother. What you saw what was what you got.
‘Natalie you really…’ Jan bit her lip, shook her head. ‘Are you getting another motorbike?’
‘Not unless I can find one with a side car.’
Maddison frowned.
‘What do you want one of those for?’ Blake grabbed another beer.
‘The baby.’
In the nearly thirty years Craig and Jan had been together, it was probably the only time there had been silence in the King household at a Sunday lunch. Natalie folded her arms. There, she told Declan in her mind. I did it.
Craig was the first to speak. ‘So, ah, Natalie, are you trying to tell us you’re pregnant?’
‘Is…ah, the father…?’ Jan had put down the plates with a clatter, and was trying to compose herself.
‘I’m sorting it out.’
Her mother sat down. ‘I’m not…if it’s what you want then. I mean, we’ll be there for you of course.’
‘So,’ said Natalie. ‘I figured before I become a mother I should know who the grandfather is. You know, my dad? Biology and all that.’
Jan’s expression changed immediately; a steeliness that Natalie knew well. But it was Craig who jumped in. ‘Natalie, we’ve been through this before.’
‘And we’ll keep going through it until I find out. For Chrissake I’m thirty-four. I’m a psychiatrist. I think I can handle anything you throw at me. Chances are I’ve imagined a good deal worse than the reality. Child abuser? Syphilis? Rape? Bring it on.’
‘Enough.’ Jan’s tone was more fire than steel. ‘This isn’t the time for this discussion.’
‘But it’s never going to be the time, is it?’ Natalie glared at her mother, anger as raw as when she had been having the argument sixteen years earlier. Now, though, for the first time there was a nagging sense that she should have known better than to keep backing her mother into a corner. That she’d engineered this train wreck.
‘What about the father of your child?’ Maddison looked shell-shocked. Natalie wanted to giggle.
‘Maddison, there’s no need to aggravate the situation.’ Jan had regained some of her composure.
‘She’ll expect you to look after it, Mum, I bet, while she swans around playing Doctor Important. God, my friends are still snickering over that television clip where she karate-chopped the lawyer on the court steps.’
‘It was more Tae Kwon Do than karate,’ said Natalie, no longer able to hold back the giggles. ‘And he’s most likely the father.’
Maddison stared. ‘Oh, just peachy. She doesn’t even know whose it is. Well count me out. I’m not going to have anything to do with this.’ She picked up her handbag, swung towards Jan. ‘You want to condone her behaviour, be my guest. But don’t put me down on the list of babysitters.’ Then she burst into tears. ‘I can’t believe it, she’s done it again.’
Craig, Jan and Miles all spoke at once. Blake looked at Natalie and shrugged.
‘She hasn’t done…’
‘You don’t need to…’
‘Honey I know we were going to…’
‘Yes,’ said Maddison, sniffing and clutching Miles’s arm. ‘This was meant to be our announcement. Our baby is due in April!’
‘Oh, how lovely,’ said Natalie. ‘So is mine.’
‘There were probably better ways of breaking it to them, you know,’ Blake yelled to her as the air streamed over the open top of the Lotus on the way back to town. He’d been happy to catch a lift with her rather than their sister; they’d left her talking babies with Jan and Craig.
‘Better for who?’ Natalie sighed, wondering why she did things so badly when it came to her family. Natalie hoped she’d made it up a little by letting Maddison have use of the cot that had belonged to their grandmother. And first option on names, however unlikely it was that they would both come up with the same one.
‘So who is the lucky dad?’ asked Blake. ‘The Lotus owner?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Come on Nat. You know what it’s like not knowing….’ He followed the train of thought. ‘You remember your dad, don’t you?’
Did she? Sometimes she thought so, vague thoughts, more impressions than anything else. Music? Laughter? And then a different feeling. Something that made her stomach knot. Had he abused her? Was that why Jan had cut him out of their life?
‘Hope your man is good at his job
.’
‘Why?’
Blake tapped the speedo. A hundred and fifty. Shit. She eased off the pedal. Had she taken her quetiapine last night? Did she need to be back on lithium? She had been feeling good, but maybe that was just because the morning sickness had finally stopped. At lunch though, she should have been able to keep it together better than she had.
‘You need to get your stuff out. I mean it,’ said Natalie.
‘I can’t find anyone to help. I just don’t have the networks. I know there’s people that’ll pay…I just can’t find them.’
Networks. Why did that sound familiar? Sounds like… works, perks, jerks…Malik! She grinned, fixing the steering wheel with her knee jammed up under it, as she rummaged around in her pockets. She fished out Malik’s card. Imports. ‘Here, try him. He might have a truck. Just don’t mention my name. I’m serious about that.’
Tonight—extra quetiapine.
16
Natalie had made Jenna and Chelsea’s appointment in what was usually her lunch hour; Malik was coming in straight after so that she could complete the assessments involving Chelsea in one sitting. Natalie had wondered if she needed to tell Jenna she was providing lunch. Eating disorders were, primarily, about control. Often in families of origin there were rituals or expectations about food and eating—if children picked it up as being a parental issue, it could become the basis for a power play. Refusing to eat was one of the most effective ways for a child to evoke a reaction.
Natalie had seen girls with anorexia nervosa sending their mothers—distraught, desperate women—shopping miles away because they had promised to eat a particular cake from a particular shop. One of her patients had gone into cardiac arrest at thirty-two kilograms. Amazingly she had survived and, in the end, recovered. Largely, Natalie thought, because after the near-death experience her parents acknowledged they were powerless and stopped trying to control her.
Chelsea was recognisable from the photo that Jenna had shown her, though not as obviously sad. She was seated in the chair next to her mother in the waiting room. Jenna was in her signature baggy red corduroy jeans, and a multi-coloured windbreaker with a label from an outdoor shop. Chelsea looked small. She had shrunk back into the seat, as if she hoped she could disappear into it. Long blonde hair fell into ringlets; she was in jeans and a long mauve T-shirt with a picture of some Disney heroine Natalie couldn’t identify.
Natalie walked over to them. ‘Hi, Jenna.’ She lowered herself to the girl’s height. ‘You must be Chelsea. I’m Doctor King. Thanks for coming along.’
Chelsea’s big blue eyes made her face seem all the smaller; she was like a miniature doll. Very, very pretty: the quintessence of the innocence that paedophiles were attracted to.
Chelsea looked up at her mother.
‘Come on Chelsea, we’re going together,’ said Jenna.
Chelsea wriggled out of the chair, took hold of her mother’s hand, and followed Natalie down to her office. The coffee table there was covered with plates of food: dip, cheese and biscuits, white bread with hundreds and thousands (eight-year-olds love them, Beverley had insisted), a selection of chocolate and plain biscuits, and some fruit. As well as a bottle of water and another of a red soft drink.
‘Seeing as we have to meet over lunch in order to fit you and Malik in,’ said Natalie, ‘I organised some food. Chelsea has to last here a while.’ She smiled at them both; Chelsea was looking at the food with interest, but Natalie thought she saw a tightening of Jenna’s expression. She ushered Chelsea to a seat, placing herself between Natalie and her daughter. Chelsea looked to her mother, and sat back.
‘So, Chelsea,’ said Natalie, ‘I was really pleased your mum could bring you to meet me. Do you know what sort of doctor I am?’
Chelsea looked at her mother, then Natalie and nodded. ‘A doctor that looks after feelings.’
Natalie smiled. ‘Yes, I guess I am. How do you feel about being here?’
Chelsea shrugged.
‘Are you hungry? Because if it’s okay with your mum, you can have whatever you like.’
‘Go ahead, Chelsea.’
Chelsea seemed to be wrestling with what, if anything, to choose. There was an edge to Jenna’s tone which, in this relationship, meant something like: Don’t select the unhealthy foods or you’ll get fat. Chelsea stole a look at the plate of fairy bread. Natalie picked up a plate and helped herself to some biscuits and cheese. She turned to Jenna.
‘How’s Chris going?’
‘Chris? As impossible as ever.’ Jenna ventured a small smile. ‘I think it’s a male thing. He seems fine with my father and Malik.’
Chelsea had managed to get a piece of the fairy bread with sprinkles without her mother noticing, but promptly dropped it.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Natalie quickly, seeing Chelsea’s expression. She grabbed the waste paper basket and scooped it up. ‘Try another—my secretary made them especially for you.’
Natalie suspected she missed a terse glance from mother to daughter. Whether it was that or the horror of having messed up the floor, Chelsea just took a plain biscuit and sat back on her chair.
‘How do you get on with your little brother, Chelsea?’
‘He’s fine.’ Chelsea took a bite of the biscuit. ‘Well, when he isn’t being totally annoying.’
‘I had a little brother,’ said Natalie. ‘I remember he was really, really, annoying. He used to want my toys all the time.’
Chelsea nodded solemnly. ‘So does Chris. And he’s very noisy.’
‘It must be quieter when he’s at his dad’s.’ There was, she thought, the slightest flicker, a tightening at the corners of Chelsea’s mouth. Because she knew Malik was a taboo topic…or because she was afraid of him?
‘When did you last see your dad?’ Natalie asked.
‘Not for ages.’ If Natalie had had to say, she would have said there was longing rather than fear in Chelsea’s voice. Natalie looked at Jenna, whose stare held a challenge. Had she been defying the court order?
‘We get to have girl time then, don’t we Chelsea?’ Jenna weighed in. Her smile was too bright and made her look edgy. If Chelsea had been a baby she would have found her mother’s expression scary. But at eight she wasn’t looking at her mother, and instead focused on Natalie.
‘Chris gets to go but I stay with Mum.’
‘Which is fun, isn’t it?’ said Jenna.
Chelsea, nodded, eyes on the floor.
‘What do you enjoy doing with your mum, Chelsea?’
‘Roller skating.’
‘Both of you?’
‘Mum used to ice skate too and we went to the ice rink once but we don’t go often.’
‘Roller skating along the beach is a bit warmer,’ said Jenna. ‘We sometimes go on a Sunday. Chelsea’s really fast.’
Chelsea smiled. She ate the rest of the biscuit.
‘What else do you like to do with your mum, Chelsea?’
‘Reading, and she’s really, really good at making things. I got top marks for my French lesson because Mummy helped me make this gigantic’—Chelsea jumped up onto tiptoes and stretched her hand high above her head—‘tower…thing.’ She looked to her mother.
‘Eiffel Tower,’ Jenna said.
‘And we watch Harry Potter.’ Chelsea sat back down, but her voice was more animated, even if her smiles were tentative. ‘But I’ve only been allowed to see up to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azban.’
‘Azkaban,’ her mother corrected.
Chelsea lowered her voice a fraction. ‘It’s a bit scary.’
Natalie let them talk about the Harry Potter stories—she must have been the only person in the world left who hadn’t seen or read them—and watched Chelsea relax as the topic diverted from food, welcoming her mother’s involvement in the conversation. Chelsea tended to look to her mother for approval or if she didn’t know the answer to Natalie’s questions. But she didn’t appear depressed, or at least not severely so. Nothing that wouldn’t fit w
ith a parental separation and an awareness that food was a sensitive issue.
Natalie didn’t expect much else. Protective Services had yet to interview Chelsea with a child therapist; there had been a mix-up with times, and Jenna’s parents had taken her two hours late. Winona had said she would ring Natalie when they had the report. As far as she knew, Chelsea had still not said anything directly about abuse. Which might only mean that she was good at keeping secrets.
One thing was clear: Chelsea was smart and she was in tune with her mother. If she believed staying quiet was necessary for her mother’s well-being, it would be hard to crack her defences.
As the clock ticked over to 1 p.m., the phone on the desk interrupted a conversation about ballet classes and her teacher, Mrs Ambrose.
‘That’ll be Beverley telling me Malik is here,’ said Natalie.
It was hard to watch them both for a reaction so she focused on Chelsea. But Chelsea turned first to her mother—and then the mask went up.
‘Perhaps if you could wait outside, Jenna?’ said Natalie. ‘Beverley will send him in.’
17
When Malik came through the door Natalie had her head down pretending to write notes. But she was watching Chelsea.
There were two possibilities as she saw it, each with variations.
The first was that Malik was an abuser who had coerced his adopted daughter into sexual activity and threatened or bribed her not to say anything. As a result, Chelsea might be directly fearful of him. Alternatively—or as well—she might feel some sense of connection, sharing a secret that she hadn’t made sense of, but which gave her some power. The fear would still be there, but harder to find, and unlikely to come out until she was older.