by Anne Buist
She decided she didn’t need more caffeine and withdrew down the street a couple of houses, to let his patient escape unseen. From her position, the landscape fell away to the flat inner-city suburbs of Collingwood and Fitzroy, and she had a great view of the skyline of Melbourne: cranes, half-built buildings, St Patrick’s spire. The sound of the tram came rumbling down the nearby street and there was really no other city in the world she could have been in.
Instead of admiring it, she used the time to check Twitter and see if there was any way she could work out the identity of the know-it-all tweeters. Especially the ones mentioning her.
@KidsReallyMatter’s avatar was a cartoon picture of two small children hugging. Their profile stated they were a coffee-loving atheist who swore a lot and—in case there was any doubt—cared about kids. They seemed to tweet mainly on social issues, relatively calmly. Articulate—as far as you could tell in 140 characters…but they knew something about her, Natalie was sure. Possible identities? Any of the staff who had looked after her. Someone at the College? And Lauren. Would she? Payback for the affair—or for still being in Liam’s life?
@ManUnderFire had an avatar picture of Stewie from Family Guy. The handle suggested he was a bit pathetic—or at least defensive. The profile read: Straight white male. If you hate me already, don’t waste your time. Plenty of others doing that. Maybe a guy whose wife had run off and taken his kids…but that was more @MyBitchinRules, who had his own photo—apparently—and no profile. @ManUnderFire read to her as powerless, someone who had perhaps been bullied at school and now didn’t have anything better to do with his time. He had plenty of opinions about what the government should do in a string of tweets about child abuse, largely siding with those who had been wrongly accused.
@lizar82’s avatar looked like it was a cover of a Mills and Boon romance. If 82 was her birth year, she and Natalie were the same age. A romantic? Quirky profile—tea-drinking dreamer who wanted to live on an island and not wear clothes. Her timeline included many retweets of outrage about asylum seeker policies, but mostly it was conversations with people she seemed to know: sorry to hear about your sister or see ya next week; the occasional you knobhead whoever you are to someone who had said something she disagreed with.
The minutes ticked by and no one came out of Declan’s house. She frowned. Declan was a stickler for time. A patient would have left at ten minutes to the hour. Perhaps a supervisee, then?
Natalie knocked and opened the door; Declan’s office was open and he was sitting waiting. No sign of the blonde.
‘I thought you had a patient.’
‘No, I’ve had the afternoon off,’ Declan said. ‘Enjoyed a round of golf.’
‘With the woman that was here?’ It really wasn’t like Declan. Nor was his response. Only an instant, but she knew that look: guilt. Bloody men. She felt a sense of enormous disappointment. Idealising her supervisor was stupid but perhaps inevitable. He’d helped her survive the year of rehab, and kept her on the straight and narrow since her first bipolar episode as an intern. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t human.
‘Have you seen Mark La Brooy’s column?’ she asked, slamming down a copy on his desk. ‘I renotified. You were right. Chelsea did give me something I could use in court… though not with a name attached.’ She paused. ‘What the fuck am I going to do?’
‘About Chelsea? It’s in the hands of the court.’ He waved the paper. ‘About La Brooy? Nothing.’
‘What do you mean nothing?’
‘I have spoken to Ken Rankin.’
No surprise there. Natalie had never met him but she had a feeling that was about to change.
‘He and I agree that weighing into this debate will make things worse. We can’t control the media.’
‘So we just let them say what they like?’
Declan shrugged. ‘These columnists have opinions. Educated readers can sort out the real issues.’
‘So, the College is just going to let me be crucified?’
Declan looked at her sternly. ‘One columnist has mentioned you once.’
‘I’m all over fucking Twitter.’
Declan frowned. ‘We need to sit and watch, Natalie. The College is across the situation.’
‘And the Medical Board?’
‘There is nothing to answer for, Natalie.’
Yet.
‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ Declan added.
‘So they don’t want me to come in?’
He hesitated. ‘Not at this stage.’ Meaning, one more thing and she was toast.
Time to forget about personal issues. And tweets. She thrust the picture she had brought into his hands.
‘Chelsea’s nightmare.’
Declan nodded. ‘Did she talk about it?’
‘A monster,’ said Natalie. ‘Jenna had been wording her up that the sessions were about nailing Malik. So I didn’t want to come straight out and ask her if it was him.’
Declan waited for her to go on.
Natalie couldn’t sit still: she started to walk around the office. ‘She said in the earlier part of the session she was sad not to be staying at her father’s and was angry at me. When I asked would the monster in her nightmares come in that bedroom, she said no.’
‘It might be useful to ask her to draw her family,’ said Declan as he looked at the picture. He spent a few moments deep in thought. The ticking of the clock in the hall seemed to echo down the corridor as Natalie waited, counting the ticks and feeling as confused as Chelsea.
‘You have to understand that at eight, Chelsea may exist in two different realities. As children develop and form their sense of who they are, they evaluate themselves and their experiences against their important role models, the people they love. For a child, the crucial other is the parent, who is seen as all-knowing, powerful and omnipotent.’
Declan let this sink in before he continued. ‘What happens if that parent is also scared, and no longer powerful? Let us suppose Jenna’s reality is that Malik is the abuser. To exist in a relationship with her mother, Chelsea must incorporate this view even if it isn’t happening—or if it is and Chelsea doesn’t experience it as abuse.’
‘What about when Chelsea is with her father?’
‘Assuming he is the abuser, the abuse isn’t necessarily scary but part of what makes their relationship special—because it has yet to be evaluated and processed in the light of maturing and later relationships. But once the abuse is in the real world—named and reacted against, then Chelsea will be confused and frightened. At the moment, she is perhaps somewhere in between.’
‘So if Malik isn’t abusing her—say the schoolteacher is…’
‘Certainly possible. But this type of abuse over time… Family are more likely. Was Jenna abused herself?’
‘She says not.’ Natalie thought for a moment. ‘She has an avoidant style, so minimises negatives in her childhood, tendency to idealise…It’s not impossible.’ Natalie remembered the parents’ story of the unexplained stopping of Little Athletics. Because someone had abused her there?
‘That would distort Jenna’s views and distort Chelsea’s world even more.’
Natalie tried to put herself in Chelsea’s shoes. ‘So if Malik wasn’t guilty—let’s say his brother is, if we’re keeping it in the family—she can’t tell her mother because Jenna has so strongly convinced herself Malik is responsible? And confused Chelsea with this?’
Natalie thought of all the adults she had worked with who had delayed for years telling their parents what had happened. Chelsea was only eight. She didn’t understand what was being done to her—and couldn’t talk about it because it would fracture the already unstable world she lived in. And Jenna, unintentionally, might be making it even more unstable if her belief that Malik was the abuser was not true.
If Malik was responsible…then, in time, Chelsea could be helped to adopt a view of him that was her own, but likely to be compatible with Jenna’s.
But if not? Then it
meant Chelsea’s monster was still out there with access to her. And no one to help her.
37
Natalie sat in the waiting room wishing herself anywhere else on the planet but here. At least the only other patient sitting on one of the mismatched antique chairs didn’t have a baby, but she looked a good deal further along than Natalie.
Natalie ignored her, not wanting to do pregnancy talk any more than she wanted to do baby talk. Something happened to women when they had babies that made Natalie want to run and hide. Would it happen to her without her noticing? Or would she flee at the first sight of this alien within her?
Her mother, for all their problems, had always been there. It wasn’t like Natalie had a maternal role model of escape, and not like she had ever run away from anything before. Why was she feeling such a desperate need to escape now? Nerves. Lack of support. She could imagine Declan saying to her you don’t have to do this alone. But alone she was. Her choice.
Liam had left text and voice messages—she hadn’t answered any of them. When she had proof—when they both knew—who the baby’s father was, then they could discuss options. The current uncertainty—more in his mind than hers—made their relationship too complicated. As if it wasn’t complicated enough already.
All three of them had taken the test, and the magic of modern genetic analysis had been performed. Some of the bean’s cells were in her blood. For two thousand dollars—extra because she wanted both men tested, so there would be no doubt in either man’s mind—they had extracted the component that was alien to her, running around in her blood, and compared the genetic profile to the DNA in Liam’s and Damian’s blood sample.
She could ask if it was a girl or a boy; decided not to. Declan undoubtedly would say she was defending against the reality. The test couldn’t tell her the other thing she wanted to know. Will my baby have bipolar? It didn’t matter, not really. It was just that life was tough enough without an extra burden. She figured that she’d just have to work on best evidence: the bean would have a risk, but if she kept its early childhood ‘good enough’ then there was a chance that the genes, even if they were present, would not play out.
Now she was about to find out the result to the question that could be answered, without either Liam or Damian with her.
Would Liam want the child once she had confirmation that it was his? Would he fall in love with it at birth? Would he want to be there with her, or had he already moved on, decided it was too much trouble managing everyone’s needs, her, his ex, their children—at the same time?
And if (however unlikely) it was Damian’s? Living together for the kid wasn’t her style; friends with benefits wasn’t his. Natalie winced at the idea of weekend handovers, but figured they’d work it out without the need for the Family Court. Maybe he’d sleep on the couch and help out with the night feeds that Declan was so worried would tip her bipolar over the edge. They might well—night shifts had, back when she was an intern.
Alex Lascelles called her in. Today he was wearing a velvet jacket with gold brocade. Natalie had to resist the temptation to rub her hands over it as she walked past. He performed a quick check-up then handed her the paperwork from the lab. She thanked him and left.
Natalie was still taking in the results as she made her way out of the private clinic wing through the crowds in the main hospital foyer.
If she had noticed Liam’s ex-wife earlier she would have taken a different route.
Lauren intercepted her outside the florist’s. She was dressed, as always, in an impeccable suit, this one probably made for her in Italy, or in Paris en route to some WHO meeting or medical conference. Natalie looked up from the paperwork and, as she saw Lauren, had to step around a shop assistant to avoid her. Some ten centimetres shorter than Lauren, Natalie instinctively stepped another foot further away—into the floral display around some Spring Racing Carnival cut-outs—and squared her shoulders.
Lauren must have seen something aggressive in the stance. ‘Oh, please,’ she said. ‘Just try. It would make my day.’
With hospital staff to witness? Natalie could just imagine trying to explain it Declan. After the day she’d been having, Natalie felt more like diving in front of a tram herself than pushing Lauren under one—even if she was tweeting as @KidsReallyMatter.
‘I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.’ Natalie was jammed between the promotional cut-out and Lauren; she wondered if she could move the display so she could walk away.
‘You think not?’ Lauren’s eyes glinted. ‘You had the nerve to give advice to my son.’
Shit. What had James told her?
‘Lauren, grow up. This is about you and Liam, not me or your children.’
Lauren’s self-satisfied expression sent a shiver through her. Natalie could only hope it didn’t show.
‘Actually, it’s about who my children spend time with.’
Meaning not some nutter? Natalie felt the old mix of rage and shame well inside her, the feelings that led her to deny she had bipolar, that made her fear her own evaluations of herself. When she was depressed it led her to think she wasn’t as good as everyone else, that she’d be better off dead. Maybe Lauren just meant she was a home-wrecker; Natalie felt guilty about that too, but it didn’t bite as deep—neither Lauren nor Liam were blameless in that matter.
Natalie wasn’t unwell now. She didn’t want to see Lauren on her butt—at least not if Natalie had to put her there. She wanted Lauren to see reason. To let Liam and her live their own life—and not to harm James and Megan in the process.
Nothing she said was likely to be heard. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.
‘Your issue is with Liam. You chose him and then you chose to leave him. Decide which it is you are grieving and get on with it.’
Natalie was edging away when Lauren grabbed her arm. It took some self-control not to attempt a kick-boxing manoeuvre but as it happened, because she kept moving, the result was the same. Lauren hadn’t seen the shop assistant kneeling on the floor mopping up a spill. When she sidestepped into the water she slipped and ended up crashing onto the table, buckets of water and flowers descending with her, followed by smiling pictures of race-goers in fascinators. The lavender roses that landed in her lap were a nice final touch.
38
Malik was pacing the waiting room when Natalie got to her office.
‘He’s been here an hour,’ Beverley told her, covering the phone mouthpiece. ‘And he was crying.’ Hand removed. ‘No, not fruitcake. We want the French wedding cake, the one…’
Natalie went to deal with Malik.
‘I’ve only got ten minutes, Malik.’
‘Please.’ His eyes were indeed full of tears; his puppy-dog look would have melted women harder than Natalie. Or maybe it was her hormones.
‘They won’t let me see either of them,’ said Malik. ‘The workers say they will get an intervention order out if I go within a kilometre of the house—my house, Doctor King! My own house, my children. Jenna won’t even let me speak to them on the phone; she is turning them against me, they will hate me.’
Natalie crossed her arms. ‘Malik, this isn’t about you.’
At her tone, Malik slumped into the chair. Maybe they didn’t have to worry about Egyptian mothers—Ama probably pulled him into line in exactly this manner.
‘Chelsea is being abused, do you understand?’
Malik nodded slowly. ‘This is what they tell me. So I have come to ask. Are you sure, I mean, really sure? Could Jenna not have told her to say things? Bribed her?’
‘No, Malik. I’m not saying she hasn’t done that too, but this is stuff that can’t be made up.’
Malik’s head dropped into his hands. A minute passed before he spoke; Natalie had to strain to hear him as he hadn’t moved.
‘Do you know, when Chris was born I saw him only on Skype? Do you know how that is, to see someone so small, so in need of your protection but you cannot be there? Cannot touch your own flesh and blood
?’ Malik slowly raised his head and looked at Natalie. ‘When I was allowed to return he had already grown, but he looked at me and I never wanted him to stop looking. I am his father.’
‘You’re still his father,’ said Natalie. ‘But both children must be protected until it is clear what the risk to them is.’
‘How is Chelsea?’ Malik’s eye twitched. ‘After Chris was born, I saw Chelsea differently. She was four, but it was as if I am looking and seeing her for the first time as well. Still a child, not so much bigger than Chris. Does having a child make you hear differently? She was always very… able to speak for herself. She got more demanding, but I didn’t find it annoying, I saw that she was really asking for…reassurance. Now, Doctor King, who is there to give it to her? Not Jenna, who is about her new job, or Jenna’s mother, who is about her next drink.’
Another minute passed.
‘Do you know,’ Malik said, voice now firmer, ‘what it is like to look at the beds they are meant to be sleeping in? The edginess I couldn’t explain when I had Chris and had to hand him back, it was because the emptiness that was about to follow would last another week. Now they say it will be forever. Always, I will be empty inside.’
Natalie watched him, trying not to react. This wasn’t acting—this was real and raw. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t an abuser. It had all been about him.
‘I read,’ Malik continued, ‘about abuse. This Royal Commission, how the lawyers are made ill hearing these stories, that they have nightmares. And do you know what I think?’
Natalie shook her head.
‘I think, that if you are right, this is what my little Chelse will be living. A nightmare grown men and women cannot bear.’ He leaned in closer to her.
Natalie looked at him hard. Was this the psychopath lying because he knew what she needed to hear to believe him? She saw pain in his eyes and could not convince herself that he didn’t truly feel for Chelsea—which meant she couldn’t convince herself he’d abuse her.