Mia sighed helplessly at the thought of Rachel arriving in Emergency again, close to death or even worse. She watched Declan read his mobile, his thumb gently scrolling the message on the screen. From the moment they met on the medical school lawns as students — when both had been first on the scene as a young woman collapsed to the ground and subsequently ceased breathing and they had worked frantically to assist her — to subsequent occasions when they would spy each other at lectures and wave, to eventually meeting at the student bar for a drink and ultimately becoming best buddies, Mia and Declan both sensed an unspoken belief they were kindred spirits. With so much in common the times they spent together were cosy, comfortable and full of laughter for each of them, even though there was never any inclination to take the slippery slope towards sex and romance. Eventually, Mia met Eric and Declan met Jillian. When Mia gave birth to Adam, there was no question in her mind who his godfather would be, even though at that stage Declan and Jillian lived and worked in Sydney. Over the years they had faded from each other’s lives. Until six years ago, when Declan was appointed Chief Psychiatrist at the Children’s and he and Mia had willingly resumed their friendship as though it had never been interrupted.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said in his brogue, slipping his phone into his pocket, his dark eyebrows coming together. ‘Are you okay?’
She smiled and nodded. Somehow, it did not seem right to discuss Eric’s uncharacteristic behaviour. Perhaps she was prematurely overreacting after all.
‘I saw Eric last week,’ Declan said, picking up the teaspoon again and stirring his coffee. An icy chill crept down Mia’s spine, as though Declan had read her thoughts.
‘Where?’ she asked, as nonchalantly as she could manage.
‘At the airport. He and a colleague, both in corporate suits, were boarding a plane to Sydney.’ He replaced the spoon and leaned back in his chair.
She nodded. ‘They would have been on their way to Singapore.’
Declan shrugged and made a face. ‘I’m not sure. I saw them the following night walking into the Hilton as I passed. He was wearing casuals and so was she. Probably returning from dinner. Is he back yet?’ he asked innocently.
She studied the tabletop’s stippled pattern. Shook her head, her heart thumping in her chest. ‘I hadn’t heard from him for a few days until yesterday. He sent a text saying he’ll be home tomorrow.
‘It’s been a while this time. You’ll be glad to have him back,’ Declan said, standing and lifting his wallet from the table before slipping it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
Mia nodded and smiled stiffly, following him to the glass revolving door of the cafeteria.
‘We should have dinner soon,’ Declan said turning to her once they stepped outside, on the promenade. ‘I’ll text you soon with some times.’ He gave her cheek a brief peck and dashed off in the direction of his office.
Turning towards Emergency, Mia realised she had absolutely no idea how she felt about Eric’s imminent homecoming.
The drive along their tree-lined street and the sight of their white-stucco townhouse up ahead always brought Mia a burst of pleasure. It wasn’t only that work was done and home was a place for relaxation, it was also because she simply loved her house. Scaling the stairs and entering the family room before stepping into her kitchen, she then stood in silent contemplation at the large window over the sink, smiling at the sight of countless chattering honey-eaters and finches feeding among the camellias outside. Scatterings of pink, red and white frilly blooms turning to brown lay on the thick carpet of violets. And rainbow lorikeets squawked and squabbled enthusiastically, heard but rarely seen in the thick foliage of the Manchurian pears. Slowly, like ink seeping into blotting paper, she allowed her mind to face the worst possible scenario. If Eric is involved with another woman, she thought painfully, for how much longer would this place — the house she loved so much — remain hers? There was also the beach house, their modest fibro fronting directly onto the Fleurieu coastline. She cleared her throat and turned away from the window, unable to face the thought of losing either house.
Slipping a freshly-made salad into the refrigerator, she smiled to herself when she remembered a box of Swiss chocolates and grinned with devious pleasure when she found them, still unopened, in the pantry. Leaving them on the kitchen bench, she made her way to the bedroom for a shower. After that, she decided she would pay the pile of bills that had been niggling at her conscience for too long now, before she had dinner.
Scrubbed pink and shiny from a hot shower and wearing her terry towelling robe, her freshly-washed hair wrapped in a towel and enjoying the sensation of her bare feet on the cool porcelain tiles, she wandered into the kitchen and poured a wine. She tapped the box of chocolates fondly as she took her first sip and sat at the granite bench of the office nook. The thought of immersing herself in her current novel once she was done brought a sigh of pleasure.
‘Bloody nuisance,’ she murmured, imagining the craggy face of her gardener who, unlike all the other accounts she had settled electronically, insisted on being paid by cheque. She sighed and slid from the stool to collect the chequebook from the study.
Standing at the door of the war zone that was their study, her sights wandered over the papers, folders and booklets covering every available surface, including the desk. Eric’s pathological penchant for hoarding meant he never threw anything away — not a letter, or a document, not even a used envelope. Worse, he considered filing, or any form of organised storage, to be tantamount to tossing, so he would not tolerate that either. As hard as she studied every section of the room, she could not pick out the battered old attaché case with the chequebook and other superfluous papers inside, all of which would continue having a perfectly undisturbed existence if not for Craig the gardener.
Still at the doorway, she scanned their library, an incongruously neat and ordered wall of books, to the very top shelf where she finally spotted the narrow frontage of the shabby brown case squatting, oddly, in a cleared space of its own.
‘Yes. You would be at the highest possible point in the universe, wouldn’t you?’ she cursed, clearing a foot-sized space on the desk and carefully climbing on the swivel chair, then up onto the desk. Even at her full height, she could not reach the case. ‘You bastard, Eric. How dare you put my life in danger this way,’ she muttered. She filled the spot on the desk with a teetering pile of books and gingerly stepped onto them. Stretching several times she finally, joyously, managed to hook one finger into the case’s handle and pull. At last, it jumped forward and tumbled from the shelf, unfortunately bouncing off Mia’s foot on its way down to the floor, where it thudded and burst to erupt with papers fluttering and skimming like inmates escaping from prison.
‘Shit.’ She slid from the desk to the floor. ‘Shit — that really hurt,’ she said, rubbing her foot. ‘Shit shit shit,’ she cursed, persistently massaging her throbbing foot and feeling even more rankled as she glared down at the mess. On all fours, she resentfully repacked the case’s contents, digging the offending chequebook out in the process. She was about to close the lid when she noticed …
At first she thought little of the smell of stale perfume hanging in the air. Even as she glimpsed the tiny triangle of pink peeking from behind the ragged lining, it did not occur to her that something could be amiss, and when, driven by innocent curiosity, she pulled at the pink corner and a small envelope materialised, she thought without suspicion or rancour how unusual it was that it should be secreted in that place. It was when she had fully removed the envelope and stared at the word Eric scrawled across its face in gold pen that cold prickles of fear crept over her entire body. She noticed her hands were trembling and wondered if she should open it — knowing, of course, that she would. And knowing instinctively that once she did, her world would change forever.
Eric, she began to read after unfolding the pink notepaper edged with gold, you have ruined me. The only thoughts of which I am capable are of you t
hrusting deeper and deeper inside me. My life is a wasteland without you. I cannot wait until next time. L.
Mia read the same words over and over, unable to factor them into her life … unable to believe that the Eric on this paper was the man to whom she had been happily married for over 25 years. Unable to understand why the tears would not come, no matter how hard she tried. Eventually, slowly, she returned the note to its hiding place, closed the lid and unable to make a decision about whether or not she wanted Eric to know she had found it, eventually left the case on the desk.
Returning to the kitchen, numbed by pain and confusion, she poured a large glass of wine and carried it to the lounge room where she curled herself up on the white leather settee, legs and feet tucked under to form the tightest ball that she could with her body. She thought about everything, turbulent snatches of memories, sounds and visions — and resolved nothing.
When the tears finally came, it was with the last drop from her glass, the empty bottle of wine staring vacantly at her from the coffee table. With demonic howls that sounded foreign, and seeming unjustifiable even to her — despite what she now knew — and caught up in a tidal wave of tears, she briefly considered what her neighbours might think of the noise she was creating, but just as quickly decided she did not care.
Several times through her crying and state of grief, she thought of her parents. The mother she loved and the father she adored, and wished that they could both be here with her at this very moment. They would have been proud, she thought, as she reflected on the life she had built. In no small way, her success was thanks to the values they had instilled in her, not the least of them being her inclination towards delayed gratification. She and Eric, who had been brought up with the same values, had passed them onto Adam.
‘No desert, Mia, until you eat your vegies.’ Those were the words her mother would predictably offer with a smile at every meal. ‘Spend half, save half, and you will want for nothing,’ her father would tell her every Friday, folding his warm hand over hers after placing a gold coin in her palm. But she knew it was impossible that they could be with her now. Not even now, when she wished them alive probably more than ever before since a drunk driver had removed them from her life, forever, in a tragic accident. She had been barely out of her teens. Eric and Adam were her only family.
Honouring the memory of her parents, she made her way towards the kitchen, denying herself the pleasure of another wine for the sensible choice of a cup of green tea. Wandering past the large mirror in the hallway she turned and stared at her reflection. Her wine-stained towelling robe, her red, swollen face smeared with tears and mucous … her dark blonde hair dried flat from being captured in the towel for hours. She rubbed her head in a desperate attempt to instil some form of normality. Still she resembled a shambolic woman, a woman whose life had just crashed to an unrecognisable, possibly unsalvageable copy of its former self. ‘Fuck it. Gratification delay can go to hell,’ she said waving her arm carelessly in the air as she staggered into the kitchen. ‘I love you both Mum and Dad, but I’m opening another fucking bottle of wine.’ Wavering as she bent to rummage in the fridge she withdrew a second bottle — and thought immediately of the wretched Rachel Hooper.
Her head floating above her shoulders like a balloon on a string, Mia took large sips from her glass as she wandered their lounge room and stopped to pick up framed images of their life together. Graduations, their wedding, Adam’s birth … She looked at each photograph as though seeing it for the very first time, noting the gradual transformations from creaseless faces and perfect smiles. Never before had she considered the concept of aging as anything other than the preferred alternative to death. Now she wondered if it was the very reason why her husband had sought the attentions of someone else.
By the time she had finished the second bottle she was close to sleep. She staggered along the carpeted corridor to the bedroom they had shared so happily, so idyllically. She pondered the future they had planned … more holidays … eventual retirement and one day grandchildren to treasure together. And as she slipped under her cool white sheets, her befuddled head sinking and swimming in the feather pillow, she decided she would not allow the cheaply perfumed note and its author, the predatory female ‘L’, to steal her past and her future away from her.
It was then that she made up her mind to tolerate Eric’s affair until it wore itself out, as she knew it inevitably and undoubtedly would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘What were the injuries Dr Sandhurst was going on about?’ Tim asked Rachel, planting his foot on the ute’s accelerator and skidding from the hospital car park into the city’s morning traffic.
Rachel turned to him and shrugged. ‘She’s talking about a tiny bruise. It’s nothing. Just from the pommel of my saddle when Monnie and I jump hurdles. Making such a big deal is totally mental.’ She rolled her eyes and gazed out the side window where the honking city traffic had banked up behind a small car, its driver doggedly determined to persevere in executing an illegal right turn.
Tim flicked the wheel and lunged into the left lane. ‘She said something about a counsellor as well. Is that why Mum got that call from the hospital’s psychologist?’
‘What call?’ Rachel said flicking her head at him like something from The Exorcist.
‘She wanted Mum and Dad to consent to a medical. Mum didn’t say why — but now I get it. It would be because of that bruise. And they wanted you to see a counsellor.’ He looked to her briefly for a response. ‘Mum told them to ask you what you think.’
‘Yeah, well they did, and I told them I didn’t need a medical or a counsellor. They had no choice but to suck it up and leave me alone.’ She continued to gaze out through the side window at the crawling traffic and scuttling pedestrians.
‘Are you okay, Rach?’ he said softly.
‘Oh, rack off, Tim. Of course I am okay. I’m just totally over 50 questions being fired at me by everyone in the universe.’
They were silent for most of the remainder of the trip home. Even as they drove along the coast, Rachel’s shoulders looked stiff and tight to Tim, her neck tense. Just before the turn-off towards the farm, when Rachel gazed out at their stone house in the distance, the sea sparkling behind like crushed glass under the mild sun, she murmured, ‘I can’t wait to walk along the beach again.’
‘Yeah, it must be good to be home,’ Tim said taking the turn-off.
Within minutes the ute thumped gently through the pothole at the entrance then rumbled over the sleeper bridge. Tim slowed and wound the window down, braking to a silent standstill so he could hear the almost silent trickling of the water below.
‘You’re weird,’ Rachel told him. He glanced at her and smiled, traversing the remainder of the bridge slowly, then gathering speed as they approached Monnie’s yard, their stone house nestled in the background.
Even as the car approached, Monnie’s ears were already pricked forward, her nostrils quivering with joyful anticipation. Before Tim had stopped the car and Rachel had alighted, it was as though Monnie knew what was about to occur. Her nostrils widened and, far too excited to stand in the same spot, she trotted the length of the fence with her neck arched and tail held high, snickering loudly at Rachel, who ran to her and climbed through the wire strands, the smile never leaving her face.
‘Hello, Cinnamon. Hello, my beautiful girl,’ Rachel crooned, slipping her shoulder under the horse’s neck. ‘I missed you.’ Monnie rested her head on Rachel’s shoulder with her ears pricked forward, while Rachel stroked the velveteen chestnut fur on her neck. If horses could smile, Tim was certain Monnie would have been.
‘C’mon, Rach,’ he called through the passenger window. ‘Mum’s waiting dinner.’
Built in the days before airconditioning, the kitchen and family room held a permanently grey pall, apart from where the light spilled into the room through three narrow windows. Bare globes invariably glowed from the ceiling, adding only minimal light, no matter the time of day. T
oday, despite the mild spring sunshine outside, the fire burned energetically in the hearth, its gold reflections playing across the worn rugs, the borders of which had been skirted by a brown three-seater lounge and matching armchairs since as far back as Tim could remember.
‘Nice to have you home, pet,’ Annie said resting the spoon on the edge of the gravy pan and walking to Rachel with open arms. They exchanged hugs, and Rachel bent to unwrap Ben’s arms from around her thighs before bending and hugging him. Ben had been granted a half-day off from school so it was difficult for Tim to be certain if his current good humour was attributable to that, or to his only sister finally coming home from hospital having survived reaching death’s doorstep. Ben seemed to have grasped some aspects of what Rachel had been through and remained totally blank on others. Tim resented his parents’ clandestine silence about Rachel’s encounter with alcohol and drugs, despite their openness in relaying details of the ambulance trip, her brush with death and her stay in hospital. It rankled Tim that their parents truly believed Ben had no interest in joining the dots and no right to an age-appropriate version of the truth.
‘Did the doctors and nurses give you lollies while you were in hospital?’ Ben asked looking her up and down as though for hidden booty.
‘No, Ben,’ she said, rolling her eyes, her smile fading. ‘Only Dr Shepherd does that. I’m really tired,’ she said to Annie. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Do you want me to bring your dinner in on a tray?’ Annie asked, her mouth soft with disappointment. ‘It’s roast lamb,’ she added in a hopeful tone.
‘Maybe later,’ Rachel said wandering towards her bedroom.
Tim followed her and placed the striped bag down in the corner of Rachel’s room. He noticed the carpet had been freshly vacuumed and the doona was straight and as puffy as a pink cloud. The cups Rachel and Monnie had won over the years shone on her dressing table and the prize ribbons hung like a red, blue and gold multi-striped curtain to brighten the pale wall, which begged a new coat of paint.
What Matters Most Page 6