Silent Heart

by Claire McNab

  I wiped my hands across my cheeks. "Obviously not."

  Quantas Flight Eleven droned its way across the Pacific, chasing time as we crossed the International Date Line. We'd left Sydney mid-afternoon Friday: we'd arrive in Los Angeles near ten o'clock in the morning of the same day.

  Hugh, sitting next to me in Business Class, glanced anxiously at me from time to time, particularly when I ordered my fourth gin and tonic. "Victoria, is something wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong."

  "You don't look yourself, you don't look yourself at all." He pursed his lips. "I imagine you're worried about the tour and I'm pleased to go through the itinerary with you. It's going to be a great success —"

  I broke in with brutal frankness. "Hugh, don't talk to me. I need silence. All right?"

  He nodded reluctant agreement. "Okay, but... you're not ill, are you?"

  "I'm fine. I just need to be left alone."

  As Hugh settled back in his seat, grunting unhappily, I considered that last emphatic word. Alone — I was alone. Who could, or would, or would want to — share my loneliness? I knew, intellectually, that I was not to blame for what had happened to me. I'd had a child's trust in my father to love me and protect me. It was not my fault that he'd abused that trust.

  I put my head back and closed my eyes, listening to the reassuring dull rumble of the engines. The meaning of my recurring dream of bright lights and shame at my nakedness was no longer mysterious. But was knowing the truth enough to change a lifetime of narrow, safe responses?

  I'd put the envelopes containing the contents of the box in my luggage. When I could bear to, I intended to sort through them carefully, looking at everything in the light of what I now knew. I wondered at what point my mother had begun to suspect. She'd worked for an office employment agency in the city, and, as my father's registered office was our home address, I'd have often been in his sole care.

  Scenarios ran through my mind: had my mother come home unexpectedly and interrupted a film session? Or had she seen my father's pet name for me in the catalog and screened one of the films out of curiosity? Had I been present when she accused my father, and been ashamed because I was the cause of their rage against each other? In my imagination I could see the images she must have gazed at with the same horror that I had experienced.

  Was this the reason that my mother had crashed the car and killed them both? Had my Uncle David been right when he said Isabelle had murdered — executed — my father? Would she have done that, even if it meant dying herself? Or had she intended to discuss everything rationally, then become so upset, so angry, that she'd lost concentration and plowed into the tree?

  Fatigue from the twelve or so hours in the air had dulled the sharpness of my emotions, so I walked off the plane like an obedient automaton, following Hugh's exhortations without question. I collected my luggage and stood waiting in line for the legality of my entry into the United States to be established with an official stamp from the Immigration Service.

  Hugh clucked impatiently at the logjam caused by a tour group with inappropriate visas, but I was beyond caring about such trivialities. My new knowledge was forcing my whole view of myself to shift and realign. Explanations and reasons for what I was and how I behaved were changing, but were not yet in clear focus.

  When we finally reached our hotel — "One of the best in L.A." Hugh assured me — I told him I had to call Australia on a personal matter, and would meet the charge on the hotel bill.

  Hugh was patently curious. "If all you want to do is tell someone you've arrived safely, I can do that for you when I'm ringing my office." He checked his watch. "Well, not yet, of course, since in Australia it's still very early in the morning."

  "I need to make the call myself, Hugh."

  Alone in the understated luxury of my hotel room, I sat on the edge of the bed puzzling over the instructions for international calls. After the long flight I wanted a long, hot shower, but much more important was my need to speak with Reyne. As I acknowledged that need, I had the sweet realization that I was totally certain she would welcome my call, even if I woke her from sleep.

  The connection was clear, as if we were only a short distance apart, not thousands of miles. My heart turned at the pleasure that warmed her voice. "Hi. I was going to call your hotel a little later."

  I smiled. "Were you?"

  "Of course. I intend to chase you by telephone across the States until we meet in New York."

  I bit my lip as tears stung my eyes. Her affection had broken through my artificial calm. When I didn't respond to her comment, she said, "Hey — are you still there?"

  I cleared my throat. "I'm here."

  Her voice suddenly gentle, she said, "Something's wrong, isn't it? Tell me."

  Immediately after viewing the films in my office, I'd been in a panic of humiliation and confusion, needing to keep secret from Reyne what I'd discovered. Now that I'd managed to get the flood of my thoughts into perspective, I wanted to tell her because — I realized with a jolt — she was the person I felt closest to, safest with. "I've found out something about my father..."

  The words came tumbling out. I explained, described, my voice staccato with stress. She didn't interrupt as I struggled to express what I thought and felt.

  When I had finished, she said, "Oh, darling..."

  In the past, I'd never sought comfort, priding myself on my stoicism, but at that moment I wanted Reyne to hold me and tell me everything was all right. It took a moment until I realized she was asking me something. "I'm sorry?"

  "I said, do you want me to come to the States early? I'll rearrange my schedule."

  "For me? Would you do that?"

  "Of course." Reyne sounded surprised that I'd asked the question.

  I wanted to know why I meant so much to her that she would do such a thing. What was so special in me that she couldn't find it in someone else? I said, "Thank you Reyne. It means so much to me that you're offering to do that, but you know Hugh has every waking moment filled, and as long as I see you in New York..."

  Long after we'd broken the connection, I sat mesmerized by the possibilities that a future with Reyne might hold. Yet underneath that thread of hope was my fear that I could never be sufficient for her happiness...

  I'd been to the United States before on sabbaticals, visiting various universities and centers of learning, but show business American-style was an entirely new world to me. Everything seemed to be brighter, harder, more intense. In talk shows I found myself asked astonishingly frank questions — by Australian standards — about my personal life. In self-defense I swiftly developed a safe set of answers, but I continued to be amazed by the intimate details other people being interviewed would reveal.

  Hugh shadowed me everywhere, assessing the attentions of people in entertainment or publicity who seemed to sense, like leeches, the dollar possibilities of new blood. The tour was turning out to be a much greater success than I'd anticipated. Although Hugh was obviously hoping Rampion Press would ascribe this to his efforts alone, I suspected it was more an accident of timing. Apart from the benefit of my exotic Australian accent and citizenship of a country widely regarded as strange and wonderful, it was fortunate that I didn't have competition from some famous author publicizing his or her latest book. In addition, we'd only just arrived in the States when a controversy erupted about "pornography" in literature being introduced in university study programs, and I found myself the instant expert on the topic.

  I was bitterly amused at the fine literature that was being defined as pornography. The bigots who condemned the celebration of desire between adults ignored the true pornography in society, the exploitation of women and children like me in print and film — and in the home — where we were victims, not equal participants.

  I spent two hectic weeks of interviews, plane flights and anonymous hotel rooms in one city after another. Apart from appearances, I avoided socializing with Hugh or Rampion executives as much as possible, preferring
to spend the time alone in my room. Once Reyne was in New York, I established a routine of speaking with her every evening. Strangely, I felt closer to her on the telephone than I did when we'd been together. I grew skillful in assessing the tone of her voice, the nuances of her words. Day by day she became more important to me, and I looked forward to our meeting in New York with a mixture of trepidation and happiness.

  I could be rational about my sexual coldness. It was obviously related to repressed childhood memories of my father's abuse, and then the loss of my parents — my mother. I smiled wryly to myself. The chilly upbringing I'd experienced with my aunt and uncle could not have helped, either.

  But logic could only take me so far. I wanted to believe — I hoped with something close to desperation — that understanding what had happened to me would be enough to change me.

  I kept returning to one thought. Reyne... would it be different with Reyne?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I barely had time to check the room's layout and the spectacular New York skyline through the hotel window before the phone rang. I snatched up the receiver, hoping to hear the warmth of Reyne's voice.

  "Victoria? It's Zoe. I got your number from your publishers."

  Surprised to hear her brusque tone, I said, "Is something wrong?"

  "No. Nothing's wrong." The distinct time lag as our voices leaped the circuit to the satellite then back to earth gave our conversation a quality of dislocation.

  I was about to ask why she was calling when she said, "I suppose you wonder why I'm calling."

  I was puzzled by her tentative manner. It was so unlike Zoe to be indirect.

  "The fact is, Victoria, I've been thinking about you. About your father and what you found out..."

  I felt suddenly trapped in the brightly lit cell of the hotel room. "Who have you told?"

  "I haven't told anyone." She sounded puzzled. "Why would I?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I'm calling because I'm worried about you. I want to know if you're all right."

  The genuine concern in her voice broke through my reserve. Out of a surge of affection came an unexpected desire to be open. "Zoe, I can still hardly believe those awful things happened to me. I don't remember them. I've seen the films, I know I was abused. Even so, my memory's still a blank."

  "Mum and Dad — they should have done something."

  I found myself in the unusual position of defending my aunt and uncle. "They did do something — they gave me a home."

  Zoe made an impatient sound. "Fine, Victoria, but Mum and Dad knew what happened to you, so why didn't they arrange counseling, something to help you..."

  I felt the anguish of the past well up in me. "I don't know why they didn't, Zoe. Perhaps they thought it was best forgotten."

  "Maybe it would be better if you'd never found out."

  "No!" My response was involuntary, intense. "I have to understand what happened to me in the past..."

  Zoe's sigh came gusting down the line. "But knowing it has upset you so much."

  I was impatient with her. "I can recover from that pain, because I know what causes it..." I searched for words to make it clear — to myself as well as Zoe. "My life's been twisted by things I can't remember, but they still have the power to damage me. I need to know what they are, so I can cope with them."

  "Is that why you wrote the book?"

  Her question took me by surprise. "The book?" I repeated.

  Her sympathetic tone dissolved in mercurial anger. "The Erotic Muse, of course. It's all about sex, isn't it? I've often asked myself why you, of all people, would write such a thing."

  I managed a derisive laugh. "I had the time to write about it because I wasn't doing it, Zoe."

  In the silence that followed, the international line crackled softly. Then, meekly, Zoe said, "I'm sorry, Victoria. The last thing you need is me attacking you over your book." Then, in a tone clearly demonstrating that we were to move to safer subjects, she continued, "And how's New York?"

  We chatted for a few moments more, and, as we were ending our conversation, I said, "Zoe, I've decided that if Arthur brings in a business manager, I'll be happy to invest in his company."

  This didn't bring the pleased response I'd expected. "You're not saying that because... I was nice to you?"

  "No, unexpected though it was." Zoe laughed at my tart tone. "Oh, good," she said, "because it's quite unlikely to happen again."

  Having a couple of hours to spare before Hugh picked me up for a luncheon appearance, I showered, wrapped myself in a toweling robe, and stretched out on the bed's pale green quilt. I'd left a message for Reyne at the Millennium offices, and I hoped she'd call back before Hugh arrived. In the meantime, I intended to put my mind in neutral and sink into a pleasant doze.

  But my mind refused to wind down. My thoughts spun in a whirlpool of pictures, snatches of conversation, sharp emotions. I could feel my fingers digging into Uncle David's shoulders as I shook him, see my father's smiling face in the film, hear my aunt's cold voice criticizing me for some transgression. I turned to bury my face in the pillow. If I couldn't control this torrent of images, how could I ever be whole?

  Abruptly, my memory threw up a conversation I'd had with Gerald: I stood in my kitchen glaring at him as he said with aggravating assurance, "... why not consider therapy?" And then, after my furious response, "It could give you some insight..."

  I opened my eyes. You're a victim of incest, an inner voice said. I sat up. "No, I'm not," I said aloud. "My father made films of me, that's all."

  But was that all? And weren't the films made for men to find pleasure in the things my father did to me? Suddenly resolute, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. If I denied the actuality of my father's offenses against me, I'd be repeating what I'd done for so many years — hiding from the truth.

  The ringing phone broke into my thoughts. "Hi!" said Reyne.

  "Oh, darling..." I stopped, disconcerted by my use of an endearment. I made an absurd effort to explain. "Actually, I don't call people darling..."

  "I should hope not."

  I tried to match her light tone. "It must have slipped out because I'm quite fond of you."

  "That accounts for it," said Reyne agreeably.

  We made arrangements to meet. The first opportunity would be late that night, since Reyne had a full day of appointments and I had a dinner where I was to give a talk titled, Erotica — the Sex Drive Tamed? My address originally had a rather more mundane title, but some publicist had changed it, and, as Hugh pointed out, "Who cares what it's called, as long as they come to see you?"

  As I hung up, there was a peremptory knock. "Victoria? You ready?"

  "Hugh," I said, opening the door a crack, "you're not going to believe this, but I'm running a little late..."

  Reyne was staying in the Greenwich Village apartment of a work colleague who was overseas on assignment. I insisted that I would come to her, using the excuse of wanting a change from the sameness of hotel rooms. The real reason was that I knew if we were to have an equal relationship it had to be based on equality, and that meant I had to put myself out for Reyne, rather than always expect her to fit in with me.

  Late Friday night in New York was exhilarating. The buildings, the lights burning in empty offices, thrust themselves into a sky made pale with the glow of the city, as people and vehicles poured through the streets in impatient streams. The doorman of the hotel where my dinner engagement had taken place imperiously beckoned one of the ubiquitous Yellow Cabs and handed me into it. The vehicle was noisy with radio music, grubby, and driven by a bearded man with a well-developed death wish. As we joined the lurching traffic to honk our way to the Village, I found myself enjoying the maelstrom of sound and activity. The city was alive with a vibrancy that made me tingle with a matching energy.

  Reyne had been watching for my cab and came down to greet me. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and I felt over-formal in my lime-green dress. Her smile was broad as she said, "I hope you n
otice I hurried right down. Don't want any good-looking New York woman whisking you away."

  I smiled at her, delighted by the actuality of her presence. She'd been so close to me for weeks — in my thoughts, on the telephone — but now I could touch her, see her cool expression fired by the warmth of her smile, taste her mouth...

  "I'm so pleased to see you." I knew I sounded awkward and over-careful.

  She gave me a quick, tight hug. "Called anyone else darling, today?"

  "No."

  "Lucky for you!"

  The apartment had a shabby, clean comfort that relaxed my formality. I sat in a well-worn leather chair and grinned up at her. "I was on a TV panel show this afternoon," I said. "And we were discussing, of all things, sex." I shook my head. "You wouldn't believe the other panelists!"

  "Yes I would. This is New York and anything goes."

  I was suddenly solemn. "Do we go, Reyne?"

  "Together, you mean? I think we do."

  "There are some things you should know..." I stopped, defeated.

  Reyne took my hand, linking our fingers. "There's no hurry."

  I was driven by a compulsion to confess. "I didn't mention it, but I saw my Uncle David before I left. He's in a nursing home. He's bedridden and he doesn't remember very much." I bit my lip. "Reyne... I shook him when he wouldn't tell me what I wanted to know."

  She tightened her fingers. "You're going through a tough time."

  I wanted more than the comfort of her words. "Can we go to bed?"

  She grinned at me. "I was rather thinking of supper, first — but if you insist..."

  I lay on my back staring at the patterns of light on the ceiling. "Reyne, I'm not enough for you."

  She stretched lazily against me. "You're what I want."

  "Will you always be content with this?'

  The light from the street outside was enough to illuminate the serious lines of her face. "It's going to take a long time, Victoria."