The Mothers' Group

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘Suzie, did I wake you?’

  ‘I was asleep on the couch.’

  Monika paused. ‘Are you alright, Suzie? I’m worried about you.’

  She leaned back onto a cushion and pressed her hand into her eyes, hard.

  Monika hardly ever asked her how she was. Suzie’s lips began to tremble.

  ‘I’m . . . not the best,’ she admitted.

  ‘Anything I can do? I could take Freya another night this week if you’d like, to give you a bit of a break?’

  ‘Thanks.’ For the first time ever, she didn’t feel aggravated by the offer. Monika meant well, she knew. In fact, apart from the women in her mothers’ group, Monika was one of the very few people who actually gave a damn about her. And she was the only person in the world who would drop everything if Freya needed it.

  ‘Are you still there, Suzie?’

  ‘Yes.’ Suzie sighed. ‘Monika, listen. I was wondering if . . . if you might come around and keep me company one night this week. We could watch a DVD or something.’

  Being by herself at night again was hard for Suzie.

  ‘Oh.’ She could hear the surprise in Monika’s voice. ‘Well, I’d like that. I could bring some dinner over on Friday if you like. Say, after six thirty?’

  ‘Good,’ said Suzie. ‘We’ll talk more then.’

  She replaced the handset.

  Monika’s just like me, she thought. A woman alone in the world.

  Without the extra income that Bill had provided, Suzie dropped all the activities she’d only just taken up. The swimming lessons, Gymbaroo, the music classes. Instead, she started taking a weekly train trip to Chatswood; it was cheap entertainment for Freya. They caught a ferry from Manly first, then a city loop train that took them to Wynyard. From there, it was only seven stops to Chatswood. They brought homemade sandwiches and met Monika on her lunch break in a park near the driving school. The outing cost less than ten dollars and they were always home in time for Freya’s nap.

  Suzie wasn’t sure which was more enjoyable—the picnics in the park with Monika, or the train journey to Chatswood. Freya would watch the train approaching, clapping her hands as it pulled into the platform. Then she would make low humming and hissing sounds, mimicking the engine and the sliding doors. They would always sit in the easy-access carriage, best for managing Freya’s stroller, and watch the world flying past the windows. Even the most mundane objects captivated Freya: a bright blue plastic bag blowing beneath a seat, a tartan shopping trolley, a cheesy advertisement for chewing gum.

  Once at Chatswood, they would walk the short distance to the park and wait for Monika. Suzie would lay out the picnic rug and follow Freya as she toddled after pigeons or played in the autumn leaves. Monika would join them at midday, always bringing with her some small treat for Freya: a heart-shaped sticker, a lift-the-flap book, a stuffed toy.

  One Thursday in April, as they sat on the picnic rug eating their sandwiches, Monika pulled a lollipop from a brown paper bag and thrust it at her. Suzie turned it over in her hands, inspecting the label.

  ‘It’s called a Nature-Pop. I bought it at a health-food store,’ Monika explained. ‘No artificial colours or preservatives. Apparently manuka honey has medicinal properties too. Is it okay for Freya to have one, after her sandwich?’

  Suzie flushed, pleased to be asked. Monika had gone to considerable trouble to choose just the sort of edible treat she might buy herself. Months ago, Monika never would have been this considerate. How far she’s come, Suzie mused. How far we’ve come.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That’s really nice of you.’

  Monika dismissed the praise with a shrug. ‘These sandwiches are a bit . . . chewy,’ she said. ‘What’s on them?’

  ‘Tahini.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  Suzie said nothing. Some things about Monika would never change. But she could change, she’d learned, over the lonely weeks since Bill’s departure. Monika wasn’t perfect, but neither was she. And Monika had lived thirty more years of life than Suzie, and she had to respect that. She’d had her own life, her own challenges, and she loved Freya as any grandmother would.

  Watching them interact, Suzie wished her own parents lived closer than Brisbane. With Bill gone, Freya had no male role model in her life, not even a grandfather. The mothers’ group had become even more important to Suzie, offering rare social opportunities that both of them needed. Suzie hoped that, in time, there would be more group activities involving husbands and grandfathers. Gatherings like the combined first birthday party and Mother’s Day celebration, which Suzie was helping to organise with Pippa. With more events like that, Freya could have at least some contact with adult males.

  *

  On a cold night in late April, the mothers’ group finally held the book club session they’d been delaying for months. At Suzie’s invitation, they’d gathered at her flat in Dee Why.

  Cara, Miranda and Ginie squeezed themselves onto the sagging two-person sofa, Made sat cross-legged on the shag pile rug, Pippa was seated in a fold-out chair she’d brought from home and Suzie sank into her brown patchwork beanbag.

  Without the babies present, and with the benefit of several bottles of wine between them, the conversation was intense—or perhaps it was the book, Suzie wasn’t sure. She’d finished We Need to Talk About Kevin the night before, appalled to the very end. She’d found a scene close to the end of the book, in which a teenage sociopath went on a killing spree at school, deeply disturbing. The mothers’ group had been talking in circles for more than an hour and the debate was getting heated.

  ‘Well, I found it a bit far-fetched,’ Suzie objected, passing a plate of cheese and crackers in Made’s direction. ‘The book made out that Kevin was a killer from the beginning. It painted him as some kind of child monster, even when he was in nappies. But I didn’t believe that Kevin was as evil as his mother made him out to be. Okay, he was really a nasty kid. But the more I read, the more I thought the mother had problems of her own. Serious ones, like when she physically abused Kevin.’

  ‘Oh, no, Suze,’ groaned Ginie. ‘It wasn’t abuse, it was a once-off. And Kevin deserved it. I’m not saying it was right, but I totally understood why she belted him.’

  ‘Well, if it’s acceptable for a mother to model violence,’ Suzie retorted, ‘why wouldn’t Kevin turn out the way he did?’ She could hear the shrillness in her own voice, but she couldn’t moderate it. ‘As his mother, she was partly responsible for the massacre.’

  Ginie shook her head. ‘I disagree. Not every hideous act of a child can be linked to poor parenting. Kids make choices too.’

  ‘But parenting is what moulds kids, Ginie,’ Suzie countered. ‘A lot of bad parents find it much easier, more convenient, to blame something external—you know, genetics, the government, their demanding job— than take responsibility for their role in their child’s behaviour.’

  Suzie wondered if Ginie detected the barb. For months she’d wondered why Ginie was so willing to outsource Rose’s upbringing to a nanny, when so little was known of the longer-term consequences on children.

  Cara intervened. ‘I know what you mean, Suze. That scene where Eva broke Kevin’s arm, it was horrible. But at the same time, like you, Ginie, I understood why she did it . . . and I felt terrible for sympathising with her! Then I thought maybe this is part of what the author is trying to do. Maybe it’s a device to make readers—mothers like us—question traditional views about what mothers are supposed to think and feel.’

  Suzie sipped at her glass of wine, considering Cara’s words. It was all a bit abstract for her. She glanced around the room, waiting for someone else to respond. She’d positioned six large candles on the bookcase and turned off the main lamp. The candlelight flickering across the ceiling, while not unpleasant, was distracting. The soft scent of citrus hung in the air. The aroma, coupled with the shadowy light, brought Bill to mind. She squeezed her eyes shut against the mental image.

  ‘Wh
at did you think of the book, Miranda?’ prompted Cara, breaking the silence.

  Miranda had been quiet the whole evening.

  ‘More vino?’ asked Ginie, tipping the bottle towards Miranda.

  Miranda nodded, then hung her nose over the glass and inhaled. She and Willem were connoisseurs of wine and food, Suzie had learned. Miranda and Ginie were always swapping restaurant reviews.

  ‘I think . . .’ Miranda paused. ‘Well, so many of you have already said what I was planning to say.’

  ‘That won’t wash,’ objected Ginie. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Miranda quaffed a mouthful of wine and reached for her Evian bottle. She straightened her back against the sinking sofa.

  ‘Well, I know everyone’s been focused on the role of Eva, the mother, and how she contributed to Kevin’s problems,’ Miranda started. ‘But I was more interested in the role of the father. So many things seemed to go unsaid between Eva and Franklin. Kevin would do something awful, and Franklin would just do nothing. After a while I thought, he’s an intelligent guy, why is he so blindsided by Kevin? But Eva didn’t try very hard to help him understand the extent of the problem, either. Maybe she didn’t want to let Franklin down, I don’t know. I just kept thinking that the pair of them could have stopped the tragedy together if they’d sat down and talked honestly. The title of the book was interesting, because it’s the one thing they never did.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Suzie, impressed. ‘Did you study literature at university?’ The title of the book had seemed strange to her, but she never could have thought of that.

  Miranda ignored the compliment. ‘Fine arts, actually.’

  Suzie turned to Made, wanting to be inclusive. ‘What did you think of it, Made?’

  ‘I only finish first chapter,’ Made replied, apologetic. ‘Even with more time. I sorry.’ The group had extended the deadline on several occasions. Despite this, many of them had struggled to plough through it.

  ‘But I wonder one thing,’ Made said. ‘From first chapter.’

  The group waited.

  ‘I wonder why author make main character from Armenia? Her name is . . .’ She opened her book at the first page. ‘Khatch-a-dour-ian?’ She enunciated each syllable slowly. She looked around the group. ‘This book about America, yes? American problem with guns, American families, society there. So why this mother is not American?’

  Suzie shifted her weight on the beanbag. It was a good point, she thought.

  ‘That’s really interesting,’ said Cara. ‘I mean, whenever you see media coverage of high school massacres in the US, the perpetrators are usually white, Anglo-Saxon, middle-class males.’ She paused and drained her glass. ‘You know what, Made? I think you might have made the best point of the night, even without reading the whole book.’

  Made smiled shyly, as if embarrassed.

  ‘No, really,’ continued Cara. ‘We’ve spent all our time analysing whether Kevin’s mother and father were to blame for his actions. But maybe the book’s saying something about the way humans look for cultural scapegoats. You know, the perpetrator of a crime always comes from somewhere else, never your own backyard.’

  Made nodded, her expression thoughtful. ‘This book sad for me, because it about blame. In Bali, many people look after child. Parents yes, but others too. If child do something bad, many in village sad, not just parents. Many feel responsible.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cara, her face animated. ‘Maybe We Need to Talk About Kevin is not about individual responsibility at all. Maybe it’s actually pointing to the failure of modern Western societies to give parents the kind of support you’re familiar with in Bali. You know, the idea that it takes a village to raise a child.’

  ‘Well, for me,’ said Pippa suddenly, her eyes serious, ‘all of you are my village. I couldn’t have made it through the last eleven months without you. Seriously. I’ve got no other support, apart from Robert.’ She looked around the room. ‘I remember when I was a teenager, thinking that one day I’d get married and have kids and that it would be this natural sort of process.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘But it didn’t happen that way at all. I had no idea what motherhood really involved. The way my body’s changed, how it’s affected my relationship with Robert . . . I mean, I love Heidi of course, but I had no idea how depleted I’d feel.’

  ‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ said Miranda. ‘All those things no one ever tells you about motherhood. It’s like secret mothers’ business. Lots of my friends had babies before me, but not one of them ever told me it would be this hard. Now I ask them about it and they say, “Oh yes, but you can’t tell a pregnant woman the negatives.” It’s like a code of silence.’

  ‘So much for the sisterhood,’ agreed Pippa. ‘My specialist told me that one-third of women have serious pelvic floor problems after birth. But most of them are too ashamed to ask for help, so they end up having prolapse operations in their sixties.’ She reddened. ‘This past year there have been times I’ve felt like I couldn’t go on. It was only this mothers’ group that got me through, really.’

  Made leaned forward. ‘Yes, for me like that too.’ She smiled. ‘Gordon is good husband, but moving to Australia very hard. Easier for me now with friends like you.’

  Ginie cleared her throat. ‘Well, I admit I was a bit of a sceptic about mothers’ groups at the beginning.’ She drained her glass. ‘But now I tell people it’s like having my own board of directors for babies.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘And given how different we are,’ added Suzie, smiling in Ginie’s direction, ‘it’s so nice that we’ve been able to give each other support. I’ve really needed it, with Nils leaving and everything. And now with Bill gone . . .’ She bit down on the inside of her mouth, willing herself not to cry. She was the only one in the group who seemed to do so, at the drop of a hat. ‘It’s really good to have your friendship.’

  Cara stood up. ‘Well, given the negative content of tonight’s book, it’s great to end on a high note. I think we’ve agreed that it takes a village to raise a child, and that we trust each other with that task. And I say, bottoms up to that.’ She raised her glass to the group.

  Everyone clinked their glasses together.

  Miranda

  4.57 am

  Miranda squinted at the alarm clock in the semi-darkness. I should be thankful, she reasoned. At least it isn’t 3.57 am. Willem had left for the airport half an hour earlier, creeping across the floorboards in Egyptian cotton socks, gathering his things as quietly as he could. His efforts were futile, of course. She was so attuned to waking at the slightest sound. The muffled zipping of his suitcase jolted her out of sleep and she’d lain on her back, listening to him shower and shave. Preparing himself for that liberating moment when he could close the front door on family life, straighten his tie, climb into a taxi and enter an easier world.

  There was no sound from Rory’s room, for a change. Most days, he would wake before dawn and coo softly in his cot until she tiptoed in with a bottle of milk. The silence was unusual, but she resisted the urge to check on him. Digby, however, had stirred and called out just as soon as Willem had closed the front door. She’d crept into his room and, in a forceful whisper, told him it was still time for sleeping. Miraculously, he’d rolled over and slipped his thumb back into his mouth, nuzzling his ragged blue comforter. She’d pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and stooped to kiss his cheek, warm with sleep. As her lips brushed his skin, she’d felt a sudden bolt of tenderness. But as she closed his door behind her, she felt relieved, more than anything else.

  Is this what a battle-fatigued soldier feels like? she wondered.

  She shook her head, chastising herself for the analogy. I’ve never known true adversity, she thought. And Digby is not the enemy.

  She climbed back into bed and retreated under the blankets, cocooning herself against the dawn.

  And then Digby called out again, more insistent this time.

  She glanced at the
clock.

  5.13 am

  She always found it difficult to manufacture chirpiness this early. She pushed back the blankets and sat up in bed. Why couldn’t he sleep just a little longer? Her head throbbed and the aftertaste of last night’s ravioli seemed to linger in her mouth. She’d laboured for hours over the recipe, rolling out sheets of homemade pasta and carefully shaping delicate parcels of spinach and feta. But Willem had winced when he’d sampled one, setting his fork aside.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she’d asked.

  ‘You used feta, not ricotta.’ He’d wrinkled his nose. ‘No Italian would ever make it that way. Too salty.’

  Willem was fond of referring to his Italian ancestry, when he wasn’t dropping names in Dutch. His father, Marco, the Australian-born son of Italian migrants, had met his mother, Hendrika, a stunning KLM flight attendant, on a flight from Rome to Amsterdam. After their engagement, Hendrika willingly made her home in Australia, but they named their first son, Willem, after her father. For all of Hendrika’s Dutch blonde beauty, Willem had inherited his grandfather’s Latino looks.

  Miranda opened the top drawer of her bedside table and groped around for the packet of aspirin she kept under a jumble of socks, art journals and half-completed lists. She tore three tablets free of the foil and dropped them into the glass of water that stood on the bedside table. She listened to the comforting fizzing sound as the tablets dissolved.

  ‘Mum. Mum. Mum. Muuuuuum. Muuuuuum.’ Digby’s usual refrain was gaining momentum.

  Her body had become used to the numbing fatigue, but her mind continued to rebel. Before children, she’d been a devotee of yoga and meditation retreats, where she’d often sat straight-backed on hard wooden floors at ungodly hours of the morning. It had all seemed so virtuous at the time; she’d applauded herself for her mental and physical fortitude. Now, she could only fantasise about such solitude, the pleasure of cold floorboards pressed against her backside. Just one blissful hour of contemplation followed by a bowl of unpalatable gruel for breakfast. To be alone again, focused exclusively on the evolution of her soul. What bliss.