The Mothers' Group

by Fiona Higgins

  When she looked at Heidi now, she felt as if she’d discovered life’s true meaning. She shuddered to think of the hell she’d once experienced, standing alone next to Heidi’s cot, listening to her scream. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but somehow she had been delivered from that dark place. By grace, it seemed, for it wasn’t of her own doing. By Astrid, perhaps. And she wanted to acknowledge that somehow.

  She gravitated towards Made, seeking out her company on Friday mornings, in place of their usual mothers’ group meetings. Suzie sometimes came, Ginie never did. More than two months after Astrid’s death, she finally asked the question that had been lingering in her mind.

  ‘Made, when you visited me in hospital, you brought some flowers in a woven container,’ she began.

  Made nodded.

  ‘It had incense and other things in it. What was it?’

  Made looked apologetic. ‘I hope you not mind,’ she began. ‘It is Hindu offering for healing. You not like?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Pippa. ‘It was beautiful, I still have it. In fact, I wondered if you might be able to help me.’ She blushed. ‘I’m not a Hindu, but . . . I’d like to give thanks for my healing, for Heidi. And to pray for Astrid and Cara. Could I ask you to help me do that?’ She wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking.

  Made smiled. ‘You come next week to my house. We make prayers together.’

  And so it was that Pippa found herself in Made’s backyard, a batik sarong wrapped around her waist, holding an offering in her hands. She followed Made’s directions and placed the basket on the shrine. Incense billowed around her as she gazed up at the parasol, its tassels dangling in the breeze.

  Made rang a small silver bell three times and brought her hands together in the prayer position. The chiming petered into silence and, suddenly, there was no sound at all. Not a breath of wind rustling in the leaves, no birds twittering in branches, no distant hum of suburban traffic. Pippa closed her eyes, submitting herself to the emptiness.

  An image of Astrid and Cara emerged from the darkness. Goosebumps crept across the backs of her arms. A small white bird darted across the canvas of her mind and ferried Astrid up, up, into an endless blue sky. The image of Cara remained, her face twisted in anguish. A warm orb of light descended from the same sky, hovering over Cara, nursing her gently in her grief.

  Pippa couldn’t tell how long she spent in that place. Eventually, the image of Cara faded. As Pippa breathed in and out, she felt every part of her being release. All the despair of the past year seemed to drain from her body. Her heart felt light and warm. She was grateful beyond words.

  Heidi gave a sudden shriek. Pippa opened her eyes with a start. The moment was broken, but perfect nonetheless. Heidi was waving her pudgy fists in the air and grinning.

  Pippa grinned back.

  Made rang her silver bell three times again, then opened her eyes and stood up. She brushed a stray gum leaf from her sarong.

  ‘We visit Cara,’ she said. ‘The ancestors tell me.’

  Pippa nodded. ‘It felt like that for me too. Cara and Astrid were right there in front of me. Thank you, Made, for praying with me.’

  Made shook her head. ‘No, you no understand. We make visit to Cara soon. It right thing to do, ancestors say.’

  Pippa swallowed. The idea of seeing Cara was too painful for words, but looking into Made’s face, she knew it was the right thing to do.

  Cara

  Cara awoke with a start to the sound of crying. Her own, or Astrid’s? She couldn’t be sure. Disoriented, she pulled at the cord dangling above her head. The blind whizzed upwards with a speed that jarred. Light filtered through the heavy green vines that grew along the trellis beyond their bedroom window. Dust motes swirled in patches of pale winter sunlight. It was early afternoon, she guessed.

  A bunch of lilies, delivered the day before, were arranged in a vase on her bedside table. Bulbous crimson stamens jutted from yellow throats. Their pungent, musky odour was almost sexual. She’d disposed of the card just as soon as she’d read it, but she couldn’t remember why. She sat up in bed and listened for noises from Astrid’s room, but heard nothing.

  And then it hit her. The crushing awareness, storming through the tranquillising fog of her prescription sedatives. No sounds of crying or laughter from Astrid’s bedroom now. No use for the jumpsuits and tiny dresses still neatly folded in drawers, untouched. No wayward hairclips in the bathtub, stuffed toys in the car, dolls’ houses or finger puppets. The one she loved most in the world, her shining star, was dead.

  She lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. The medication had done something to her tears. It was August; Astrid had only been gone three months and yet she couldn’t cry as much. But the desolate feeling was still there; it always would be. The creeping, agonising consciousness of Astrid’s lonely death in a dirty dam and her own flippant ignorance as it happened. The endless imaginings of Astrid’s final moments: the struggle for air where there was only water; arms reaching for an outstretched hand; confusion, perhaps—then nothing.

  Cara’s only respite was the numb haze of sedated sleep.

  Her eyes wandered to the lilies again. Those flowers are from Ravi, she thought suddenly. Yes, Ravi had sent her flowers every week for the last three months, ever since it happened. Richard had said nothing, dutifully delivering them to her bedside. Hoping, perhaps, that she would stand up from her bed to accept them. Watching silently as she tore the card into tiny pieces.

  Richard was racked with grief himself, that was clear. His eyes were dull, his face lined, his shoulders stooped. And yet he never failed to bring her three meals a day, leave a newspaper at the foot of her bed, or ask her how she was feeling. Every morning, he would climb the stairs to the bedroom they used to share, open the door and arrange his face into a smile.

  ‘Nice day,’ he’d say, or some other banality.

  Ignoring her silence, he would potter about the room. Opening blinds and windows, removing the previous night’s dinner dishes, laying out a fresh change of clothes.

  ‘Well, I’m off to work,’ he’d announce, when there was nothing else to say. Then he would bend down and kiss her cheek. The mild scent of his aftershave reminded her of her grandfather.

  Despite her silence, he’d turn at the door. ‘Call me if you need me, Cara.’

  And she would nod, though they both knew she never would.

  He was a gentleman, Richard, even in tragedy. Why had she failed to recognise this before her world imploded? Why had she harboured useless fantasies of a life without him? It was something she would never truly understand, or forgive, of herself.

  *

  She’d thought she’d finished with Ravi on his wedding day.

  The foyer of the university’s Great Hall was filled with familiar-looking people she couldn’t quite place. One even greeted her like an old friend.

  ‘Cara!’ the woman gushed, thrusting an order of service into her hand.

  ‘You look fantastic! My God, how long’s it been?’

  Cara searched the wide blue eyes for some relic of her student past.

  ‘Too long,’ she replied. ‘You look lovely yourself.’ She peered into the chapel. ‘Which side’s the groom’s?’

  ‘Oh, you know Ravi,’ said the woman affectionately. ‘There are no sides. Sit wherever you’d like.’

  ‘Right,’ Cara replied. ‘We’ll catch up later then?’

  But the woman was already ushering other guests over the timber threshold and into the hall’s darkened interior.

  You know Ravi.

  Cara was conscious of the clicking of her heels over the black and white marble. Guests sat on wooden benches arranged in rows, like church pews, talking in hushed voices. A large table was positioned on the far side of the hall, draped in purple bunting. Four solid white candles, each festooned with braided marigolds, rested on top. An Indian touch, at odds with the Westminster-style pipe organ that towered above them.

  Clutch
ing her handbag, Cara walked along the red carpeted aisle, glancing around for a seat. For a moment she imagined, in spite of herself, traversing its length as Ravi’s bride. She turned into a row and squeezed past several other guests.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she whispered, careful to catch no one’s eye.

  She sat down heavily. Sweat was beginning to trickle from her armpits, staining the delicate fabric of her dress. She closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing. It’s just like any other wedding.

  The murmuring of guests subsided as the opening bars of Pachelbel’s Canon echoed around the hall. Cara turned to see a string quartet tucked in a corner near the door. How very traditional; how unlike Ravi. A lot must have changed in a year.

  Several figures had emerged at the front of the hall and were loitering beyond the reaches of the candlelight. She strained to see the tallest figure. It was Ravi; his profile was unmistakable. He appeared to be talking to a man in long robes, an officiating celebrant of some description. Then suddenly Ravi stepped into the light, flashing an exuberant smile. Cara’s stomach somersaulted, as it always had, at the sight of that smile. Flawless white teeth against soft olive skin, hazel eyes laughing at some private joke. He held himself with the same air of quiet confidence she’d always admired, a combination of heritage, humility and sheer hard work. After all this time, he was still her Ravi.

  Her heart sank as the music grew louder and a spear of daylight illuminated the carpeted aisle. Here comes the bride. The guests rose from their seats with a collective shuffle. Cara craned her neck to see the object of Ravi’s devotion.

  She was graceful, that was for sure. Fine-featured, diminutive, like a ballet dancer. Her lace gown clung naturally to her, like lichen on a slender tree. Her hair was caramel-coloured, not unlike Cara’s, pinned in a classic French twist. Cara held her breath as she passed, unable to fault her. The sighs of admiration were nauseating.

  The service was surprisingly old school: a marriage liturgy adapted from the Book of Common Prayer, interspersed with several poetry readings and a token reference to the Hindu Upanishads. A bland instrumental piece marked the signing of the register before the celebrant turned to offer his final, formulaic pronouncement.

  ‘Friends, I proudly pronounce Ravi and Tess . . . man and wife.’

  Spontaneous applause rippled through the crowd. The couple smiled at one another and moved together for a long, lingering kiss. Cara winced as someone behind her wolf-whistled.

  And then they were walking down the aisle together, hands swinging like happy children.

  The reception was held in one of the university’s original buildings, a two-storey sandstone edifice with gabled windows and a manicured rose garden. The garden was off-limits to students, accessible only by a staircase descending from a marble balcony on the second floor. But Cara could remember scaling that six-foot hedge with Ravi one evening after a trivia competition, several months after they’d first met. They’d tumbled down the other side, breaking a bottle of cheap champagne they’d intended to drink among the roses. Covered in sticky pink alcohol, they’d cackled in the darkness until a surly security officer shone a torch in their faces and told them to bugger off. Later that same night, they came dangerously close to kissing at Redfern station. Ravi leaned towards her, his breath warm with alcohol and a faint hint of spice.

  ‘Cara, you’re beautiful,’ he whispered, his lips centimetres from hers.

  ‘Ravi, you’re drunk,’ she replied.

  And then her train arrived, a wall of air billowing from the tunnel at the platform’s end. Brakes squealed, automatic doors hissed open and shut. She sat in an empty carriage, smiling out at Ravi through the window. He stood on the platform as the train lurched forward, a curious expression on his face.

  It was the same expression he would wear years later, when gazing at his new bride.

  They’d met in a cultural studies class called ‘Women, Madness and Medicine’. Cara was in the first semester of a graduate diploma in media studies, full of zeal to change the world. Ravi was in his second year of a Masters of Public Health, on a federal government scholarship for talented postgraduates from emerging economies.

  It was the third week of first semester, and Cara was delivering a stinging critique of psychiatry’s intervention in the lives of female patients.

  ‘And in conclusion,’ she declared to the tutorial group, ‘biological psychiatry is a totalising epistemological paradigm that offers one-pill solutions for women, failing to recognise the systemic social issues that inform female mental health.’

  She shuffled her papers, self-conscious, while her fellow students offered up a polite round of applause. Glancing around the room, she noticed an exotic-looking male at the rear, clapping with gusto. She looked away, but her eyes were drawn back to him. As her gaze met his, he did an outrageous thing: he winked at her. She lifted her chin and avoided further eye contact.

  The tutor, a mousy-looking postgraduate, stood to address the class.

  ‘Wonderful presentation, Cara,’ she said. ‘Questions, anyone?’

  She nodded towards the rear of the room. Cara knew exactly where it would lead.

  Mr Exotic smiled. ‘It was a magnificent presentation,’ he said, with a delicious British Indian accent. ‘The parallels between patriarchy and psychiatry are interesting. But, Cara, do you honestly believe that there is no biological basis for mental health issues like schizophrenia in females? That these conditions are exclusively a product of women’s societal context?’

  Cara reddened. Her name had rolled off his tongue so naturally. His accent was distracting.

  ‘Well, no, I don’t agree. I mean, not entirely,’ she fumbled. ‘But I’m no expert on schizophrenia.’ She thumbed her tutorial paper. ‘Are you?’

  ‘No expert at all.’ He smiled. ‘But my medical studies suggest that most mental illnesses have a biological component. Not every sickness of the mind is sociological.’ He paused. ‘But, then, perhaps I am complicit in a patriarchal medical system that sees the normal human being as male.’

  Several students sniggered. Cara couldn’t tell if he was ridiculing her. She stared at the back wall, wishing the tutorial would end.

  Eventually, it did. Students streamed out the door, chatting and laughing. As Cara slid her presentation back into its plastic sheath, she sensed his presence. She looked up only when he cleared his throat.

  ‘The way you constructed your arguments was impressive,’ he said. ‘I’d like to hear more of your thoughts on the medical system.’ His formality was disarming.

  ‘Oh?’ She wanted him to flounder.

  ‘But only if you are prepared to share them,’ he added. ‘I think doctors can learn a lot from the humanities and social sciences.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true.’ She zipped up her satchel and walked towards the door.

  ‘Wait.’ He jogged to catch up with her. ‘I’m Ravi.’ He thrust a hand towards her. ‘I was captivated by your paper, Cara. We surgeons are notorious for our bluntness.’

  Cara stopped. He’d used her name again, in the same sentence as the word ‘captivated’. And had he just said he was a surgeon? She turned to face him and couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t good at pretending.

  ‘Do you drink coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I mean, I don’t like the taste. But I drink other things. Chai, tea, you know . . .’ She blushed, fearing she sounded desperate.

  ‘Do you want to go to Holme?’ The building had a café and was within easy walking distance.

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘But my next class starts in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘This won’t take long.’

  And he was right. It hadn’t taken more than half an hour for Cara to begin to fall for Ravi.

  Over their first cup of chai, she’d learned something of his background. At twenty-eight, he had already completed a medical degree and surgical training in India. Intending to return to his
home village to practise, he’d been surprised by the offer of a postgraduate scholarship in Australia.

  ‘Fortune smiled on me that day,’ he said.

  Cara doubted it had anything to do with luck. ‘Don’t you miss your family?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. But my mother and sister are very strong women, Cara. My country is not like Australia. Have you ever been to India?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘It’s very basic in Gudda, my village. It’s unusual for someone like me to end up here. They were all amazed when I went to university in Delhi. They didn’t think Australia would be next.’ He laughed aloud. ‘My family is very proud.’

  She couldn’t imagine how hard he must have worked to find himself here, drinking chai in a student café at the University of Sydney. By comparison, she was impossibly mediocre. From an average middle-class family, with two white Anglo-Saxon parents and a wayward younger brother. She’d grown up in the white-picket-fence suburb of Seaforth and attended an Anglican private school. And her world might have been limited to that, had she not won a Rotary scholarship in Year Eleven that took her to Papua New Guinea. That six-month stay had changed her forever. She’d been shocked by the poverty, the lack of education, the level of preventable disease. And she’d returned from the experience determined to help improve the standard of living in the world’s poorest nations. After school, she’d completed an honours degree in international development. Then she’d started on a graduate diploma of media studies, in the hope of becoming a social justice journalist.

  ‘Journalism is a noble calling,’ said Ravi when she shared her ambition. ‘The free press is the only true basis for civil society.’

  Encouraged by his interest, she asked if she might interview him about his experience as a ‘new arrival’ in Australia for Honi Soit, the campus newspaper. They’d swapped telephone numbers—he shared a flat in Glebe with an engineering student—and arranged to meet again after the following week’s cultural studies class.