The Mothers' Group

by Fiona Higgins

  Cara stared at the tea leaves floating in the pot. ‘It’s an awful disease.’

  She wondered whether her own father could be trusted at home alone, before dismissing the thought. He wasn’t that far gone, she told herself.

  They talked a bit about their work. Richard managed his own accountancy practice, having spent ten years working in a large corporate firm. His specialty was taxation law. She nodded politely as he described his typical working day; but anything financial bored her.

  Perhaps sensing her lack of interest, Richard abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘I’m taking my dad to Taronga Zoo next weekend,’ he announced. ‘He was a vet before he retired. Mostly cats and dogs, a suburban practice. He hasn’t been to the zoo in years. I thought it might give Mum a break.’

  Cara nodded, touched by his compassion.

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to come along,’ he ventured. ‘And maybe bring your dad? Peter, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh . . . ’ Cara wasn’t expecting an invitation. ‘Um, let me check my diary.’

  She rummaged around in her handbag and retrieved a black leather-bound book. She pretended to scan a list of events. The coming weekend was depressingly empty.

  As she stared at her calendar, she weighed up his offer. It was a nice idea, but she hardly knew Richard. The prospect of taking her father anywhere without the reassuring presence of her mother was daunting. She’d never done it before. What if things went wrong, and her dad became distressed? How would she cope?

  She glanced up at Richard, waiting patiently on the sofa.

  ‘Well, next Sunday looks okay at this stage,’ she said. ‘From about three o’clock?’ It was a safe suggestion; their outing would be limited to no more than three hours.

  ‘Great,’ said Richard, beaming. ‘I can pick you up from your parents’ house, if you’d like?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He continued to smile at her and she wondered, briefly, if she’d made a terrible mistake.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said, ‘but I actually have to go and get a few things from the markets.’

  It was Sunday, after all. Her day for going to the fish markets and then reading the newspaper in the park nearby. She glanced at her watch.

  Richard stood up. ‘Of course. Thank you for the tea.’

  She collected the cups.

  ‘Thanks for the daisies.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘I’ll see you out.’

  He walked to the door and fumbled with the latch until Cara reached around him to release the lock.

  ‘Goodbye, Cara.’ He stepped out on to the doormat and turned, as if on the verge of saying something.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, closing the door.

  She walked back to the lounge room. Just thinking about her father had drained her. She glanced at the wicker basket perched on the table, her shopping list folded neatly on top. The markets could wait until next weekend.

  She curled up on the sofa and closed her eyes.

  Two years later, she was married to Richard.

  He’d wooed her with his good nature, his patience, his persistence. Their first visit to the zoo had turned into a fortnightly event. They’d spent every second Sunday afternoon shepherding their fathers through wildlife exhibits, admiring anacondas and iguanas, before taking afternoon tea at the zoo’s café. Over the course of a year, Cara had come to see that Richard was reliable, loyal and generous to a fault.

  Then they’d progressed from zoo visits to the movies, cafés and weekends away. Richard was the quintessential gentleman, always opening doors and umbrellas for her, refusing to split bills, walking on the street side of the footpath. Sometimes he seemed like a man from a bygone era who had been parachuted into the modern world. While their sexual chemistry was mediocre, their friendship was warm and utterly relaxed. He made her laugh, he made her think, he made her breakfast. And, slowly, Ravi had receded in her consciousness, emerging only now and then in dreams as a shadowy figure with olive skin and a shining smile.

  When Richard asked her to marry him, she wasn’t surprised. He was the right person in so many ways, and she was thirty-three years old. She was either going to have a baby by thirty-five, or miss the boat altogether. Here was a man who was financially independent, with a mortgage on a house in Freshwater, close to her parents. As her mother had pointed out, she was unlikely to do any better. But more importantly for Cara, Richard had shown that he was prepared to prioritise her above everything else in his life. He was solicitous in his attentions, devout almost. Life with him would be more than comfortable. And it was futile, she reasoned, to yearn for things she couldn’t have.

  The ceremony was a low-key affair in a registry office, with only their families present. She’d shunned a larger event, avoiding anything that showcased their fathers’ slow deterioration. As it was, her father had burst into tears halfway through the proceedings and had to be escorted outside.

  Within three months of the ceremony, she was pregnant with Astrid.

  In the first intense weeks of Astrid’s life, Cara had never felt happier. She was intoxicated by this delicate, innocent creature, and she spent whole days staring at her, bathing her, lying bare-chested on the couch with her. Obsessing about her feeding, sleeping, burping and bowel movements. Richard was thoroughly supportive, just as he’d promised. In the early weeks, he’d taken himself up to the baby health centre and gathered up dozens of pamphlets on infant care. He’d even confirmed her place in a mothers’ group, anxious to ensure she had a good support network before he returned to full-time work.

  By the time Astrid was three months old, Cara couldn’t remember how she’d filled her days before motherhood. She knew she’d been busy, but never this busy. Astrid simply ate time. Cara would start her day with a list of twelve things to do, and arrive at the end having achieved two or three. Wonderfully, she didn’t really care. What’s more, Richard was quite flexible with his work. He left for the office most mornings after nine o’clock, returning home well before six. Just in time for ‘arsenic hour’, as they called it, when Astrid was inevitably tetchy.

  But Richard went further than that. He insisted that Cara sleep in every Saturday morning, entertaining the baby for as long as possible before, eventually, waking Cara to breastfeed Astrid in bed. On Sundays, they headed to the Manly markets, buying pastries and takeaway chai lattes; Richard knew how much she missed the weekend markets of the inner west. And sometimes, when Cara was feeding Astrid in the middle of the night, Richard would appear and stand in the doorway, just watching. Then he would tiptoe across the room and, in a gesture of solidarity, massage her neck.

  Richard was so supportive in those early months, it sometimes moved her to tears.

  ‘Um, honey, that’s not really . . .’ She watched as Richard attempted to change Astrid’s nappy. The change table was littered with wipes and a soiled nappy was balanced precariously on one edge.

  Richard stopped. A muscle twitched under his right eye. ‘Why are you watching me?’ he asked. ‘What am I doing wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her tone conciliatory. ‘But you’re supposed to wipe from front to back.’ She showed him the correct action. ‘If you don’t, she might get a urinary tract infection.’

  ‘Oh.’ Richard looked deflated. Then, after a moment, he said, ‘I was only trying to help.’

  Cara nodded. ‘Yes, honey. You couldn’t have known that.’

  ‘But how did you know?’ he asked. ‘I mean, the direction for wiping?’

  ‘Oh, I just knew. Women’s business.’ She smiled. ‘And someone reminded me about it last week at mothers’ group.’

  ‘And who needs a husband when you’ve got a mothers’ group, right?’

  Cara laughed. ‘Yes, they’re pretty amazing.’

  She began dressing Astrid for their regular Friday morning outing. She loved attending the mothers’ group, it was a fixture in her week. Despite having many other friends with children, none of them were
exactly the same age as Astrid. And she was looking forward to this week’s mothers’ group in particular, as it was the inaugural session of their book club. When she’d first raised the idea, everyone had been enthusiastic. Cara had nominated A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, a book that had been sitting on her shelf for years. Ravi had given it to her as a birthday present at university, but its length had always daunted her. She needed the discipline of a book club to make her read it. For the first session, however, Suzie’s suggestion prevailed. Eat, Pray, Love had been an easy read for Cara; she’d finished it in less than a week.

  She lifted Astrid off the change table and turned to Richard. ‘Would you mind dropping us at Beachcombers on your way to work?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘Sorry, I have a meeting in town. But I can take you to Lawrence Street if you’d like.’ From there it was a short walk to Beachcombers, downhill all the way, but it was unlike Richard not to help. Work must be getting on top of him, she thought.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘You’re creatures of habit in that mothers’ group, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You never meet anywhere except Beachcombers.’

  ‘Well, it’s just so convenient. Miranda has Digby, you know.’ She shook her head. ‘Just watching him exhausts me. I don’t know how she does it. He’s completely hyperactive, but Miranda just seems to take it all in her stride. If we think a baby is hard work, just wait until Astrid’s a toddler. But they say girls are different to boys.’

  ‘Do they?’

  She studied his face. ‘Richard, is something wrong?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just seem a little . . .’ She searched for the right word.

  ‘Hen-pecked?’

  She blinked. ‘Pardon?’ He’d never used that expression before.

  ‘I just never seem to get it right with Astrid, Cara. I can’t live up to your standards.’

  She gaped at him. ‘I don’t . . . I’m not . . . You know how much I appreciate your help.’

  He looked at her, his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Richard.’ She put a hand on his arm, balancing Astrid on her hip. ‘You’re a great dad.’

  ‘Maybe I should just stick to making the money, Cara. Sometimes I think you’d prefer it if I didn’t help with Astrid at all.’

  She reddened. ‘Of course not.’

  In reality, sometimes she did feel that Richard’s efforts at ‘helping’ were more of a hindrance. He meant well, but when he didn’t get it right, she was the one who was left to deal with the consequences—a screaming baby, out of routine.

  ‘You’re a fantastic help,’ she said brightly, fearing he saw through her. ‘Let’s go.’

  They travelled in silence all the way to Lawrence Street. Cara looked out the window at the procession of life on the street. Dog walkers and joggers, school children on bicycles, people on mobile phones. There was something in their purposefulness that she envied. She could remember a time when each new day stretched before her, too, ripe with untapped possibility. A new story to be investigated, an unscheduled telephone call, an impulsive dinner with friends.

  Nowadays, family life was more than good. She was thirty-four and she wanted for nothing, Richard made sure of that. Except, perhaps, spontaneity.

  ‘Here we are.’ Richard pulled over in the shoulder just beyond the intersection.

  ‘Thanks.’ Cara planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she reached around and unbuckled Astrid from her car seat, while Richard lifted the pram from the boot. He wrestled with it with the clumsiness of an infrequent user, then stood aside while she manoeuvred it into place. She secured Astrid in the harness, then pulled the shade cloth over the pram. It was time for Astrid’s morning sleep.

  ‘Have a good day,’ he said.

  ‘You too, honey.’

  She waved as he drove off.

  It should have been enough, family life. Even when Astrid had morphed from defenceless baby into active agent and they’d started disagreeing about parenting techniques. Even when the global financial crisis began affecting Richard’s business and he’d become short-tempered. Even when both their fathers had deteriorated, spiralling towards institutionalisation. They still could have made it, she reasoned—had it not been for Ravi.

  It had been months, years even, since she’d thought of Ravi. And then, out of the blue, he’d waltzed into her life once again. One moment she’d been visiting Pippa in a spartan hospital room, the next, she’d found herself looking into Ravi’s warm chocolate eyes.

  She’d replayed the events in her mind over and over. If only she hadn’t visited Pippa on that particular day, at that particular time, she never would have seen Ravi. She never would have agreed to meet him for a cup of chai the following month, for old time’s sake. She never would have relished the news of his unhappy marriage and divorce, or started emailing him again. And she never would have entertained the hope of—what exactly?—that had led her to invite him, on the spur of the moment, to call in at Astrid’s birthday party at precisely the time she knew Richard wouldn’t be there.

  She hated herself. Just one cup of chai with Ravi, and she’d been hijacked by dormant feelings that commonsense demanded she ignore. She’d been thrilled by his attention, intoxicated by the possibility of a relationship reignited. She would leave Richard, she’d fantasised, and start life anew. Astrid would come with her and, in time, she’d adjust to the new environment. Cara and Richard would be gracious in separation, with an orderly schedule of care and visitation for Astrid. She and Ravi would try for a baby and, together, they would build the life they’d been destined to live since their very first meeting.

  Her folly had been frivolous and fatal.

  Often now she would sit, twisting the lid on and off her prescription sedatives. She would relive the events at Manly Dam: the excitement of seeing Ravi, dark and striking, loitering on the periphery. Their brief, enticing meeting. Ravi had brought a gift for Astrid and, as he passed it to her, bent forward to kiss her, his lips brushing hers. Their unhurried conversation, all laughter and shining eyes, about nothing in particular. How she’d noticed the chest hairs protruding above his buttoned shirt and how, when she’d looked up, he’d smiled at her with that same knowing smile of their first and only night together. How he’d asked her to lunch the following Wednesday and she’d nodded, her heart pulsing in her ears. How she’d turned on her heels and, without another word, hurried back to the party.

  And then, how the world as she knew it had collapsed around her.

  Now, three months on, she couldn’t remember how Astrid had looked when they pulled her from the dam. It was not uncommon, the psychiatrist had explained, for the human brain to erase the most damaging memories. But she could still recall the creeping fear, then the instant, indescribable horror. Followed by misery and shame without end.

  In the first month after Astrid’s death, she would often sit and pour all the pills from the bottle onto the bed. Then she would scoop the fat tablets into her palms and watch them slide between her fingers, like sand through a child’s sieve. Once, Richard had found her like that.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he’d asked, hovering in the doorway.

  She didn’t reply. She hadn’t spoken to him, to anyone, since Astrid’s death.

  ‘I’m going to take them away, Cara.’ His eyes were red with fatigue. ‘I’ll give you what you need for the day, but no more.’

  She stared at him, glad he was sleeping in the spare bedroom now. She couldn’t bear the human contact.

  Since then, he had doled out her medication. She would tip three of the four tablets into her mouth and swallow them with water, deftly concealing the fourth pill. When Richard left the room she would slip it into a pencil case she hid under the mattress. For two months she’d been doing that, waiting to see if something might change for her, if the feelings might shift, even slightly. But they hadn’t. Every day was like the one before it: a shower, three meals, the expanse of white ceiling above her head.
The dull, unrelenting pain of Astrid’s absence. Richard’s futile attempts to lure her beyond the bedroom before retreating, defeated, to his work.

  She’d collected fifty-six tablets in two months, but she wanted to be sure. In two weeks, she would reach her target of seventy.

  ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

  She stared at Richard as if he’d spoken a foreign language. Since the funeral, she’d refused all visitors, even her parents. Richard had been more than considerate, diverting phone calls, steering away concerned friends, vetting the post. In the early weeks, he’d taken delivery of the countless flower arrangements that had congregated in the empty spaces of their home. Such flowers were rare now that the crisis period had passed, with the exception of Ravi’s regular bouquets. Most of her friends had respected her wish to be left alone. But the media interest had continued unabated and much to Cara’s dismay, people she’d never met attempted to contact her. Many of the letters arrived at Richard’s office, after a newspaper article cited the name of his accounting firm. According to Richard, most of the letters were well-meaning. Some contained offers of help or prayers. Others offered ‘opinion’, he said, which was code for judgement. She couldn’t bring herself to read any of them.

  ‘It’s some of the women from your mothers’ group,’ Richard told her. ‘Without their children.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’ He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘You’ve got to try, Cara.’ He rubbed his hands over the ginger stubble on his jaw. ‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to support you, but she was my daughter too.’

  Tears ran down his face. He slumped to the floor, his head in his hands.

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can do this, Cara. You’re not helping me. I miss her too. I miss you.’ He looked up, his eyes haggard. ‘You can’t closet yourself away up here. You can’t stay silent forever.’

  Earnest, dignified, kind-hearted Richard. Reduced to this.

  ‘Never once have I blamed you.’ His voice shook. ‘If she’d died on my watch, how do you think you would’ve treated me?’