Fractured

by Barker, Dawn

  Wendy rubbed her back as they embraced. ‘Shh, it’s OK. We’ll get her back, Anna. Come on. Come and sit down.’

  Anna walked back to the couch, then sat down and curled her legs under her. She hugged one of the cushions and rested her chin on it. They shouldn’t have let her out of hospital. What was she doing here?

  She felt Wendy touch her shoulder. ‘Anna? What about a cuppa?’

  She nodded, and looked up at her mother. She tried to smile. ‘Thanks, Mum. I’m sorry … I’m OK. I think I’ll go and have a shower now, all right?’

  ‘Of course, love. Go ahead – I’ll bring you a clean towel.’

  Anna walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

  * * *

  For the next week, Anna planned each day to the minute. Shower, breakfast, take tablets, go for a walk, lunch, nap, dinner, television, bed. But she couldn’t plan her nights. When she went to bed, she lay on her back with her eyes closed, imagining conversations with Tony in which she asked him what he had done at work that day, what they would do on the weekend. In her mind, he’d reply, just as he always used to, and they’d be a couple again.

  Jack never featured in those dreams. Anna didn’t want to think about what she’d say to Jack; she didn’t want to think about him at all.

  * * *

  Wendy didn’t talk about Jack either. She, too, pretended that everything was normal. She tried not to watch Anna, but she was terrified that she might do something to hurt herself again. Wendy kept Anna’s medication in her handbag and didn’t let it out of her sight, day or night.

  In the evenings, she sat beside Anna and pretended to be interested in the news, or some TV show.

  She pretended that she was able to sleep.

  She pretended that this might not be the last month she would spend with her daughter. If Anna was imprisoned for twenty-five years, Wendy might not live to see her set free.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Three months after

  Christmas Day 2009

  Tony woke to the cackle of kookaburras just as the sun rose. He stretched out in the single bed and looked at the yellowing plastic stars and planets still stuck on the ceiling from when he was a kid. His skin was clammy already; it was going to be a hot day.

  He looked around the room in the dim light, half expecting to see a pillowcase stuffed with presents at the bottom of the bed next to an empty glass and a saucerful of crumbs. But he was a grown-up now, and all he saw was his open suitcase, clothes spilling out of it.

  He sighed, sat up, and rubbed his face. He picked up his board shorts and a T-shirt from the floor, put them on, and walked out into the kitchen.

  ‘Dad. You’re up early.’

  Jim was sitting at the kitchen table reading yesterday’s newspaper. His grey hair was sticking up at the crown and he hadn’t shaved yet. An empty mug lined with tidemarks of frothed milk sat next to the paper. He looked up and smiled at Tony. ‘I wanted to get the turkey in the Weber soon; it’ll take a while.’

  Tony leaned against the kitchen bench. ‘What time are people coming?’

  ‘Oh, not till twelve, but you know what your mother’s like.’ They both smiled.

  ‘I thought I’d go down for a swim. Fancy it?’

  Jim raised his eyebrows and his eyes twinkled. ‘Me?’

  He smiled at his dad. It was nice to be spending more time with him now. When Tony had last lived at home, as a teenager, he had been self-absorbed, unable to see his parents as people with their own hopes and independent history. When he thought of his relationship with his mum and dad, it was the volatility of Ursula that dominated, but being at home had made him realise that Jim, with his quiet reliability, deserved as much space in his mind and his life. ‘Come on, you’re not that old!’

  Jim chuckled. ‘Yeah. All right then, maybe I will. Let me grab my stuff.’ He leaned towards Tony and whispered, ‘Your mother will have a heart attack!’

  * * *

  By mid-morning, the house was in chaos. Ursula was mixing and chopping and blending and whisking. Tony offered to help, but after slicing the strawberries too small, he had been banished to the backyard with Jim to fill the eskies.

  ‘Dad, I’m just going to the servo to get some more ice.’

  Jim was crouched over a huge esky, ripping the cardboard off six-packs of beer and stacking them inside. He raised his hand to wave Tony goodbye.

  He went round the side of the house to his car, and drove towards the service station. Midway along the main street he sighed, then pulled over and switched off the engine. He took out his phone, hesitated for a moment, then called Anna.

  She answered on the first ring. ‘Tony!’

  He closed his eyes; it was nice to hear her voice. He hadn’t had a Christmas without her for years. ‘Hi. What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing much. Emily’s coming over soon for a coffee, then Mum and I are just going to have a quiet day.’ Her voice quivered. ‘What about you?’

  Tony laid his head against the headrest. ‘Just getting some ice. Mum’s doing the full Christmas as usual.’

  He could picture Anna’s sad smile.

  ‘It’s always fun though, isn’t it?’

  He wondered if he should have made an effort to spend today with Anna, in case it was her last Christmas, for a while anyway. Maybe he should have tried to make it more special for her. ‘Did you want to … I’m sure it would be —’

  ‘No. Thanks, but I don’t feel very Christmassy.’

  He nodded, relieved. He was sure she was just saying no to make him feel better, and he appreciated the gesture. ‘I know. Me neither.’

  ‘How are you, Tony?’

  His eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m OK. I’ve got a couple of weeks off work now. But work … helps. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, you know … I can’t – I can’t think of anything else, I just want to get these next few weeks over with. I feel … stuck. And I can’t think of … him. It’s too much.’

  Tony bit his lip. ‘It’ll get easier. Or so everyone keeps telling me.’

  ‘Will you come, Tony? In January?’

  Did she really think he would stay away? ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He could barely hear her.

  There was a pause. ‘I better get this ice.’

  ‘OK. Thanks for phoning … Tony?’

  He leaned his head to the side, as if cradling the phone between his face and shoulder could somehow substitute for her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Merry Christmas.’

  His bottom lip quivered. He cleared his throat and managed to say it back. ‘Merry Christmas, Anna.’

  * * *

  Anna and Wendy sat on the couch with dinner plates on cushions on their laps. Anna looked down at the meal her mother had made, and smiled. Ham, roast potatoes, carrot, little chipolatas rolled in bacon, gravy. Just like they’d always had when she was a kid. She cut a potato in half and lifted the fork to her mouth, actually looking forward to eating for the first time since she got home. It’s a Wonderful Life was showing on the television in the background. She thought about turning it off, but didn’t. It was just a movie title; she had to realise that the world was going to go on regardless of whether or not she was in prison.

  She put her plate down on the coffee table, went into the kitchen and came back with two glasses clinking in one hand and a bottle of shiraz in the other. Putting the glasses on the coffee table in front of them, she unscrewed the lid of the bottle and filled them up. She handed one to her mum. ‘May as well drink this.’

  Wendy nodded, smiled, and took a sip. ‘Thanks, sweetheart.’

  She sat back down and sipped her wine. It was bold, strong, spicy. She licked her lips and took another sip. She put it down again and picked up her food. ‘Thanks for making this, Mum. I’m glad you did.’

  Wendy raised her glass into the air. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  They ate the rest of their meal in silence, and finished the bottle of wine. They fo
und some ice cream and frozen raspberries in the freezer and made dessert. When Anna went to bed, she fell asleep straight away for the first time since being home.

  * * *

  She woke a few hours later with her heart thumping. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt rough. She lay still, listening, but heard nothing other than the high-pitched purring of the cicadas outside. It must have been a dream.

  She reached for the glass of water by the bed and gulped it down. It was lukewarm. Even though she wanted to finish it all she made herself leave a little in the bottom of the glass so that she wouldn’t need to get out of bed if she woke up again.

  Her skin was clammy. She kicked off the cotton blanket, then took off her pyjama pants and lay in her underwear and singlet on the edge of the bed where the sheets were still cool. She took a few deep breaths and tried to ease herself back into sleep, but she couldn’t. The dream stayed with her.

  A lopsided fake Christmas tree on top of a glass coffee table; red paper wrapped around a plastic stem; presents arranged to hide the tripod stand. Tinny laughter from the TV in the corner. The sweet, sickly smell of bourbon, then the dark liquid oozing across the floor like lava running over the rocks of the shattered bottle. A tall man, dishevelled, with blond hair, yelling. Mum yelling back. Crying, crashing. A sharp, stinging pain on her forehead, her eye warm and sticky.

  She should never have drunk that wine tonight.

  Or perhaps she should have drunk more.

  * * *

  The next morning, she asked her mum for two paracetamol tablets, and forced down the scrambled eggs on toast that Wendy had made. She picked up her cup of tea and walked over to the kitchen, where Wendy was filling the sink with water to wash the frying pan.

  ‘Mum?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I was wondering if you would take me … to Jack.’

  Wendy dropped the pan into the sink. Water and bubbles slopped out onto her top. She turned around and stared at Anna. ‘Oh … Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘I should have gone before.’

  ‘Have you talked about it with Dr Morgan? Did she say it would be all right?’

  ‘It’s not up to her. I … I need to go. Please.’ She didn’t want to argue; she’d been putting this off for too long. Now that she had decided to go, she didn’t want anything to change her mind.

  Wendy bit the inside of her cheek. ‘OK. When do you want to go?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Now?’

  She nodded.

  ‘OK, I suppose … But Anna, promise me something. Promise me that you’re all right, that you’re going to be all right. If it’s too hard, please tell me and let me call the doctor. Please …’ Wendy’s eyes filled with tears.

  Anna stepped forward and took her mum’s hands, still wet from the dishes. ‘I’m OK, I promise. It’s just something I need to do before … It’s just something I need to do. Please don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m your mum, I worry about you all the time.’

  ‘I know.’ She dropped her mum’s hands. ‘Thank you.’

  Wendy smiled. ‘Go and get ready, I’ll finish up here then we can go.’

  Anna gulped the rest of her tea and practically ran to the bathroom to have a shower before she changed her mind. As she passed the door to Jack’s room, still closed, she hesitated and allowed herself to remember what was behind it. She moved her hand towards the handle, then let it drop back down by her side.

  * * *

  Wendy leaned against the car and smoked another cigarette. She craned her neck again to see if Anna was coming back yet – she had insisted on going alone. They had been silent on the drive here; there was nothing to say. It was so bloody unfair. Anna never had a chance to say goodbye, and now here she was, walking on her own to find the plot. Wendy threw her cigarette butt down on the concrete and stamped on it, then looked at her watch. She should have gone with Anna, she shouldn’t have assumed she’d be OK. There was so much going on for her, with Christmas, Anna returning home, the sentencing in a few weeks. Wendy’s breathing sped up. She reached down into her bag for her phone. Would Dr Morgan answer on Boxing Day?

  She looked at the phone, then put it back in her bag. Dr Morgan would be with her family. There was no need to call her yet. Catastrophising, that’s what her therapist used to call it. Forty-five minutes wasn’t that long really. She should have brought a magazine or something, to occupy her mind.

  Looking up again she saw Anna in the distance, walking towards her, hunched over. She exhaled, wiped her nose and eyes, then walked around the car, bent down and pretended to examine a bright red grevillea flower.

  When Anna was close, Wendy turned around quickly as if startled. Anna’s face was red and blotchy, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. Wendy moved towards her daughter and put her arms around her, but Anna was limp; she had nothing left. Wendy swallowed her own tears down. This was not the time for her to fall to pieces, too.

  She put her arm around Anna and guided her to the passenger side of the car, opened the door, and helped her in. Anna stared out of the windscreen while Wendy fastened her seatbelt, closed the door, and drove them both home.

  Anna managed to get out of the car herself. She walked into the house, went straight to her room, and closed the door behind her.

  Wendy let her be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Four months after

  Thursday, 14 January 2010

  Anna stared at her meal. Fresh pasta, homemade pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and green olives. Emily had made it all, then brought it over to Anna’s house with a bottle of Tasmanian pinot. Her last supper.

  She twirled a piece of fettuccine around her fork and put it in her mouth, but it didn’t taste of anything. It seemed to take forever to chew; she took a mouthful of wine to wash down the rubbery ball of pasta. She wanted to keep drinking the alcohol, get drunk and pass out until the morning. But she couldn’t risk losing control tomorrow. She was teetering on the edge as it was.

  Wendy and Emily were talking about the neighbours, the gossip magazines and the weather. Anything but tomorrow. She tried to follow the conversation and nod at appropriate times but she didn’t want to talk about which Hollywood star was in rehab. They were trying so hard that Anna felt like weeping.

  She watched her mum laugh at something Emily said. It was too loud to fool anyone. Wendy hadn’t touched her pasta either. How would her mum cope tomorrow?

  As soon as she thought it was polite to do so, Anna gathered up the plates.

  ‘I brought chocolate cake,’ Emily said. ‘I’ll just —’

  She shook her head. ‘Not for me. I’m tired.’ She put the plates on the kitchen bench and walked over to hug Emily. ‘Thanks for coming, Em. I really appreciate it. And thanks for dinner – I’m sorry I couldn’t eat much.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Emily had tears in her eyes. ‘Try to get some sleep. I’ll be there tomorrow, and we’ll be able to have a proper dinner very soon. It’ll be OK, I know it will.’

  She tried to smile, then turned to Wendy. ‘’Night, Mum.’ Her voice started to break; she cleared her throat.

  Wendy reached out her hand. ‘Goodnight.’

  She squeezed her mum’s hand. She wanted to hug her, but didn’t trust herself to be able to let go. She looked again at her best friend, and her mum, then ran out of the room.

  * * *

  The next morning, Anna was wide awake when Wendy knocked on her door and brought in a bowl of porridge and a glass of orange juice. Even though she hadn’t slept at all, Anna was calm. There was nothing she could do now. She forced herself to eat, wishing that her mum had made this kind of breakfast when Anna was at school instead of leaving her money to get something from the bakery on the way. There must have been times when she cooked for her, or at least sat with her while they ate cereal together, but Anna didn’t remember those days. Most of her memories were of Wendy being too depressed to get out of bed. She scolded herself; her mum was here for her now.

  Everyon
e else in Sydney was having breakfast. They’d be getting ready for work, or for school, or to take their toddlers to swimming lessons. Anna was going to the Supreme Court to be sentenced for infanticide.

  She managed to finish her breakfast and take her tablet, then went to have a shower, just as she always did. She dried herself with a big clean white towel, and started to dress. From her wardrobe she took out her pale blue shirt, still in the plastic sleeve from the drycleaner. Anna held the hanger in one hand and tried to remove the plastic, but it stuck to her fingers. She shook her arm until it fluttered to the floor, then stamped on it with her stockinged feet. Her breathing quickened and became shallow; she was hot, itchy. She scratched at her arms and stomach, unable to stop, and started to cry.

  ‘Anna!’ Wendy opened the door and rushed in. ‘What’s going on?’

  She shook her head, wiped her eyes. ‘I can’t get the bloody shirt out.’

  Wendy put her hand on Anna’s shoulder and gently guided her back towards the bed, then sat her down. She picked up the shirt and folded it over her arm. ‘We’ve got plenty of time. You take as long as you need – I’ll go and iron this again for you.’

  Anna looked up, tears spilling down her face. ‘Thanks. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

  Wendy walked out, closing the door behind her. Anna let herself cry. She cried because she felt sorry for herself and she didn’t want to go to jail. She cried because she was scared and lonely. She cried for how much she had hurt her family. She cried for everything she had lost: her past, her dreams, her future.

  Her baby.

  Then she walked back into the bathroom, blew her nose and washed her face. She took a deep breath and started to put on her make-up. And, just for a moment, she saw herself in the mirror – not a patient, not a prisoner, just Anna.

  But the make-up would wash off. She had no idea what was left underneath.

  * * *

  Tony sat on the back steps sipping a cup of coffee. He knew he shouldn’t: he already felt shaky and sick, but he hadn’t slept at all and he wasn’t sure he could make it through a day in court without some caffeine. Jessie ran up to him with her ball in her mouth, dropped it at his feet and looked up at him with a doggy grin. Winston, his parents’ dog, hung back. He kicked the tennis ball and the dogs chased after it.