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About the Author
Copyright Page
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For Oscar Sorry for not writing a book about dinosaurs
Acknowledgments
It takes a lot of people to bring a story to life. You wouldn’t be reading this one if it wasn’t for my gifted editor, Jennifer Enderlin. It gives me tremendous comfort to know that every time I write myself into a corner—and I do do it every time—you are there to help me out. Thank you also to the rest of the team at St. Martin’s—the assistants, the copy editors, the designers, the marketing and sales people—for the invaluable roles you play in bringing books to the shelves.
I am also indebted to my publishers around the world, with special thanks to Alex Lloyd, Cate Paterson, Julia Stiles, and the rest of the team at PanMacmillan Australia.
To my agent, Rob Weisbach: Thank you for your guidance and your belief in me. I couldn’t do any of this without you, and I refuse to try.
To my first readers—Angela Langford, Dagmar Logan, Emily Makiv, Kena Roach, Inna Spitzkaia, and Jane Wharton—thank you for your wonderful suggestions and words of encouragement.
To my writerly friends, especially Jane Cockram, Anna George, Meredith Jaeger, and Fran Wang-Ward—thank you for reading my drafts and for talking writer-talk with me after the rest of my friends have tuned out.
To Oscar, Eloise, and Clementine, thank you for staying alive while I’m in the writing cave. Some might call it subpar parenting, but I prefer to think of it as “building resilience.”
Finally, thank you to Christian for doing the laundry and the taxes. Also for everything else. But I really hate laundry and taxes.
I’ve spent my whole life wanting you. As a toddler, I was forever toting around a plastic doll—wrapping it and feeding it and changing its diaper. As a child, my favorite pastime was making up baby names. As a teenager, I babysat every chance I could, imagining you nestled against my hip instead of the stranger’s child I carried. There were times in my early twenties when wanting you felt shameful. After all, women were supposed to want careers, travel, success—we were capable of anything. Aspiring to be a mother wasn’t original or brave or interesting. It certainly wasn’t something to strive for.
Still, I wanted you.
So it was a shock when, years later, you announced your imminent arrival with a blinding spear of pain. There was no warm-up; no easing into it. It felt like being jackhammered, hollowed out. By the time I got to the hospital I was bearing down. The nurse rushed me straight through to delivery without even asking my name. The whole thing felt like something terrible instead of something wonderful.
1
ESSIE
“Fresh air!” Essie’s mother had said to her that morning. “Get that baby out in the fresh air! It will do you both the world of good!”
Now Essie stood under the dubious cover of a palm tree, while the rain slapped against the tin slide of the nearby playground. Just a few minutes ago the weather had been fine. A perfect spring day. She’d been powering along the Sandringham beach path when the sky began to darken—at the halfway point of her walk, of course, leaving her no option to turn back and bolt for home.
What was so great about fresh air anyway? Given the choice, she’d have opted for the less fresh, temperature-controlled air of the indoors any day. She wanted to be indoors now, preferably at Cuppa Cottage, drinking a cup of English Breakfast out of a vintage teacup. Better yet, she wanted to be in bed, catching up on the billion hours of sleep she’d lost in the past eight weeks. But no. She needed fresh air.
Mia appeared to be deeply asleep under her rain cover (Essie doubted there was anything “fresh” about the plastic fumes she was inhaling), but the moment the pram stopped moving Essie knew Mia’s eyes would spring open and the crying would start. As such, since Mia’s birth, Essie had become an expert in keeping the pram moving, wheeling it rhythmically from room to room as she moved about the house, not allowing it to sit idle for more than a second or two. When Essie sat—which was rare—she could keep the darn thing moving with only three toes. According to Ben, she even rocked in her sleep.
“And when, exactly, have you seen me sleep lately?” she’d demanded, her voice wavering slightly. “No, really. Tell me.”
Suddenly Ben had had something urgent to do in the garage.
Last week, after jostling the pram for so long Essie was sure she’d developed carpal tunnel, she pushed it down to the back of the garden and left it there. Just for a little while. It was a fine day, she reasoned, and she just needed some time to herself and perhaps a cup of tea. But she was barely back inside when her neighbor—who had a baby Mia’s age who never seemed to do anything but sleep and smile—appeared at the door saying she’d heard Mia crying and was everything all right.
“Fine,” Essie had said. “Everything is fine.”
The rain continued to beat down and Essie kept the pram crunching back and forth on the damp, sandy path. The sea had deepened to a dark blue and the air was sharp and salty. On the road above, the cars swished by on the damp bitumen. Maybe she should make a run for it—head to Cuppa Cottage and order that cup of English Breakfast? Then again, with her giant three-wheeler pram she’d almost certainly catch the eye of another pram-wheeling mother and fall into the predictable back and forth that she loathed—boy or girl? how old? sleeping well? Essie didn’t think she could stand it. Of course, other mothers talked about how hard it all was—the sleep deprivation, the breastfeeding, the washing!—but they always did it with a cheerful laugh, an insistence that “it was all worth it.” That was the problem. Essie wasn’t sure it was.
“It doesn’t come right away for all mothers,” her mum had told her. “You’re exhausted. Just give it time.”
Essie had given it eight weeks. And still, whenever Essie looked down at Mia’s red, irritated little face, all she felt was … flat.
Every evening Ben rushed home from work, desperate to see Mia. If she was asleep (which was rare), he was devastated.
“Can’t we wake her up?” he’d plead.
“No one wakes a sleeping baby,” she’d snap, when what she really wanted to say was: “Why would you want to?”
Maybe it was just the exhaustion. In an hour her mum would come over and assume pram-jostling duties and the world would make sense again. Her mum came by regularly, snatching up the baby and putting her over her shoulder, soothing her with a repetitive thump to the bottom that Essie could never seem to imitate. Her mum never seemed bothered by Mia’s crying or fussiness—she held her as easily and naturally as if she was one of her own limbs. Usually she ordered Essie to go take a nap and Essie gratefully obliged. Problem was, the nap would always end, her mum would go home and she’d have to look after her baby once more.
Essie inhaled, dragging all that fresh air into her lungs. She was having that feeling again. A tingling—like angry pinpricks in her abdomen and chest—that Essie had come to understand was anxiety or guilt, or perhaps some kind of cocktail of the tw
o.
“Oh, that,” Ange from across the road said when Essie described it to her. “Yes. Get used to it. It’s called “motherhood.”
That had been a blow. Essie had assumed the anxiety was one of those fleeting parts of early motherhood—like engorged breasts and night sweats—that were there one moment and forgotten about the next. But apparently it was one of those other parts of motherhood. The parts that left you fundamentally changed.
A woman around Essie’s age was jogging toward her on the path, dressed in black lycra and hot-pink trainers. Her soaking wet hair was looped into a casual bun. Ben had been pestering Essie to start running. “A good long run always makes me feel better,” he’d said yesterday. “You should try it.” Essie would have run, if she thought it would help. She would have run to the ends of the earth. She just wasn’t sure whether she would run back.
The jogger was wet through, but she didn’t seem to mind. She had a bounce to her step that was reserved for the young and fit. The free. Essie remembered having a bounce to her step once.
Mia started stirring in the pram and Essie realized that she’d stopped jostling. The jogger bounded past, and in the time it took her to disappear from sight, Mia had moved from confused to irate. Her face contorted and her head tossed from side to side as if desperate for answers. Who had the audacity to stop moving this pram? Did you not see I was having A NAP? Her face reddened and she took a breath, sucking in enough air to make sure her protest would be loud and meaningful. Essie shoved her fingers deep into her ears.
It was strange watching Mia scream and not being able to hear it. Better, really. Her eyes shut with the effort. With the rain in the background, Essie heard nothing. She felt nothing.
After a while, Essie started for home. She stopped at Cuppa Cottage and ordered her tea, extra hot, and drank it slowly in the chair by the window. She ordered another. The rain had stopped by the time she left the café. As she walked home she felt an acute sense of being out of balance—as though she’d been roller-skating or skiing and had just put on her shoes again.
Her mum was walking up her driveway when she arrived back in Pleasant Court. She stopped when she saw Essie coming and waved cheerily. “Good to see you out and about,” she said, before peering at the empty space around Essie. “Where’s Mia?”
Essie pulled her wet ponytail over one shoulder. A trickle of water ran down the side of her jacket.
“Essie,” her mum repeated, slower now. “Where is Mia?”
Essie shrugged. “I … left her. At the park.”
Her mum’s frown froze in place. Essie got the feeling that, for the first time in weeks, her mum actually saw her. “Which park, Essie? Which park is Mia at?”
“The beach playground.”
After that her mum moved quickly. In a matter of moments they were both in the car, headed toward the beach at a speed Essie thought was unnecessary. The pram was probably exactly where she’d left it! No one would be out and about after the rain; the playground would probably be deserted and covered in puddles. Mia would be red-faced and angry. It would take hours to calm her down. Essie wished they were driving in the opposite direction.
Her mum misinterpreted her agitation and placed a calming hand on hers. “We’ll find her, Essie,” she said. “We will.”
Sure enough, they did find her. Mia was right where Essie had left her. But she wasn’t alone. A trio of mothers in puffer jackets surrounded her, the tallest woman holding Mia tightly. Mia will hate that, Essie thought. Sure enough, Mia was howling. Another mother looked on while half-heartedly entertaining toddlers nearby. They didn’t seem to notice as Essie and her mum got out of the car.
“There she is,” Essie’s mum cried, running over to the group. “I see her. She’s fine, Essie. She’s perfectly safe.”
“She’s ours,” Essie’s mum shouted to the women. When she was close enough, she held her hands out for Mia, catching her breath. “Whew. Thank you so much. She’s my granddaughter. My daughter accidentally left without her.”
The tall woman made no move to hand Mia over. Instead she clutched her tighter, which made Mia even more hysterical. “She left the park without her baby?”
“Yes, well … she was tired and…”
Essie sidled up slowly.
“. . you know how your brain can be when you have a newborn!” Her mum have a half-hearted laugh and then petered out. What else could she say? There was no explanation that would suffice and she knew it.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said curtly, “but … how do we know she’s your granddaughter? We found her abandoned in a park. We can’t just hand her over.”
Essie sidled up slowly. She felt a scream building in her throat. She wanted all these women to go away. She wanted to go away. Back to a time when she was a normal, childless woman—not a crazy lady who left babies in the park.
“Her name is Mia,” her mum tried again. “She’s eight weeks old. Her blanket was hand-knitted by me and it has frayed on one corner. Mia has a birthmark on her right thigh—a port wine stain.”
The woman exchanged a glance with her friend. “I’m sorry but I really think we should wait for the—”
“What do you want us to do?” Essie cried. “Sign an affidavit? She doesn’t have any ID. Just give her to me,” she said, pushing forward. “Give me my baby!”
Essie felt her mum’s hand on her shoulder. “Essie—”
“Give her to me.”
“Essie, you need to calm d—”
“GIVE ME MY BABY!” she screamed, and that’s when the police car pulled up.
2
3 years later …
“Good evening, beloved family,” Ben announced, flinging down his sports bag. He bounded into the kitchen to kiss Essie and Mia. “Beloved wife and daughter.” He scooted a few paces to the right and put an arm around Barbara, who sat on a bar stool, doing a crossword. “Beloved mother-in-law.”
Barbara pushed him off. “Ben! You’re sweaty.”
“As you would be, Barbie, if you’d done three back-to-back boxing sessions and then jogged home!”
He took off his cap and skimmed it across the counter. It collected a butter knife and a garlic press and all three landed with a clatter on the kitchen floor. Essie shot a glance at her mother who rolled her eyes and looked back at her crossword.
“A little bird told me,” Ben said to Mia, “that you could fly.”
She looked at him skeptically. “No, I can’t.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m sure the bird said…” He grabbed Mia off the kitchen counter and flung her into the air. She shrieked in delight. He was so slick with sweat it looked like Mia may slide right through his hands.
On their wedding day, Ben’s best man had likened him to a Doberman—a fair comparison, in Essie’s opinion. Not only was he happy, hopeless and incredibly loyal, he was also large, clumsy and accident prone. Whenever he arrived in a room it suddenly felt full, which was both comforting … and a little nerve-wracking.
“See,” he said, “… you can fly.” He put her down.
Ben ran a fitness studio, The Shed, a studio created to assist people’s dreams of being their own bona fide Hulk outside the boardroom as well as inside. Eighteen months ago he’d also developed an app, Ten with Ben, which allowed people to download a new ten-minute workout and meal plan every day. The app had received huge media coverage and had even been endorsed by several high-profile football players. As a result his business had exploded. He now had ten full-time staff—and dozens of casuals—but as Ben couldn’t possibly sit still at a desk all day, he still took the classes.
“Where is beloved daughter number two?” Ben asked.
Beloved daughter no. 2 had come along six months ago. It had taken nearly two years for Essie to convince Ben to try for another baby. (“Why not be happy with what we’ve got?” he said, over and over again. “Why would we risk it?”) Obviously, Essie understood his concerns. It had taken months—and a stint as an inpatient in a ps
ychiatric hospital—for her to recover after leaving Mia in the park that day, and her doctor explained that after last time, her chances of her post-partum depression recurring were significant. But Essie did recover. And she wanted a second chance to be the mother she’d planned to be from the get-go. It was her mother moving in next door that had finally swayed Ben (also, Essie thought, a stab at having a son). Unfortunately Ben didn’t get his son but Essie did get her second chance. And much to everyone’s relief, this time Essie had been fine.
Well, mostly fine.
“Polly’s asleep,” Essie said.
“In this heat?”
It was the fourth day of temperatures above forty degrees Celsius and it was all anyone could talk about. A heatwave like this usually happened at least once during a Melbourne summer, but that didn’t stop everyone from talking about it as if it was a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon. (Hot enough for you? I don’t remember it being this hot when I was a kid. I hear a cool change is due on Thursday.)
“Apparently so,” Essie said. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”
Polly had been a good sleeper to begin with, but a couple of weeks ago she’d started waking at odd intervals, sometimes as often as hourly. It felt like a cruel joke, giving her a perfect baby only to have her regress like this at six months old.
Ben leaned his elbows on the counter. “So,” he said, “apparently the new neighbor has moved in.”
“I heard,” Essie said. The whole of Pleasant Court was at fever pitch about the new neighbor. There hadn’t been anyone new in Pleasant Court since Essie’s mum moved in.
“Ange gave me the inside scoop.” Ange, from number 6, had been the agent to rent the place. “She’s a single woman in her late thirties who has moved down from Sydney for work.”
“A single woman?” Barbara said, eyes still on her crossword. She tapped the base of the pencil against her lip. “In Sandringham? Why wouldn’t she get an apartment in the city?”
The Family Next Door Page 1