As she chopped the salad vegetables, Ange was wondering if she could put the cameras to better use. Particularly as it related to Erin. She’d been thinking about Erin for the best part of three days. She’d be blow-drying her hair and she’d think of Erin. She’d drop Ollie at school. Erin. She’d close a deal at work. Erin. Nail salon. Erin.
It was driving her crazy. Ange’s life was usually so blissfully compartmentalized. She’d be at work and she’d get a message from one of the boys about sports practice/money/something they’d left at home, and she’d think: That’s home stuff. I’d deal with that later. On the weekend while she was with the family, an email would come in about work and she’d ignore it. It was family time. But Erin appeared in home thoughts. She appeared in work thoughts. She appeared fucking everywhere.
“Erin!” she shouted.
Ollie and Will looked over their shoulders in perfect unison. They were watching a documentary about Africa on the TV, the only thing they could agree to watch. They both adored animals (a trait they got from her, thank you very much; Lucas was allergic to virtually every kind of animal and was the reason they had goldfish as pets).
“What did you say, Mum?” Will said. Ollie had already turned back to the television.
“Lemons,” she said. “For the fish. I forgot to get them.”
“There’s a lemon in your hand,” he said, pointing to it.
“Ah,” she said. “So there is.”
Will gave her a look that said “my mum is nuts” and turned back to the television. Fair enough, really.
Ange watched the screen for a moment. The lioness was bounding toward a zebra in long, lithe strokes. She was surprisingly beautiful—and apparently soundless, though perhaps that was just the editing. The poor zebra hadn’t even noticed her coming. Ange suddenly felt bad for the zebra. You could at least give him a fighting chance, lioness. Come on zebra, she thought. Run, you daft thing!
She chopped the lemon in half. The silly thing was, she didn’t know for certain that Erin was anyone. When she’d turned on the mystery phone a few days ago, she’d found the contacts section blank. Not a single name was stored. She’d checked thoroughly, going through every section. Finally, as they were headed to bed, she’d asked Lucas about it.
“What’s this?” she’d asked, holding up the phone.
Lucas looked at it and Ange watched his face closely.
“It’s my new phone,” he said.
“It was on a high shelf in the front room. A very high shelf.”
“It’s a brand-new phone. I wanted a few weeks with it before Ollie started filling it with games and apps. That kid can smell a phone or iPad from fifty feet.”
He wasn’t wrong. Ollie had filled every other bloody phone and tablet in the house with his ridiculous games. She had to scroll to the fourth screen on her phone now to get to Instagram. Little bugger.
And yet Ange couldn’t quite accept Lucas’s explanation.
The next day at work Ange went through his dialed numbers. He’d called one number—a number she didn’t recognise—four times in the previous seven days. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to give the number a try.
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Oh, yes, I had a missed call from this number,” Ange had said jovially. “Can I ask who this is, please?”
“May I ask who is calling me?” she countered. Ange listened keenly to the voice. It was high-pitched and feminine, and didn’t sound unlike Erin.
“It’s uh … Dianne. Dianne Taylor.”
“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong number. I haven’t called any Dianne Taylor.”
“Are you sure? Maybe if you told me your name?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. And she hung up.
So there was no evidence to say it was Erin. It may have been someone else entirely and Lucas’s phone may have been hidden for the exact reasons he gave. But Ange had a feeling that wasn’t the case. And Ange had a sixth sense for these things, ever since Josie.
Josie. Ange felt a knot form in her throat. It was such a nice, normal name. It was a veterinarian’s name. A kindergarten teacher’s name. Then again, why wouldn’t she have a nice name? It wasn’t as if Josie’s mother would’ve looked down at her newborn daughter and thought she looks like she’ll become a home-wrecking harlot.
Will had been a toddler. Ange had been a stay-at-home mum for over a year and still, she hadn’t gotten used to it. Every day she got dressed, blow-dried her hair, put on lipstick. But the day offered so little. A visit to the park. Playgroup. Finger painting. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Will. It was just that she didn’t love motherhood.
Lucas had been in his studio constantly. His business was booming, in large part because of Ange. Every banal playgroup she attended she brought along a bunch of his flyers. His photos, admittedly, were sensational. He had a gift for capturing the moments. The toddler pulling her mother’s necklace and pearls spilling all over the floor. The child throwing a tantrum while the rest of the family laughed. Falling in puddles and squinting into sunshine. Somehow he made the disasters into art.
One morning, Ange was dressed, blow-dried, and lip-glossed with nowhere to go, when she had a brilliant idea. We’ll get a family photo of our family! she decided. It seemed ridiculous, now that she thought of it, that they didn’t have one already. The cobbler’s child always had the worst shoes. And, aside from being something to fill the next few hours, it was the perfect advertising for Lucas. They could use it on flyers, and she could display it proudly when she hosted mothers’ group at her house.
She loaded Will into his stroller and they wandered down to Lucas’s studio. It was located in the center of a park—an ideal location for outdoor shoots when the weather was good. If Lucas was with a client, Ange decided, she’d let Will have a play in the playground while they waited.
The door was locked when she arrived, which meant Lucas was in the darkroom. Good news, she thought, he’s not with a client. The weather was perfect for an outdoor shoot, she realized. Perhaps Lucas would be able to set a self-timer and get in the shot himself?
She knocked loudly. “Lucas!”
She wasn’t concerned when it took a while—the darkroom involved lots of chemicals. It could take a few minutes before he could step away. Ange just waited. After a minute or so, she knocked again.
And waited.
It was possible he’d gone to get a sandwich, but then again Ange had made him a chicken, avocado, and mayo this morning (making a lunch that did not consist of tiny pieces of cucumber and cheese gave a tiny sense of purpose to her day). And his car was in the parking lot; she could see it from where she stood.
Finally the door swung open.
“Ange.”
There was no blissful moment of confusion, no split-second of nothingness while the pieces whirled into place. She just knew. And that was even before she saw the woman standing behind him. There was no newborn with her. No toddler. No fiancé or husband. The overplayed looks of innocence on their faces were as good as confirmation.
“This is Josie,” he said.
Josie was a brunette. Not pretty exactly, but slim and large breasted with striking Egyptian-looking eyes. She had the audacity to hold out her hand. Ange remembered staring at it. Was she meant to shake it? Slap it? In the end, she’d just looked back at Lucas, and Josie eventually let her hand drop back to her side.
That night, after Will was in bed, Ange sat cross-legged on the floor while Lucas paced the floor.
“I’ll get an apartment,” he said. “Not far away. I can still see Will every day.”
The shock of that had been worse than discovering Josie in the darkroom. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her that he wanted to leave her. She’d been waiting for Lucas to beg for forgiveness, to swear he was going to change his ways. For a while, they’d tiptoe around each other, timid and uncomfortable, until finally they’d realize, “Wow, we got through it.” All marriages have hard times, they’d tell
Will on the eve on his wedding day. But when you make a commitment, you work through those hard times and wind up stronger for them. But that wasn’t what was happening. Instead, Lucas was leaving her for Josie.
“No,” Ange said firmly. “Stay. We’ll work this out.”
Lucas sighed. “I’m sorry, Ange. But I want a…”
Don’t say it, she thought, bracing. Don’t say it.
Ange’s parents had divorced when she was eleven. Ange’s father had remarried within the year and had two more children—he was still married to Deidre and they were excitedly expecting their first grandchild. Her mum, on the other hand, had spent the decade after the divorce watching Oprah and telling Ange she should never settle for a man who didn’t appreciate her. Her mother had died of a heart attack in front of the television. Ange always hoped it happened during Oprah. Then, at least, she wouldn’t have been completely alone.
Suddenly, Ange began to see a world without Lucas. A world of Oprah, and inevitable death on the couch.
“I’m pregnant,” she’d blurted.
The lioness was eating the zebra now, each mouthful a great bloody massacre. Will cringed away from it, burying his face in his forearm the way he did when he found something shocking. (Lucas had the exact same tic.) Ollie, on the other hand, was enthralled. His elbows were on his knees and his chin in his hands. Poor zebra, Ange thought. It was so conspicuous there on the plains with its great black-and-white stripes. What hope did it have?
The front door opened and shut and a set of keys clattered into the little bowl on the hall table. The boys looked up, grunted, and looked back at the TV.
“Nice to see you too, boys,” Lucas said, winking at Ange. Usually she loved that wink, but today, it bothered her. Why no kiss? Did he smell of perfume? Had he gotten enough kisses today from Erin or someone else? She had so many questions, not least of which was: If you’re the one fooling around, why am I the one going crazy?
“Do I have time for a shower before dinner?” he asked.
“Of course.”
She looked down at the chopping board where the fish fillets lay bare. She seasoned them with a little salt and pepper and positioned a wedge of lemon to the side. Then she took a photo, which she posted it on Instagram. Nothing better than a healthy delicious dinner with my men, she captioned it. #fish #family #yum
It was showtime. The pillows were propped behind me, my legs were in the stirrups. The baby’s head was out and I was in a bizarre reprieve from pain, waiting for the next contraction. The drugs I’d been given were spectacular. (I’d said yes to everything they’d offered me. What fool wouldn’t?) They didn’t take the pain away entirely, but they made it so I was flying too high to care.
“Patient’s name?” the doctor muttered, after glancing at my paperwork and finding it blank. It had all happened too quickly for paperwork.
The nurse shrugged.
“Is the baby’s father coming?”
They both looked at me. I dropped my gaze.
When I began to moan again, the nurse nodded. “Big push, whenever you’re ready. I want you to give it all you’ve got.”
I screwed my eyes shut, and pushed. A moment later, it was over.
They didn’t hand you to me right away. They had to check you over, I guess. I didn’t mind, to be honest. Birth had left me depleted and a little sick. Did I tell the doctor that? Did he prescribe something? Because I have a vague recollection of a needle in my arm and then going into a lovely, deep sleep.
When I awoke, it was with an odd, ominous feeling. I remember pushing my buzzer for the nurse.
“Can I see my baby now?” I asked when she came in.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” I said. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
I don’t know why, but I always had a feeling you would be a girl. I’d been craving pink for nine months. Strawberries and watermelon and raspberry jam.
“A boy or girl?” I asked again.
Silence.
“For heaven’s sake,” I cried. “Is my baby a boy or a girl?”
“I need to speak to the doctor,” the nurse said, and she shuffled off again.
A sickening feeling overcame me. Was something wrong with you? I hadn’t laid eyes on you—had you been born with a defect? What if … you hadn’t survived? I imagined going home without a baby in my arms. No. That couldn’t happen.
It wouldn’t happen.
The doctor came into the room. Though I was frustrated that he didn’t bring you with him, I also felt relieved. Finally I’d get some answers.
“Can I see my baby?”
He pulled up a chair beside the bed and his eyes fell to the floor. “I’m very sorry to tell you this,” he started.
22
FRAN
Fran had considered skipping her six-week follow-up altogether, but she forced herself to go. After Rosie was born, she’d diligently attended all these appointments so she reasoned she should do the same for Ava, even if there wasn’t much to say. There was never much to say about her pregnancies, they were both more or less normal. Some morning sickness, a little heartburn. She’d never had any of those frightening periods when she couldn’t feel the baby move, or any panic attacks about eating potentially harmful food. Everything had been remarkably, blessedly normal. Except, perhaps, her mental state.
Three other women sat in the waiting room, all of them big-bellied. Two of them made googly eyes at Ava, while the other one (clearly already a mother) focused on her magazine. (Fran didn’t take any offense to this. When you had children at home, you didn’t waste your alone-time looking at other people’s babies.)
“Fran,” Dr. Price said, appearing in the doorway to his office. “Come on in.”
Fran gathered up her purse and the baby seat, and shuffled into the room.
“Hello,” he said, sitting behind his desk. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” Fran told him.
It was the truth. There was something comforting about Dr. Price that always put her at ease. And she wanted to feel at ease, even for a few minutes. Despite her decision to leave the past in the past and move forward with Nigel, she felt like no matter what she decided, her mistakes were destined to haunt her.
Dr. Price had white hair, spectacles that perched on the end of his nose, and a fondness for short-sleeved checked shirts and chinos. In her appointments with him while pregnant with Rosie, they’d spent much of the time talking about all matters other than the pregnancy. The parking fine his nineteen-year-old daughter had been contesting, Fran’s recent holiday to Bali, the outrageousness of paying five dollars for a cup of coffee (“daylight robbery,” Dr. Price said). But while pregnant with Ava, Dr. Price had become more doctorly, somehow. He’d started inquiring after her health, asking if she was taking it easy, looking after herself. It was nice and at the same time, uncomfortable. As if he was seeing things she didn’t want him to see.
Today, as he sat in front of her, Fran found that she was unable to meet his eye.
“So,” he said. “How have the first few weeks been?”
“Fine,” she said.
“Getting much sleep?”
“Does anyone ever say yes to that question?”
“Only the dads.” He grinned. “How’s the bleeding?”
“It’s stopped.”
“Good. And any issues … with anything?”
Yes, she thought. My child might not belong to my husband.
“No.”
He was silent a moment. “Fran?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re not looking at me.”
He was right. She’d been focusing on a spot of wall to the right of his head. She forced herself to look at him now. She noticed his eyes were a striking blue.
“Has your mood been low—in general?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Unexplained bouts of crying?”
“Not unexplained exactly.”
“Yes. My newborn sees to that.”
“Have you got anyone supporting you? Family?”
Fran shrugged. Her mother, father, and brother were all in Sydney living their own lives, being overachievers. Her brother and his wife were both investment bankers and had opted not to have children lest it interfere with their careers. Her parents, who described themselves as “busily retired,” visited Melbourne once or twice a year, usually when it coincided with an event they wanted to go to, like an exhibition or musical. Fran could have called them if she was really struggling and she knew they would come. But they wouldn’t have understood. Overachievers didn’t struggle with new babies. They didn’t have marriage troubles. They certainly didn’t have extramarital affairs or illegitimate children.
“Okay, Fran, this is going to sound dramatic, but I want you to be honest. Have you considered, or made any plans to commit suicide? Or had any thoughts of harming Ava?”
The question baffled her. Who had time to make plans to commit suicide when they had a newborn? Certainly not her. And she’d never, not for a fraction of a single second, thought about harming her child.
“No,” she said. She wished she had postnatal depression. Then he could give her a pill and a referral to a psychologist who would make everything go away. She soared on that thought for a moment. The lovely, quiet sessions, in a clean office with a therapist, talking about her feelings. Ange would probably organize a food-roster, and the neighbors would drop around a meal every night. Essie or Barbara or Mrs. Larritt would come by sporadically and pop in a load of laundry while Fran napped. But she didn’t have postnatal depression. She had a potentially illegitimate child. No one organized a food-roster for that.
The Family Next Door Page 11