He turns and walks away, his retreating form spotlighted by the streetlights. The soft rolling of small waves onto the lakeshore is the soundtrack to his departure. A gull cries somewhere overhead and it’s lonely, so lonely.
“So that’s it?” I bite my lip. I knew he only liked me for what he thought I represented. What he thought I could be. It would never have worked.
Never.
“You know what hurts the most?” He spins around. A couple walking past look at us, then hurry on their way. “You didn’t even try us, Stacey. You just put us in the too-hard basket.”
“You had a girlfriend!”
“Stop, with that. Stop.” He shakes his head. “Six months ago. You could have tried.”
I swallow. “I … I want …”
I don’t know what I want.
“We leave for the States in a fortnight. Maybe …” He throws one hand up in the air, and I don’t know if he’s saying we’ll talk then, saying goodbye or flipping me off. Maybe all three.
I’m hit with another wave in the stomach, but this isn’t butterflies or pregnancy sickness.
It’s heartache.
And I have no idea why it happens down there.
January 4
FIVE DAYS, fourteen hours and fifty-two minutes. That’s how long it’s been since I last heard from Michael.
They are the numbers I work out as I stagger from the car back into the building with the perfectly white walls and furniture, designed in a minimalist style so as “not to detract from the pureness of one’s psyche”, as Candy tells me, when I ask her about rules for or against pink fluffy pens. (There’s no reason I can’t try and make work fun, right?)
Despite that frivolity, I’m not particularly thrilled about being here. I’ve lied to my parents, told them I have a job at a call centre—well, okay, it’s not exactly a lie, but I still don’t feel happy about it. Honestly, I’m not particularly happy about anything, especially since Michael found out the truth. It feels like each minute, each second has slowly, slowly ticked away. He hates me. He’s leaving.
Each time I picture his face, it’s like a knife twists further into my heart.
“Okay, now everybody, I want you to imagine your toes. Feel them relaxing, melting into the floor …” Mischa starts, and I shift my weight, trying to concentrate on my toes. I’m staring at the stark white ceiling, my back comfortably supported by the thick, white yoga mat I’m lying on. Because yes, here at Power of Pets¸ we have a daily mediation session to begin work. It helps us open our minds, and sets us up for a productive day ahead.
Or in my case, it gives me an extra twenty minutes to think of Michael’s face as he accused me of not trying. Michael’s words when he found out I was pregnant. Michael’s feet as he walked away. “Why did you do this to me?”
They’re words I may never forget.
“Stacey? Are your eyes open?” Mischa’s face pops into view, her pink lips a pop of colour.
“Yes,” I mumble.
“This is meditation. How will you ever open your mind and further explore your psychic abilities if you don’t participate properly?” she tuts, tilting her head to the side. “Now close.” She brings her hands down and trails her cool fingertips over my eyelids, effectively shutting them herself. I shiver.
“Let the relaxing of muscles travel up your body, your calves, your thighs … your pelvis …” I snort. Relaxing my vagina seems weird. Luckily, Mischa ignores me. “Your stomach, your shoulders, right down your arms, then up your neck, until finally, you’re relaxing every muscle in your face.”
I try to de-tense my lips, my forehead, my eyes. It’s tricky, especially since as soon as I relax my eye muscles, my stupid lids want to spring back open. I sigh. Focus.
“Now focus on white light. On nothing. On empty space.” Mischa drones, and I picture a white, pulsing ball of light in my mind.
Michael, wiping away my tears.
No! White pulsing light.
Michael, his arm around me helping me walk.
White. Pulsing. Light.
Michael, holding my baby …
This time, I shake my head. Michael wouldn’t do that. I’m pregnant, he’s a good guy, he’s in a rock band, and he basically told me he hates me; why on earth would he consider being in my life? The list of cons just keeps getting longer.
Pain throbs in my heart again, in my stomach, in my head. It’s so hard to shut it all out.
When meditation is over, I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Making calls, I can do.
At least that’s one thing I’m going to get right.
“Hello, is this Mrs …” I look at the name on the sheet in front of me, and decide to take a stab in the dark. “Mck-in-liar?”
Silence.
“Hello, is this Mrs—”
“McIntyre, not McInLye.”
Damn it! Not for the first time this morning I curse whoever wrote these names down on the spread sheet. Firstly, for the fact they chose to collect hand-written data, versus digital. Secondly, for the fact that their Ts clearly look like Ls. And thirdly, because I know I’m about to make my eighth non-sale of the day. And it’s not even one p.m..
Yep. When it comes to selling pet futures, I suck. I suck puppy … fleas, or something.
“My apologies, Mrs McIntyre. I’m calling today on behalf of the Power of Pets, Australia’s number one spiritual pet consultancy company in Australia. You signed up for our newsletter at …” I squint a little, trying to decipher the handwritten word in the box next to her name. “… the Pet & Animal Society Show. And wrote that you don’t mind us contacting you in the future. Speaking of, how is little …” Pause, try very hard to decipher next boxed word. “… Buttons?”
It’s hard to keep the question out of my voice. Luckily, it kinda goes with what I’m saying.
“Buttons …”
Silence.
Did I get the name wrong? Oh, God. Surely I haven’t insulted this woman twice in two minutes! It’s one thing to mistake a surname, another entirely to get the name of a crazy pet lady’s pet wrong. Trust me, until you’ve met a truly crazy cat or dog lady, this sentence wont make sense. But once you have … well, you’re on your own.
“Bottom?” I screw my nose up and give it a try. It’s seriously the only other thing I think the scribbled word could be.
“Pardon?” Mrs McIntyre asks, suddenly sounding far sharper.
“Your … dog?” I’ve gone from certain she’s a crazy canine lady to replacing her as a crazy cat one. God, they should list this stuff on the form, as well as a 1–10 scale of nuts to measure them by.
“He … he died. From cancer.” Mrs McIntyre makes a choking sound—some sort of a relative of a sob—and my heart goes out to her. “Can you put me in touch with a psychic now?”
I blink. I know that Mischa has already left on her lunch break, and I don’t know any of the other girls’ names, let alone if they’d consider giving up their lunch breaks for a random client. Especially since opening the conversation involves a woman who is now actively sobbing, her broken wail a continuous cry for help.
I look at the corner of my very white, very shiny desk and pull the phone an inch away from my ear. Although gosh, if I can’t handle a grown woman crying at me, how will I cope with a baby?
“Okay, the next available appointment in the system is tomorrow afternoon at three p.m.; does that suit you?” I ask, clicking through the calendar on my screen. In all honesty, I can see six appointment slots free tomorrow; but I think poor ol’ Mrs McIntyre needs less choice in her life right now, not more.
“You can’t just … can you do me now?”
I suck in a breath. This is exactly what Mischa had tried to train me for. She’d said that sometimes, people just didn’t want to wait. They wanted security. Reassurance.
Love.
And they wanted it now.
Still, I wasn’t ready to give it.
“You’re better off waiting till tomorrow. I can get—”
<
br /> “I want you to read my pet’s spirit, and I want it now! Is that so hard to ask? It doesn’t have to be long, and I’ll pay double.” I suck in a breath. I do need the cash … “Triple!”
“To be honest, I’m not really qualified to do this …” I trail off, but even as I do, the “admin” email address pings and I click open an email from Mrs McIntyre, a photo of her beloved Buttons inside.
“Did you get my email?” she asks. I hit zoom. Buttons is a very cute, very fluffy looking Maltese. Or, was, I should say. Poor Buttons …
Ping
Another email comes through. This time, Buttons is wearing a tutu. Yes, a tutu. Oh, God …
“Look, I’m going to be honest with you. While I have some psychic ability”—It’s not technically a lie. In my first training session, post-meditation this morning, Mischa praised me for my efforts, and said I did very well—“I am by no means an expert, and couldn’t guarantee you a correct reading.”
“Can you just … try?” Mrs McIntyre’s sobbing sounds more desolate, more alone, and that’s when I know. “If you can’t, I’m going to Puppy Power.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Puppy Power are our biggest rivals, and Mischa hates them with a passion.
Maybe I could give it a go. I stare at the picture of Buttons again, and then follow the instructions Mischa gave me. First, clear your mind, as if in meditation. Then, picture the animal in question. Imagine them, let them roam free in your thoughts, in your mind …
Try as I may, Buttons won’t come to life. The closest I can come is picturing him spinning around performing ballet in that ridiculous tutu.
“Mrs McIntyre—”
“Yes?”
She needs this. I make up my mind. I look at the little timer on my desk that Mischa has told me to hit, should I ever start a consult with a client. It’s so she can work out how much to bill them.
I move my computer screen so it blocks the little clock. I can’t do this for money.
“Mrs McIntyre, Buttons misses you very much. You two had a very special bond,” I say. I look at the picture again. It has to be true. No self-respecting dog would allow its owner to dress it up in hot pink if it wasn’t true love.
“Yes, yes he did!”
He? Interesting.
“He’s in a better place now. A place with … bones, and balls, and—”
“Buttons is terrified of balls!”
“Ball terriers. Bull Terriers. Who he is friends with, and they’re super friendly,” I try to cover. “The point is, he knows you miss him, and he doesn’t want you to forget the special time you shared together … But he doesn’t want you to mourn his loss forever, either.” I swallow. “You’re a strong woman, Mrs McIntyre; you can get through this.”
Silence.
“Th … thank you,” Mrs McIntyre says, her voice shaky. “It means so much to hear you say that.”
“That’s fine. Also, there’s no charge for this call.”
“You are just a godsend, dear,” Mrs McIntyre sniffles. “Do you have a dog?”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Kids, then?”
I rub my hand over my stomach. “I’m about to have a baby, though, yes.”
Mrs McIntyre sucks in a deep breath. “You will make a fabulous mother, dear. I feel it in my waters.”
I stifle a giggle as I hang up the phone, and try not to think dirty thoughts about Mrs McIntyre’s waters. I smile. I may have lost Michael—but at least I have this.
“I didn’t know you were pregnant.”
I whip my head from my desk to see Candy leaning against the doorframe.
“Please, don’t tell …” My words trail off. Who would she be loyal to? Her boss, or the new girl? It’s not really a hard question.
Candy lopes across the room and perches on the corner of my desk. “Is that why you took this job?”
“You can tell I’m not that …” I roll my hand in the air, “… into it?”
Candy sighs, and a blonde lock flies over her shoulder. “Sweetheart, Mischa is one of the kindest people I know. If you haven’t told her, I’d say she’s guessed. She helps people, Stacey. It’s what she does.”
She blinks, and her eyes radiate compassion. I manage a smile.
“How are you handling the pregnancy?”
I bite my lip. How am I …?
“Well, to be honest, I’m freaking out.” The words explode from my mouth before I can stop them. “I haven’t told anyone yet, and I have no one to talk to, and sometimes I feel so alone, you know?”
“You’re not alone.” Candy’s hand is warm when she places it over mine. “But you need to tell your family, at least.”
That lead feeling in my stomach strikes me again. Yes. Yes, I really do.
“But in the meantime, wanna talk about it?” Candy gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “We can do some seriously good baby fashion research over lunch?”
I smile. I’d really like that.
January 7
EIGHT WEEKS, five days. That’s how long it’s been since I fell pregnant. Which means I have roughly thirty weeks to go.
I’m starting to feel better about it all. I’ve marked out what cot I want to get, and researched the best stroller for my needs (a three-wheeled one, mind, so I can run on the sand with the kid in an effort to lose post-pregnancy weight). I’ve booked in my next appointment with the doctor for my first ultrasound. I’ve even started meditating at night, now that I’ve learned a few techniques. Apparently, meditation is great for pregnant people. Who knew?
And I’ve decided that this is the week when I’ll tell my parents. It has to happen sometime, after all.
Despite all this, despite the fact that every day seems to slowly inch itself along, like a council worker on a paid-by-the-hour job, I still miss him.
Eight days, thirteen hours and twenty-one minutes.
That’s how long it’s been since I last heard from Michael. Not that I’m counting, or anything.
And that’s how long it is since I’ve last seen Kate when Mum gets the call.
I know it’s bad because I’m sitting on the couch, slowly stuffing one plain cracker into my mouth after the other, knitting discarded on the floor, and all I can hear from the kitchen is, “Oh … oh … I’m so … Oh.”
“Stacey.” Mum walks into the lounge room and I sit up straighter, brushing the crumbs from my black tank top. “Something terrible has happened.”
She sits down next to me and I wrap my arms around my stomach. “Yes?”
“Kate had a friend … Lachlan? He was—he was in a motorcycle accident. He died.”
I blink.
Lachlan? Nice, supportive, funny Lachlan?
Kate.
I bolt up off the couch, run to my room and grab my handbag. I have to go to her. I have to go to her now. I—
“Stace, her mum said she doesn’t want visitors.” Mum appears in the doorway.
I push past her. “It’s my best friend. He was pretty much her boyfriend.”
I take the stairs two at a time, somehow managing not to fall over my own feet, and grab my car keys from the hall table before wrenching my car door open, slamming it shut, and hightailing it out of there quicker than a wasp on the hunt.
I pull up out front of Kate’s house and fly to her front door, my fist raised and ready to give it the knocking of a lifetime, when it really hits me.
He’s dead.
I suck in a deep breath. My head pounds, and it seems a little hard to breathe. Once more, that whole fragility-of-life thing hits me. How could I have contemplated killing my three-centimetre worm-child when this grown-up man just got taken?
“I’m never going to let anything happen to you,” I whisper as I rub my stomach again. I’m going to protect this tiny human from everything.
I knock again and the door opens and I’m still standing there, one hand in the air, one on my stomach, one small breath of air in my lungs.
“Stacey,” Deborah, Kate’s
mum, brings me in for a hug, and I let one arm drape around her neck. I pull back and look at her, really look at her, for the first time in quite a while.
Her once-auburn hair is now streaked with delicate lines of grey. The lines around her eyes are deeper, and the purple that shadows them is unmistakable. You can see how much things have changed for her—it’s written on her face.
“Are you … okay?” The word seems so trivial, so not enough for what she is going through with her husband’s disease, but it’s all I have.
“Kate’s not doing well, she’s—”
“Are you okay?” I put my hand on her arm. “With your husband … Kate …?”
A sheen mists over Deborah’s eyes. She’s a woman I’ve always referred to as a second mother, and the next thing I know she’s in my arms, her frail body shaking as sobs choke from her mouth. I rub my hand up and down her back, shushing noises coming from my mouth. Comforting her like I would a baby.
“I’m sorry.” Deborah finally pulls back and runs a hand under her eyes. Even though she’s in a work uniform, with some foundation covering her cheeks, she’s not wearing mascara, so it’s just the damp she’s brushing away. I wonder when her days started getting like that. So tumultuous that the risk of wearing eye-makeup just wasn’t worth it.
“It’s fine.” I shake my head. And it really is.
I think of my life. Pregnant. Alone. Then I think of her life. Her husband is sick, can barely put together a sentence. Her daughter could die of the same disease. But right now, Kate is in the throes of heartbreak because the guy she really liked has died.
Maybe everyone is alone, to a degree. Maybe I just didn’t see it before.
“She doesn’t want to see anyone,” Deborah says. “It’s not just Lachlan, you know. Last night, Dave released a song about her. Some mean thing about … well, I’m sure you’ll hear it for yourself.”
Anger boils in my veins. “How could he?” I hiss. But what I’m thinking is, How the hell could Michael be involved with that?
“Can I just see her for a few minutes?” I ask. “I won’t—I won’t bother her, I promise. I just want to … I want to be there.”
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