She kept her gaze on the papers in her hand. ‘I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?’
Tom’s jaw worked. ‘When I suggested it last week, you wouldn’t even discuss it. You dismissed me like some kind of idiot. But when your boss tells you to, you’re all over it.’
‘I’m not all over it, Tom. I just want to go back to work.’ She turned back to the pile of things in front of her, and for the first time Tom noticed the cardboard box with the rainbow and birds that they’d brought home from the hospital. The papers that Ali was shuffling through looked like all of the ultrasound pictures of Elizabeth. The positive pregnancy test that had brought them such joy sat beside them.
‘Are you making up the memory box?’
‘No. I’m getting rid of it.’
‘Ali, no,’ he protested, but before he could stop her, she held up the ultrasound pictures and cut through the whole stack with a pair of scissors. She dumped them into the box, then picked up the pregnancy test and gripped it in both hands, grimacing as she tried to snap the plastic stick in half. Failing, she tossed that into the box too.
‘I’ve called the baby store where we bought the pram and the cot,’ she said. ‘They’ll give us a refund if we take them back within the month. We should probably do that on the weekend.’ She sounded so emotionless.
‘Why are you throwing these things away?’ Tom’s voice was barely above a whisper. He wished he sounded stronger, more in control, but he felt helpless. ‘Don’t you want something to remember her by?’
She stared at him. ‘I’ve got something to remember her by, Tom. Guilt. That’s never going to go away.’
Pity poured through Tom. ‘You’ve got nothing to be guilty about, Ali. We don’t know what caused it. Remember what Amelia said? We’ll probably never know.’ He grabbed her shoulders and tried to take her into his arms, but she resisted him, her body stiff.
‘For years, I didn’t want children. I thought of them as an inconvenience, something that would only get in the way of my career. I barely tolerated our friends’ kids. And so when I finally decided I wanted to be a mother after all, is it any wonder the universe decided I didn’t deserve it? We might never know the medical causes for her death, but I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.’
Tears spilled onto Tom’s cheeks as she left the room. This wasn’t like Ali. She’d never let the universe make decisions for her. She didn’t believe in fate, or that everything happened for a reason. Ever since he’d known her, she’d grabbed life by the balls and commanded it to do her bidding. This behaviour didn’t make sense.
Before
The breeze whispered over Tom’s bare back, a welcome relief from the day’s heat. He stared out at the ocean, the golden sheet of water glistening under the setting sun, the stout pillars of Glenelg jetty silhouetted black against the sky. He sensed her before she spoke, felt the familiar shiver beneath his skin before her arms encircled his waist.
‘I’m sorry I flipped out on you,’ she said into his back.
Tom turned to face her and she rested her head against his chest. It was such a relief to feel her touch again, as if they’d been apart for months rather than mere minutes. It had been their first real argument, and Tom had been shocked at the cold way she’d reacted to his suggestion of inviting her mother out to dinner with his parents. He knew she was tough, but he’d never seen those hard edges before, and it’d plunged him into momentary doubt about their relationship. Already the idea of losing her had shaken him. He’d never felt this way about anyone before.
He kissed her. ‘There’s no rush for me to meet your mother. Whenever you’re ready.’
Ali traced the muscles of his bare chest with a finger. ‘You’re so close to your family. I’m worried that once you see what she’s like, you’ll run a mile.’
The last of Tom’s annoyance dissolved. What had happened between Ali and her mother in the past obviously affected her more than she’d let on. One day they’d sit down and talk about it properly, but now it was starting to get dark, the beach was almost deserted, her hands were caressing his skin, and he had something else entirely on his mind. He pulled her body firmly against his.
‘You’re part of me.’ He drew her into the shallows, kissing her again. ‘And I’m part of you.’ He fumbled with her yellow bikini bottom as they drifted into deeper water. ‘And I’m not going anywhere.’
Tom’s breath caught in his throat as Ali’s legs wrapped around his waist.
Ali
‘It’s lovely to meet you, Alison. My name is Meena.’ The psychologist gestured at her computer screen. ‘I see from your GP’s referral letter that you’ve recently lost a baby.’
Ali shifted in her seat, avoiding the psychologist’s gaze. Everything about this situation made her feel like her control was slipping further and further away, from Alex’s ultimatum to Tom’s mix of relief and indignation, to sitting here while someone psychoanalysed her. She hated it.
‘I’m sure this has been a difficult time for you,’ Meena went on. They sat across from one another, a low coffee table the only thing between them. A notepad rested on Meena’s lap, the top sheet unmarked. She held a pen between her thumb and forefinger as if poised to write down everything Ali said. ‘I’d like to start by finding out a bit more about you and what’s brought you here today.’
Ali’s lip curled. ‘I’m here because my boss told me I have to if I want to come back to work.’
The psychologist leant back in her chair and raised the end of her pen to her lips. ‘So you do want to go back to work?’
‘Yes,’ Ali said immediately. ‘I love my job.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m the media adviser to the education minister.’ Ali felt more confident now she was on familiar ground. ‘I give him advice on potential media opportunities, vet his media releases, advise him on how to respond to contentious enquiries from journalists, that sort of thing.’
Meena made no move to write anything down. ‘Sounds like a busy job. Is it stressful?’
‘Sometimes. But I like the fast pace. I’m not good at being idle. It makes me anxious.’
Meena chewed on the end of her pen. Her calm expression didn’t waver, and Ali wondered whether she used the pen as a prop to disguise her own uncertainty rather than as a practical tool. She wasn’t sure whether this possibility annoyed her or made her feel warmer towards her.
‘Why do you think your boss wants you to see me?’ Meena said after a moment.
Ali sighed. ‘Probably because he, like everyone else, thinks I can’t cope.’
‘And are you? Coping?’
‘Well, I’ve only been back for a couple of days. But work keeps me sane. It always has.’
‘Have you been pressured to take more time off?’
Ali nodded. ‘By my husband in particular… but it’s not just him. Everyone I’ve spoken to acts like I’m some cold-hearted monster for wanting to go back.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
Ali gave a rough laugh to cover her discomfort. The words were so cliched she half expected Meena to admit she was just messing with her. ‘I don’t want to talk about my feelings. I just want to do my job.’
Meena’s eyes, so dark they were almost black, fixed on her over the pen that still rested on her lower lip. ‘Everyone grieves in different ways, but plenty of research suggests that going back to work is good for us psychologically. If it feels right for you, then it’s the right thing to do.’
The warm reward of professional approval glowed through Ali. She allowed a small smile to rise to her lips. ‘Now I just need a recording of that to play back to my boss.’
Meena’s expression didn’t change. ‘What is it that you like about your job?’
‘I’m good at it. And I believe in what I’m doing.’
‘Have you always felt that way about work?’
The pitch of Meena’s carefully modulated voice hadn’t varied since Ali had walked into th
e room, and she wondered absently whether she spoke differently outside work. What did she sound like when she was angry? Upset? Excited? Or did psychologists learn not to display such pedestrian emotions? The slight lilt of her Indian accent was curiously soothing, and Ali could feel her guard coming down the more she spoke. ‘My career has always been important to me. Every job I’ve had has been a big part of my life.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
She snorted. ‘Because I saw firsthand what happens when you use a man as a financial plan. I want to always be able to support myself, no matter what happens.’
Meena’s forehead crinkled slightly. ‘What do you mean, you “saw firsthand”?’
Ali’s heart clenched. She looked away from the psychologist and surveyed the cream walls, empty other than a wooden frame that held Meena’s Master of Clinical Psychology certificate, a reassurance to clients that they were in professional hands, that it was OK to spill out things they’d locked inside themselves for years. There were no windows, which seemed somehow wrong to Ali. Though perhaps this, too, was intentional, so the secrets that filled this room couldn’t escape into the open.
‘My dad died when I was sixteen,’ she said. ‘My mum had never worked a day in her life, and when he was gone she didn’t know how to support herself… or me.’
Meena tapped her pen on her chin. ‘What’s your relationship like with your mother?’
Ali pressed her lips together. ‘Non-existent.’
‘You don’t communicate with her at all?’
‘Well, she calls me every year on my birthday and on Christmas Day, but she… Anyway, I don’t want to talk about my mother. There’s nothing between us anymore. Do you ever write anything on that bloody notepad?’
Meena regarded her for a moment, her black eyes soft. ‘Do you think your mother’s experience is the reason you were so determined to get back to work after you lost your baby?’
Ali’s defensive barrier slammed back into place. ‘Are you saying I’m using work as an escape?’
‘Those are your words, Alison,’ Meena said softly.
Ali’s composure teetered, and she stood up. ‘I’m not here to be judged!’
Meena looked up at her, unperturbed. ‘I’m not judging you, Alison. I’m here to help.’
‘No offence, but therapy isn’t really for me.’ Ali slung her handbag over her shoulder. ‘I have to go.’
‘It’s your choice, of course,’ Meena said. ‘But I would encourage you to come back, even if only for one more session. I think I can help you… if you’re willing to work through this.’
‘There’s nothing to work through. I’m fine.’
Meena held up a finger. ‘Do me one favour. Don’t cancel next week’s appointment yet. Think about it.’
Ali gave the psychologist a grim smile and hurried out of the office. For a few minutes there she’d been OK, but when the subject of Hazel had come up it’d knocked her off balance, and all the feelings she’d been trying to hold in had threatened to overflow. She couldn’t let that happen. There was no way she was going back.
* * *
Ali threw herself back into work with dogged determination. Alex had found out through the not-so-discreet government grapevine that the Independent Commission Against Corruption was conducting a closed investigation into the department’s chief executive. The media had been pursuing Joshua Dixon for an alleged travel rort for the last year, and Ali had her hands full trying to fend them off.
When she was in a meeting, directing traffic and making quick decisions, she could push away the despair that dragged at her. She wasn’t sure how much the departmental communications staff knew about her circumstances, but from the palpable tension around the table at their regular media meeting, she guessed someone had told them at least part of the story.
She locked her usual calm, brisk manner firmly in place. ‘Are we still on track to launch the Growing Schools project next month?’
‘Ah, noooo.’ Tina, the department’s senior media adviser, drew the word out slowly, a habit that never failed to irritate Ali. ‘The CE hasn’t signed off on the policy yet. He has some reservations about the cost-effectiveness of the program.’
Ali raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re kidding, right? The program costs bugger all and gets kids growing veggies as part of the curriculum—what could he possibly have reservations about?’
‘I knoooow.’ Tina rolled her eyes. ‘Nevertheless, he’s asked for a cost–benefit analysis so we’re holding off on the launch until at least November.’
‘You’re holding off on the launch until November,’ Ali repeated flatly. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that the premier’s on board with this? We got her involved because you told us the program was ready to go. You told us the launch was organised.’
Tina looked uneasy.
‘And now you’re telling me that you’re holding off on the launch.’ Ali’s temper was rapidly fraying. She was going to come out of this looking like the idiot who’d jumped the gun, and all because she’d been led to believe this was a done deal.
‘Sorry,’ Tina said. ‘We were pretty sure he was going to sign off on it.’
‘You were pretty sure?’ Ali didn’t know why she kept repeating Tina’s words, but she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘Now who’s going to go back to the premier’s office and tell her chief of staff that this important event that we got her all excited about is now postponed until further notice, after she made room in her ridiculously busy schedule to launch it?’
The five of them stared back at her. Ali knew she sounded like a bitch. It wasn’t their fault their chief executive was a chronic micro manager who changed his mind as often as his expensive silk ties.
‘Should we get the business unit to write a briefing to the minister’s office, with a forwarding minute to the premier explaining what’s happened?’ Tina offered.
Ali had the urge to laugh, but they looked so worried that she sighed instead. ‘Look, I’ll deal with it. I know this wasn’t anything to do with you, but we have to be careful about things like this.’
It was then, while they were all staring at her, that the baby gave a little flip inside her, and her heart leapt with involuntary euphoria. But then came the crash, the cruel realisation that it was only her body playing tricks on her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been tortured by phantom kicks, but they usually came in the dead of night when she lay awake, Tom snoring beside her. They’d never interrupted her at work before. She tried to concentrate on what Tina was saying, but persistent taunts began to crowd around the edges of her mind, blocking out everything else.
You’re nothing. Barren. Defective. Useless.
‘Sorry, guys,’ she said. ‘Could we wrap this up? I have to make a phone call.’ She stood up and left the meeting room without further explanation.
Her fumbling fingers barely managed to turn the lock in the bathroom cubicle before she began to hyperventilate. There were no tears—they had dried up after her first day back—but she was relieved the other cubicles were empty and there was no one to hear her breath coming in gasps. Clammy sweat rose on her brow. Her fists clenched with the effort to stem her panic and allow air back into her lungs. This was not her. She didn’t allow her emotions to take over like this.
By the time she’d swabbed the moisture from her forehead and washed her hands in the basin, the woman who looked back at her from the mirror appeared as she always did: competent, professional, self-assured. In control.
The door swung open and one of the political advisers swept in. ‘Hi Ali!’
‘Hey, Kamala,’ she said with a cool smile.
Their eyes met in the mirror for a second. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you seem to be coping really well,’ Kamala said. ‘You’re so strong to get through this.’
They shared a brief smile before Kamala disappeared into one of the cubicles. Ali looked at her reflection again. No matter how she felt on the inside, she was pulling it off. Sh
e didn’t need therapy. All she had to do was keep going through the motions.
Before
Tom held his map over his head to shield him from the hot sun. They’d been waiting to get into the Colosseum for more than half an hour, the line had barely moved, and they’d been accosted by three different touts offering to take them on a private tour. Ali hadn’t said anything, but Tom could tell she was about to lose it and he wasn’t far behind. They’d spent the last two days trawling the sites of Rome, and they were becoming increasingly irritable with both the tourism machine and each other.
He turned to Ali. ‘You know what?’
Ali looked up at him, squinting against the bright sunlight. ‘What?’
‘Fuck tourism.’
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. ‘Fuck it?’
The old couple in front turned to cluck their tongues at them.
‘Fuck it.’ Tom and Ali grinned at one another.
They ditched their place in the line and found a bar nearby. It was as if the weight of expectation had slipped from their shoulders and they were finally at ease. It was their first overseas holiday together and they had each been feeling the other out.
Ali ordered the first round of beers and finished hers before Tom. ‘C’mon, Caruso, don’t leave a girl hanging.’ She tapped her fingernails on the side of the empty glass.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?’
‘A hundred bucks says I can drink you under the table.’
Tom rose to buy the next round, but he already knew he was toast. He’d never had this much fun with any of his previous girlfriends.
The bartender gave him his change. ‘Sit down, signore. I will bring the drinks over to you and your wife.’
Ali looked up at him with a smile as he approached their table, and he grinned back. Wife, thought Tom. He liked the sound of that.
Tom
Tom allowed the steady drone from the six lanes of traffic to block out the need to speak as he and Ali walked from the car up Anzac Highway to Ashford Specialist Centre. A crisp sun shone high in the sky, but the wind swept away its fragile warmth before it reached them. Every now and then a bank of dark clouds would block it out altogether, swallowing their ragged shadows and emphasising Tom’s sense of dread. Today they would find out the results of the autopsy, and he had a feeling that no matter what the conclusion, Ali would find a way to blame herself.
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