The Mistake

by Wendy James

  ‘How dare you?’ Hannah goes on. ‘I don’t quite know how to express my … disappointment. You were such a sweet little thing, however did you transform into such a difficult girl?’ She takes in an imaginary retort, her eyes wide, then her lips compress, she turns away. ‘Oh, where did we go wrong?’ she moans, shoulders slumped. A long pause. Then: ‘And what … What will people think?’

  The scene moves swiftly from comedy to drama. Now Hannah is determined to garner more than just the customary laughter, wants some other response from her audience – recognition of something deeper, more mysterious. Suddenly the rather fatuous matron becomes someone menacing – it’s hard to see why, to pinpoint exactly how Hannah manages it, as she doesn’t speak, but suddenly the character, the caricature – still recognisably the Mrs Garrow they all know – has assumed a darker mien, has become sinister, her intent unmistakably malign. The Jodie grotesque smiles cruelly, then moves forward – toward the audience, her purpose indefinable, but somehow terrifying.

  There’s a gasp from the audience, and then some suppressed squealing as Hannah moves toward them – and she breaks right there, in a moment of white-knuckle tension. She gives an ironic bow, waits for a response.

  There is a gurgle of appreciation from her peers; even her usually scathing Year Eight nemesis Anna breathes an admiring ‘Awesome!’ The teacher, Mrs Dennison, is smiling uneasily.

  ‘My goodness, Hannah. That was a remarkable performance. Well done. Though not one for our drama night, perhaps.’

  The girls laugh about it, later at lunch, Hannah summarily restored to the fold – for the moment at least. She can sense there’s something wrong with Assia, though, who hangs back a little from the crowd, slightly distant, cool, a tension about her that Hannah immediately recognises. Instead of waiting until they’re alone, as she usually would, Hannah asks her straight up what’s wrong – a gauntlet thrown down in front of all the other girls.

  ‘How could you do that?’ Assia says, obviously glad to be given the opportunity to speak her mind.

  ‘Do what?’ Hannah affects a nonchalance she doesn’t quite feel.

  ‘Do that to your mother. In front of all those people. It was awful. I could never be so cruel. So disloyal.’

  Hannah snorts. ‘I didn’t do anything to her, Assia. And well, no, you wouldn’t, would you? Your mother’s so cool. My mother’s so not. And then my mother has this whole, er, baby-killing thing happening.’ She says the word loudly, grins defiantly at her friend.

  Assia grabs her hand, drags her away from the other girls, whose eyes have widened with delight at the prospect of a scene. ‘God, Hannah. How could you say that? She’s your mother, Han. And she’s explained what happened with the baby. You should be sticking up for her. And even if you are angry with her or whatever, you shouldn’t be making it into a joke in front of everyone.’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you? You have no idea what it’s like.’ Hannah kicks at a rock, hard, with her new shoe. It leaves a nasty scratch on the leather. She kicks again. Viciously. ‘She’s been an utter bitch lately. You know that. Then there’s all this shit about that fucking baby. And she doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even try to defend herself. What’s everyone meant to think? She’s so fucking stupid.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Hannah. Just because she doesn’t let you do whatever you want! Because she expects you to help out occasionally, nags at you to clean up your room? That’s all it is, isn’t it? She’s not that bad.’

  Hannah prickles up. ‘She is that bad, actually. What would you know?’ She can feel the words harden, but forces them out like bits of gravel – sharp, biting, hot. ‘Your mum’s a normal person, not some dumbo Stepford wife who has a major breakdown if the towels in the linen closet don’t line up perfectly. If I try and talk to my mother about anything that’s important she asks me whether I’ve done my homework, or put away my clothes. There’s nothing,’ she screws a finger into her ear, gives a daffy grin, trying to lighten the mood, ‘absolutely nothing, up there – except air, maybe.’

  Her attempt to be funny doesn’t work. Assia’s face is red, she’s biting at her bottom lip as if to stop from crying. ‘Your mum’s just normal, Hannah. They’re supposed to give you shit about that sort of stuff. They’re not supposed to tell you about the great head job they were given by some celebrity or the acid they dropped in the eighties. I know you think my mother’s fantastic – she seems so great on the surface, and sometimes she is. But she can turn – in an instant. She’s said stuff to me that you couldn’t imagine a mother saying. You know she named me after some famous fucking suicide, right? Some poet who killed herself and her kid. How crap is that? Your mother is kind. And she really loves you. And I think what you did in Drama was really, really wrong.’ And before Hannah can say anything, Assia is striding away across the grassy playground, lost in the noisy lunchtime crowd.

  AAP NEWS

  ‘Search for missing baby fails: case referred to coroner’

  After a police investigation has failed to find any trace of either missing Sydney girl Elsa Mary or of the couple who allegedly adopted her, the matter has been referred to the coroner.

  Elsa Mary, who will be twenty-four if she is still alive, has not been seen since she was discharged into the care of her mother, Jodie Evans, now Garrow, three days after her birth on December 22nd 1986.

  Despite extensive searches, nationally and overseas, NSW Police have not been able to determine whether Elsa Mary is still alive. The coroner, Conrad Westerby, QC, will consider whether an inquest is necessary.

  Police ask anyone with information about the circumstances of Elsa Mary’s disappearance, or anyone who knows her current or past whereabouts, to contact Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.

  20

  The photo comes out of the woodwork only a few days after the case is handed on to the coroner. Angus phones Jodie from the office with the news. It’s almost eight and he’s working late, as usual. He launches straight in, doesn’t bother greeting her.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from someone. They’ve unearthed a photograph – it’ll be in the papers tomorrow.’ His voice sounds as it always does lately: steely, held in, as if he scarcely dares to give voice to his thoughts.

  ‘A photograph? And? What’s the problem?’ The media have released a new photograph every other day, it seems to her. In the newspapers, on television, in every women’s magazine that graces the checkout of the local supermarket – she could never have imagined she’d been so profligate with her image. School photos taken at Milton Central, at Arding High, receiving an award at Grammar, photographs of her in her twenties, at uni, nursing, in her thirties, with Hannah as a newborn, wearing a bikini just after Tom (her postpartum stomach stretched and soggy, her thighs maternally dimpled – what had possessed her?). Jodie could weep – every one of these older photographs was evidence of her own complacent acceptance of happiness, of contentment. How could she have not known what was approaching? Her former insouciance seems almost obscene, offensive. Recent photos seem more real – snapped without warning or permission, her face drawn, grim, in one her arm thrown up in an attempt to shield herself from the intrusive gaze of the camera. What more can they show of her? Surely there’s nothing left?

  But there is something else, it seems: the image of a moment she’d forgotten.

  ‘It’s a snap of you and the baby, Jodie.’

  ‘The baby?’ she begins stupidly. ‘But they’ve already published those awful pictures after Tom —’

  ‘Of her. Of Elsa Mary.’ She can almost hear his teeth clench on her name. ‘It was taken in the hospital. Someone who was there when you were and took a photo. They’ve obviously sold it to the papers.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘It’s not good, Jodes.’

  ‘What do you mean, not good?’ Suddenly, she gives a hard laugh. ‘How can it be worse than it already is?’

  ‘It’s the expression on your face.’ Now she can hear th
e sympathy in his voice, evidence of his residual tenderness. ‘You look … I don’t know what to say, Jodie. You don’t look like yourself. Everyone knows it’s not the best time to take pictures of a new mother – it was probably just hours after you’d had the baby, for Christ’s sake; you would have been exhausted, overwhelmed. I can remember what it was like when you had Hannah. But you’re looking down at the baby, in this shot – and your expression … it’s … you’re …’

  ‘What? What on earth am I doing?’

  ‘Well, it’s not a loving expression. It’s probably just the camera angle – you know what it’s like – but you’re scowling. You look angry. And the media are running with this, they’ve pulled out all the stops this time. They’ve honed right in on your face, you know, blown it up. And they’re saying —’

  ‘Oh God, Angus.’ She can hear the panic in his voice now, the fear. ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘They’re saying it’s the face of a murderer.’

  DECEMBER, 1986

  The maternity ward boasts a recently refurbished sitting room for new mothers. It’s a friendly space, decorated in bright primary colours, with a tea-and toast-making station, a huge pile of women’s magazines (along with the ubiquitous baby-care and breast-feeding guides), a number of comfortable vinyl-clad lounge chairs, and a big wall-mounted television. Most of the new mothers shuffle in a couple of times a day – usually when their babies are asleep – to have a cuppa, a chat with fellow-sufferers, some to have a surreptitious cigarette on the balcony or to spend some time with their other small children, away from the babies.

  It’s not a place that Jodie frequents – other than to hurriedly prepare a cup of coffee or tea, or, starving again, to take a handful of the cheap biscuits they’ve provided. But the new young midwife, Debbie, taking advantage of Sheila’s morning absence, insists that Jodie join in for a special talk on baby care that she’s giving – early, before visiting hours. Following Sheila’s advice that she make as few waves as possible where Debbie is concerned, Jodie reluctantly makes her way down and seats herself in one of the slippery, armless chairs. She had hoped to get out of it, to be excused; the baby had been wheeled down from the nursery by an overworked midwife, needed changing and feeding before she could reasonably be sent back, but Debbie had called into her room on her way down the corridor, had pooh-poohed her objections, insisted that she attend.

  ‘Bring the bottle and feed her there,’ she’d said. ‘It doesn’t matter – this is a maternity ward, you know. It’ll give you an opportunity to have a gasbag with some of the other mothers.’ And then she’d taken the matter out of Jodie’s hands, finishing the nappy change herself and wheeling the crib along the corridor, so that Jodie had no choice but to follow along in the woman’s determinedly cheery wake, clutching the half-warmed bottle, still in her pyjamas, her hair unbrushed, silently cursing.

  She sits through the talk, barely listening, but relaxed, the baby taking the bottle easily for once, without any tussling or fidgeting, and then falling contentedly straight back into sleep on her lap. Debbie rattles off her piece, then answers the women’s anxious questions. Though the talk itself covered topics as diverse as supplementary feeding and the developmental benefits of reading aloud to your newborn, most of the women’s questions are to do with ways of persuading their babies to sleep: techniques for wrapping, the efficacy of burping, of rocking to sleep, all of them vaguely desperate already to find a way back into this once taken for granted state of unconsciousness.

  When the questions peter out and the talk officially winds up, most of the women, their infants momentarily content, stay seated, chatting about this or that – comparing births, babies, breasts, rooms. They are friendly enough, though distracted, and obviously exhausted, with a hollow, unreflecting look in their eyes. It’s a look Jodie has noticed during her pracs in the eyes of people who have undergone major trauma – death rather than birth – and a look she supposes she has herself. Jodie would prefer to get back to her room, to be alone, but the prospect of disturbing the sleeping baby is worse than the unwanted contact.

  One of the mothers, only a little older than Jodie, peers down at the sleeping baby. ‘What a cutie. So tiny. A girl?’ The woman’s voice is gravelly, her accent broad.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Mine’s a monster – nine pound six. He nearly tore me to shreds on the way out, the little bugger.’

  ‘Oh.’ She has no intention of swapping birth stories, would rather not speak at all, but the woman persists.

  ‘It lasted almost eighteen hours. I couldn’t believe that it went on for so long – if someone had offered to shoot me in the head I’d have said do it! And then – he got stuck right at the end – literally! I’ve got stitches from arsehole to breakfast time …’

  Jodie can’t repress a bark of laughter.

  ‘So, how was yours?’

  ‘Oh, you know … Horrible.’ It’s not something she wants to recall, let alone discuss.

  ‘Amazes me that the human race keeps going – that anyone ever does this twice! Still, it’s all worth it in the end, isn’t it?’ The woman smiles tenderly down at Jodie’s baby lying so contentedly on her lap. Half unwillingly, Jodie follows her gaze.

  She’s spared making any reply – there’s a dazzling flash from a camera, and Jodie looks up, startled and annoyed.

  Debbie laughs, her bright eyes mischievous, a little instant camera swinging from her wrist. ‘I’m just taking a few happy snaps. I really want to remember all this – you’re my first lot, you know. It was a lovely moment, Jodie; it’ll be a wonderful mother and babe shot – you were looking right down at her with such a loving expression. Perfect.’ She gives a satisfied smile.

  The other woman snorts. ‘I’ve never understood anyone wanting a photo taken just after they’ve had a baby. I can understand taking a photo of the newborn, but the mother? Ugh. My skin’s turned to shit, my face is puffy, and I’m still twenty pounds overweight – at least.’ She pushes at her belly. ‘I’m hoping there’s another baby in here somewhere, to tell you the truth.’ She gives Jodie the once-over. ‘You don’t look too bad, though, considering.’

  ‘She looks great, doesn’t she?’ Debbie has perched on the vacant seat beside Jodie, is absently stroking the baby’s cheek. ‘If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I’d be wondering if this was really her baby, if she’d actually given birth at all.’

  21

  When she opens the envelope – a big manilla sleeve that she assumes contains something official – the cutting falls face up onto the table. If she’d had any idea of its contents she would have tossed it away without a second thought, but now the image is there in front of her, stark and unavoidable.

  It is indeed an unflattering shot of Jodie – as Angus told her she is frowning down at the baby, her face puffy, her lips curled strangely in a not-quite sneer, thin and slightly cruel. Just an odd moment, meaningless – she looks unattractive, it’s true, and older than her nineteen years – and it’s certainly not a Hallmark image of rapturous motherhood. But it’s surely not deserving of the ‘Face of a Murderess’ headline, either. The bold accusation turns her stomach, makes her gasp in sudden terror, though she barely glances at it, has steeled herself against its meaning, willed herself impervious.

  The picture of the baby is another matter, though – Jodie can barely take her eyes off the grainy image. For years she has managed to keep all thoughts of the infant from her conscious mind, insisting to herself that this baby meant nothing, changed nothing – that her birth was little more than a minor knot in an otherwise smooth progression to adulthood. There has been little suffering on Jodie’s part, other than in those first few weeks after the birth – no remorse, no real sense of loss or wondering why or where or what might have been. As with all the other things she has managed to bury, somehow she has managed to sweep this too into some dark recess, to bury it and just get on with things.

  Her unconscious mind, however, is something else al
together. Once or twice in those first years she had woken with the distinct feel of that tiny burden in her arms, or still kicking safely within her body, or with the sharp awareness of a dream in which she’s observing a strangely familiar toddler, attended by devoted parents, playing happily on a swing. A few times there’d been a very different sort of dream – one she could not or would not recall – and she had woken overcome by inexpressible, unbearable sadness.

  After she’d had Hannah those particular dreams had stopped, but during those first few months of her new, ecstatically welcomed baby’s life, Jodie had experienced an odd sense of loss. She had felt obscurely bereft – filled with incomprehensible longing. She had tried to dismiss it, had put it down to missing the physical sensation of being pregnant, which she’d heard was not uncommon. Luckily, this vague malaise had not lingered too long, had been quickly supplanted by the other more positive sensations.