The Mistake

by Wendy James

  Another part of her would like to berate the other woman, to make her see what she can’t see from her own privileged position. She’d like to make her view things differently; like to make her eat her words. She knows exactly what she looks like, the writer, though she has never met her, never even seen a photograph. She knows her type inside out – wearing all black, her hair sleek and straight, her funky IQ-enhancing spectacles, retro-reddened lips, her Camper-clad feet. She knows this woman’s position in the schoolroom of yesteryear – she’d have been a popular girl, bright, cool, well-connected, well-heeled, and Jodie knows too that she’d never have been invited to this girl’s birthday party, or asked to play on her team. How dare she sneer at Jodie’s ideals, her yearnings; laugh at her old-fashioned string of pearls, her outfit, her dull middle-class respectability.

  How she’d love to push Ms Caro McNally up to the glass and force her to look at herself, to admit to her own entrenched thoughts about privilege, to concede that if an establishment does exist, a place where the powerful and influential congregate, this writer is not, as she so loudly and frequently proclaims, on the edge, a coolly observant outsider – but smack bang in the middle. She, not Jodie, is the insider.

  Jodie knows – as her mother, and this woman have pointed out – that she’s had to abandon one life in order to have the life she’s living now. Though she recognises, when she can bear to think of it, the immensity of her youthful decisions and actions, and would change certain things if only it were possible, still she is glad of the life she has led, and would not swap it, offer it up as payment. She has imagined, frequently, the life she might have had with that child: she’d have been a single mother, her socio-economic status always low, regardless of her education, occupation; her life one of hard graft, like her own mother’s – but even worse, surely, because unlike her own mother, Jodie had been capable of seeing, and desiring, those other possibilities. She’d seen what was waiting for her so clearly – the small rooms, dingy furnishing, grinding work, the bitter stink of poverty, of desperation, desolation; the regret that would colour every aspect of her diminished expectations. She’d known it was possible to live a life that was very different to the one her parents had provided her with – a life of solidity, security, prosperity. And though she knows, now she’s older, that grief, sadness, bitterness, sorrow, lurk beneath the surface of all lives, that in the end, death and decay can’t be avoided, there’s still no denying the fact that most jagged edges can be smoothed, that money and social status can ease almost every journey, every transaction, from birth to death and all that lies between.

  All Jodie wants, all she has ever wanted, is a life without grubbiness, without chaos, a life that follows a clear trajectory of progress, of achievement. Surely, she thinks, it isn’t that much to ask.

  24

  It seems utterly surreal to Hannah that with all that’s going on right now, somehow nothing much has actually changed. This morning before she’s even out of bed, her mother comes in to deposit a pile of neatly ironed clothes on top of her television – which is the only area of clear horizontal space available, other than Hannah herself – and makes the usual request that Hannah do something about her room. Bending to pick up a discarded chocolate wrapper, she asks the gods – because what’s the point in asking Hannah, who’s lying there with her eyes tightly shut, feigning sleep – how it can be that Hannah has absolutely no respect for her own space, all the new furniture, the curtains, the pretty carpet, the computer, her books, her clothes. She gives a final gusty sigh, suggests her daughter get out of bed if she doesn’t want to be late for school, and leaves the room. When she’s gone, Hannah opens her eyes, but lies still a few minutes longer, marvelling at her mother’s capacity to find the time, the energy, to give a shit about the state of Hannah’s bedroom. At a time like this.

  How can it be that even in these extreme circumstances – she’s under investigation, possibly for murder, for fuck’s sake! – how can it be that even in these completely jaw-droppingly bizarre circumstances, this woman who says she’s her mother (but who knows, given her mother’s crazy past, maybe Hannah belongs to someone else. She can only hope) is still keeping religiously to her pre-revelation routine? She is still jumping up every morning, walking the dog, showering, blow-drying her hair, dressing in her sensible trousers, her shirts and quilted vests, applying her foundation, her mascara, her lipstick, all before seven; then emptying the dishwasher and hanging out two loads of washing before waking Hannah and her brother promptly at 7:25 a.m. There will be a rack of warm toast ready for Hannah when she wanders downstairs; a glass of orange juice will be filled without asking. Her mother will be cheerfully cleaning or cooking or perhaps preparing their lunch boxes … Not one aspect of her pitiful routine will have altered, not one element of the household upkeep will be slipping out of her mother’s iron-willed control.

  Hannah wonders, briefly, whether her mother succumbs to despair when she and her brother and father are safely out of the house, when she’s alone; tries to imagine her mother curled foetally on the bed, tears sliding down her face, wailing, but dismisses this particular idea almost immediately as not being in character. And it’s just possible, Hannah concludes as she slides reluctantly from her tangled, junk-strewn bed, and makes a start on her own rather complex morning routine, that her mother is now a shell, and not a person at all.

  Hannah’s standing in front of the mirror, naked apart from her undies, her hands under her full breasts, contemplating the effects of a combined pushing up and together, when her mother walks in again, this time bearing a collection of discarded shoes. She picks her way carefully across the room and tosses the shoes noisily into the wardrobe, without comment, never once looking Hannah’s way. By the time her mother knocks over a stack of precariously piled books, then steps on a half-eaten piece of pizza that’s been left on the floor, Hannah’s primed for an altercation. She’d do almost anything to see a ripple in that placid surface, a crack in that armour. To find out if there’s actually anything underneath.

  Hannah puts her hands on her hips. ‘You should knock, Mum,’ she bellows. ‘How many times do I have to say it. This is my room. Can’t you read? You’re always going on about respect – well, why don’t you practise what you preach, try respecting my space for a change?’

  Her mother picks the mangled pizza from her shoe and lets it fall onto the carpet, treads around it carefully and heads for the door, then pauses, turns back. ‘Hannah,’ her voice is cool, unhurried, ‘I really wish you’d go a little easier on the eyeliner, sweetheart. Dr Guilfoyle won’t tolerate it, you know that. You’ll end up on detention. And you do look a little – what’s the word you girls use? – a little skanky, if you don’t mind me mentioning it.’ She smiles sweetly in her daughter’s direction before heading back down the hallway.

  Hannah rushes after her, livid. ‘You’re a cow!’ she screams at the implacably retreating figure of her mother. ‘Did you know that? You are Such. A. Fucking. Cow.’ She sees Tom hovering, peering nervously around his bedroom door. He backs up as his sister advances on him, red-faced, topless. ‘And you, you little, you little cunt.’ She says the word loudly, deliberately. ‘You better watch out. She’s already murdered one kid, you know – you could be next.’ She gives him a vicious little shove and he lets out a squeal, scurries back into his room.

  This time she’s done it. Finally, Hannah’s gone too far. Her mother marches back up the hall, is there before the girl can retreat to her bedroom. She plants herself directly in front of Hannah, blocking her way, her face devoid of expression, but her eyes are cold. She draws herself up to her full height – and it’s something of a surprise to Hannah, who has imagined herself to have outgrown her mother, that she’s still some inches taller – then draws back her hand and slaps her, hard, right across the face. It’s the first time, the only time, that Hannah has been hit by her mother.

  ‘Don’t you ever,’ her mother says quietly, evenly, her eyes never leavi
ng Hannah’s face, ‘use that word. Not in this house. Not in my hearing. Not ever.’

  25

  Jodie is quietly going mad. On the surface things at home seem to be running smoothly, the same as ever. Jodie is good – is a genius, really – at keeping up appearances. The house is as immaculate as ever, the clothes are washed and ironed and put away as efficiently as always, the evening meals as delicious and nutritious as ever, if slightly less adventurous. She is on time for any pick-ups and drop-offs that Angus can’t do – though there is no lingering any more, no chatting with the other mums at the tennis court, the drama club, the swimming pool.

  And Jodie looks much the same – she hasn’t let herself go in any way, though her visits to the gym have been replaced by early morning walks and the occasional session of aerobics using Tom’s Wii. She still has her hair done regularly – locating a hairdresser who works from home, rather than visiting her old gossipy salon. She dresses as she usually does – always neatly, conservatively. If anyone was watching – and they are, she knows that – they would not see that anything had changed. But it has. How could it not?

  While he continues to be considerate and painstakingly civil, she is sure, by a flicker, a look, that Angus is angry with her. He presents only his blankest, most distant self to her now – his every word measured, every expression guarded. He smiles, he inquires after her wellbeing, but no more. And there is no physical intimacy between them now. There is no cuddling, no half-unconscious proprietary clasping of arm or shoulder, no casually slung arm around waist. They haven’t, for some reason, taken that final step of sleeping separately, though why, Jodie doesn’t know. There are two spare rooms, both comfortable, each with an adjoining bathroom. But every night they lie side by side, as far away from one another as they can. Their bed is oversized, so there’s enough space for each to turn inwards or outwards without encountering the other – they don’t touch during the night, not even an accidental roll into the middle.

  She is not sure what it’s about, what the source of his anger is; Angus has said nothing, has been nothing but outwardly loyal and supportive. Surely, the idea of her betrayal, so many years ago, isn’t eating away at him? Perhaps it’s the fact that she lied – but she’s explained and he said he understood. Surely, surely he trusts her. He has no reason not to, after all. There’s nothing she’s said, nothing she’s ever done in their long history together that could make him doubt her. She, on the other hand, has plenty of reasons to distrust him. She does not dare bring up the matter of his betrayals, of course, but she can barely restrain herself from exclaiming over the injustice of it. Whatever she has done, whatever he believes she has done, Jodie knows that she has never really betrayed Angus. That she never would.

  It’s true that they skirt around the reality of the situation constantly, that they only refer to what’s going on when they have to, when it can’t be avoided, but she has imagined that is because he is sensitive to her feelings, that he knows there are constant reminders anyway – that she does not need any more.

  The madness – because what else can she call it? – begins after she rereads that McNally woman’s piece online. After her first horrified scan of the article, she’d thrown away the paper, but a week or so later, having decided to conduct a somewhat less hysterical evaluation of what she now only dimly recalls, she googles the story and rereads it, an act which only confirms her initial horror and distress. And the online piece differs in one significant way – it does not terminate at the end of the article itself; instead, the piece has been opened to readers’ comments, a seemingly endless stream of ill-informed but strident opinions. Despite her growing sense of disgust, she reads all of it – almost as if hypnotised. She is assaulted by the opinion of ‘Bess and Annie of Newcastle’ that women like her ‘are the worst sort of all rich enough to think they can get away with anything she should be put in prison and the key thrown away’. And then there is ‘Florence of Pittwater’, who agrees with the writer that Jodie Garrow in fact ‘represents the very worst of the McMansion dwelling aspirationals, with their increasingly heavy environmental footprint, their privileged private-school progeny’. Three comments discuss the probability of her having had botox (something about the position of her cheeks, and the set of her lips, in particular her forehead, which apparently isn’t quite as creased as it should be). There are numerous sentimental outpourings mourning the loss of the baby: Beautiful Elsa Mary we are thinking of you allways with jesus now. RIP. There isn’t one comment in defence of Jodie, save a suggestion that ‘however clear it seems that the Garrow woman has indeed murdered her child, we should not forget that under our legal system innocence must be presumed until proven otherwise’. But the cruellest comment of all, a comment that makes her gasp aloud, has come from ‘Anonymous’ of Arding, NSW: ‘I have known the Garrow woman for most of my life, and though she acts as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, she is from a rubbish family and is rubbish herself. She killed that baby. I know it. We all know it.’

  She has been unable to stop returning to the site – watching mesmerised as the comments multiply, until there are more than two hundred, then three, four, five hundred posted from all over the world. The affected indignation, the condemnation, the calls to bring back the death penalty, the comparisons with notorious murderers of infants – Kathleen Folbigg, Andrea Yates – or with those other infamous mothers of dead or missing children – Lindy Chamberlain, Sally Clark, Kate McCann – all of them hard-faced bitches, all of them guilty, all of them heartless murderers of their own infants, wrongfully exonerated, protected by some powerful agent or other.

  From there she makes the mistake of following the commenters’ own links. A handful have begun ‘conversations’ on their personal blogs, stating their opinions, linking to the article – and then there are more comments on these blogs, more links to be followed. The snowballing effect is clearly visible: as the story moves from one blog to the next, from one discussion forum to another, from one online news site feature to a personal blog, the conversations, speculations, opinions, rants, sprays, commentary spiral endlessly, insanely. Some feature images of her, some of these are distorted or enhanced. There is one picture that has been given a radical makeover. It looks like a photo taken at a charity ball she attended a few years back – she recognises the dress, the background – but her face has been altered. All her wrinkles and creases have been removed so that her skin appears unnaturally smooth, and pale. Her eye-colour has been brightened to a strange and frightening electric blue; her lips have been thinned, made to look grim and hard; and her teeth, originally bared in an awkward smile, have somehow been lengthened until they are almost fang-like. Her hair has become a stiff brassy helmet, improbably glossy. She looks evil, like a monster from some horror movie – a counterfeit human, struggling to contain a demon.

  She eventually discovers a site dedicated solely to Elsa Mary, complete with weird, sentimental, hand-drawn pictures of a baby that resembles no child she has ever seen – with ridiculously large (and tear-filled) blue eyes, round cheeks, a perfect pink rosebud mouth. Somehow it’s so impossibly sweet that it’s sinister. Below this is an artist’s impression of what – based on the bleary photograph taken in the maternity ward (also displayed) – Elsa Mary would look like now, at twenty-four. A pale and blandly pretty woman with nondescript fair hair and some vague resemblance to Jodie herself at that age. There are the official web entries too – she comes across the missing persons site operated by the state and federal police, the Interpol bulletin, their requests for information regarding the whereabouts of the child Elsa Mary, born December 1986, at Belfield Hospital.

  There is one site in particular that frightens her: jodiegarrow.com.au. Obviously maintained by someone local, it contains little commentary, just images of Jodie, Angus and the children over the years, scanned from the local paper, she imagines, and others, obviously taken recently – snapped outside their own front gate, at sporting events, while shopping; there�
�s even one of Jodie on one of her early morning walks with Ruff. She bookmarks this site, determines to show it to Angus, have it investigated, even though she knows there is little hope of them locating the blogger in the real world, of having the posts pulled down.

  This previously unexplored world of the internet both appals and compels her. She reads everything that is written, every day, googling herself, checking out every Technorati reference, and then rereads, transfixed by her own notoriety. At first she limits herself to one hour, then two – then finds she is rushing through her morning cleaning so she can spend as much time as possible in front of the computer. Soon she is spending practically the entire time the children are at school in the study – breaking only for coffee or to hang out a load of washing. She is almost shocked when she comes upon the rare dissenting view, the voice urging calm, circumspection, an end to the idle speculations, occasionally even defending her. Sometimes she can’t resist commenting herself – usually something mild and unremarkable: You should all leave this woman alone – what do you know?

  She shows nobody – not Angus, not Peter – is ashamed, not only of what is being said, but also that she has succumbed to this sad onanistic obsession. It induces nothing but a headachy disgust – a feeling of excess and indolence. Jodie has not felt quite like this since her teens, when she’d spent entire days in bed reading or watching television, moving only to surreptitiously replenish her supply of chips, chocolate, Coke, biscuits.

  It is like being sucked into a looking-glass – one that offers up only the most distorted image of herself – depraved, malign, sinister. In a bizarre way it is almost comforting, as if she has already been judged for any act she might commit, past or future. And maybe what she’s reading here is the truth: perhaps these nightmare versions of Jodie are revealing something that she’s known all along, something rotten at the heart of her.