When you're responsible for a child, when your days are filled with the tiny details that make up a child's life--his lunch box, his schoolbag, his shoes, his favorite T-shirt, his friends, his friends' mothers, his TV shows, his temper tantrums--and then you're told that you are no longer responsible, that you are no longer wanted, that your services are no longer required, that you have been made redundant, like an employee walked to the door by security, it is difficult.
It is quite profoundly difficult.
Jack must have asked for me. He must have been so confused.
I let him down. I blame myself for my mini-breakdown or whatever it was that happened to me when Patrick broke it off. I couldn't stay in the same bed, so I went to stay at my friend Tammy's place. Tammy. Whatever happened to Tammy? She tried so hard to stay friends with me, but then she sort of slid out of my life along with everyone else.
I remember waking up in Tammy's room five days later, and realizing it was Friday morning and that Jack had swimming lessons straight after school, and I always had to remember to pack his things the night before, and who would take him? I worked nine-thirty to two-thirty p.m. I had rearranged my working hours so I could pick him up from preschool, and now for the last few weeks, school. I was happy to do this. I had more flexibility than Patrick and I loved picking him up. I was Jack's mother. I didn't mind when I missed out on a promotion because I wasn't working full hours. That's what all mothers do; they put their careers on hold for their children.
So I called Patrick, to remind him about swimming lessons, and that's when all this started: my habit. My "stalking" of my old life.
Because Patrick treated me like a stranger. As if Jack's swimming lessons were nothing to do with me, when just the week before, I'd been at swimming, helping Jack adjust his goggles, talking to his teacher about maybe moving him up a class, making arrangements with one of the other mothers for a play date with her son. "It's fine," Patrick had said. All irritable and put out. As if I was interfering. As if I'd never had anything to do with Jack. "We've got it all under control." The rage that swept through me was like nothing I'd ever felt before. I hated him. I still loved him. But I hated him. And ever since then it's been hard to tell the difference between the two. If I didn't hate him so intensely, maybe I would have been able to stop loving him. I know that doesn't make sense.
If he'd just let me ease my way out of being his wife--I thought of myself as his wife--and Jack's mother, if he'd just listened to me with the respect I deserved when I called up to remind him things about Jack, if he'd just sat down with me and let me talk and let me say how much he'd hurt me, if he'd ever just said, "I'm sorry," and meant it, then I think I could have let it go. Perhaps then I would have eventually healed, like people do. Instead it got infected. It spread. Like gangrene. It took hold. It's his fault. I know what I do is unacceptable. Deep down I do know this. But he started it. Mum used to say that when she met my dad it was like a perfect love story. I thought Patrick was my perfect love story. Except he's not. He's the hypnotist's love story. I'm the ex-girlfriend in the hypnotist's love story. Not the heroine. I'm only a minor character.
Or perhaps I'm the villain
No one spoke as they left the graveyard and drove toward Frank and Millie's place.
Jack sat quietly in the backseat absorbed in his game again. Patrick concentrated on driving the winding mountain road.
Ellen tipped her head back against the car seat. The nausea was still there, but it was manageable, as long as she didn't have to wait too long to eat once she got to Frank and Millie's place. One dry piece of bread would do the trick.
She watched the world whip by outside the window like a movie on fast-forward. Quaint little mountain villages with cafes and secondhand bookshops and antique stores. She remembered a romantic weekend in the mountains with Jon in the very early days of their relationship. She let the memory slip away. He was getting married. So was she. Life was moving forward. She needed to keep her eyes on the road ahead. So did Saskia. So did Patrick, actually.
She wondered if he was thinking about Colleen right now, comparing her with Ellen, wondering what his life would have been like if she hadn't died.
If only she could read his mind. She glanced at his inscrutable profile.
Of course, there was a way.
Most nights Patrick still asked for a relaxation exercise before they went to sleep. It was part of their routine. He trusted her completely. She could easily take him into a deep trance and ask him to tell her how he felt about Colleen, and then use a posthypnotic suggestion so that he would never remember what she'd asked.
But that would be wrong. Totally unethical. She couldn't go poking about his mind without his permission. It would be like reading his diary.
And it would be unfair because he couldn't do the same thing to her. She wouldn't want him finding out that she still had complicated feelings about Jon.
So of course she would never do such a thing. It was the sort of thing Danny would do to a girlfriend if he were ever in a relationship.
She couldn't believe she'd even allowed such a thought to cross her mind. It wasn't like her. She was becoming increasingly disappointed with herself lately. She wasn't nearly as compassionate or moral or as patient a person as she'd always thought herself to be.
But goodness me it was tempting.
"Dad?" said Jack suddenly from the backseat.
Ellen started guiltily.
"After we've finished lunch, can we go for another bushwalk to that same place we went last time?"
"Sure," said Patrick. "Oh, actually, no, mate, we might have to leave straightaway because I need to go back into the office this afternoon for a few hours."
Jack groaned.
"Next time," said Patrick.
"You're going into the office this afternoon?" said Ellen.
Patrick glanced over at her. "Oh yeah, sorry, didn't I tell you? I've got to catch up on some paperwork. I've just been swamped."
So presumably that meant she would be the one taking care of Jack. She'd been planning to catch up with Julia this afternoon. It had been ages since she'd seen her, and Julia was looking forward to hearing all about the visit to Colleen's parents. She could hardly speak freely if she had Jack with her.
"So I'm looking after Jack this afternoon?" she double-checked.
"Well, he's big enough, he doesn't need a babysitter anymore, do you, mate?" said Patrick. "He'll just do his own thing. Actually, you've got some homework to finish off, haven't you, Jack?"
Ellen suppressed a sigh. Since Patrick and Jack had moved into her house, she'd experienced the pleasure of homework supervision for the first time. It was awful. It was so hard to get Jack to just sit upright at the table with his pencil in hand and his books open in front of him. He would half slide off his chair, resting his cheek on the table like he was ill, or else he'd keep running off, disappearing on unexplained errands as they occurred to him.
She was still finding her way with Jack. It wasn't like he was rebelling against her, or treating her like a wicked stepmother. He was perfectly friendly and relaxed with Ellen; she was the one who felt on edge. She noticed that her voice got terribly bouncy whenever she talked to him. It reminded her of being fourteen and in love with the one-legged boy at the neighboring school. Giles was kind to her, as he was to all the girls who adored him, and the patient, distracted expression he got on his face while Ellen babbled on at the railway station, trying desperately to make some sort of impression before the 3:45 train arrived, was identical to the one on Jack's face. It said: I couldn't care less really, but I'm a nice person, and I don't want to hurt your feelings, so I'm just going to keep smiling until you stop talking.
And it was even worse when she tried to play it cool, to act as if she didn't care what Jack thought of her, because he was so self-contained, so busy with his own life, that he really did just completely forget about her existence, which was exactly what used to happened with Giles too.
Well, this was what she had signed up for. She'd loved the idea of a stepchild, of an instant family. She should be happy that Patrick was treating her like a wife and taking it for granted that she would be in charge of homework this afternoon. She should be focusing all her attention on poor little Jack, who had lost not one but two mothers by the age of five and was probably suffering from terrible abandonment issues.
"YES!" shouted Jack, holding his computer game aloft.
"Jesus," said Patrick. "Don't kick the back of my seat."
But shouldn't Patrick have checked with her first? Wasn't he taking advantage of her? To assume she'd be available?
Of course, then again, she herself hadn't bothered to check with Patrick before she'd made the arrangement to have coffee with Julia. So she'd been acting like a single person too, like Jack wasn't her responsibility at all.
It was so difficult to work out what was fair and what wasn't. Presumably parents had some sort of procedure, an approval process when you were making arrangements. She'd have to ask her friend Madeline about this.
"I thought you said you'd clear out all the boxes from the hallway this afternoon," said Ellen.
Saturday had been taken up with Jack's sports activities, and Patrick had promised he'd have the boxes gone by the end of the weekend.
"Oh sure, don't worry," said Patrick. "When I get back from the office I'll do it."
He wouldn't. She knew he wouldn't. He'd be too tired after today's trip, and then the office. It would be too late. Jack would want his attention when he got home, and then Patrick would want to collapse on the couch in front of 60 Minutes. It would be mean to remind him then. It would be considered "nagging." She would have to put up with another week of those boxes sitting in the hallway.
All that clutter was having a catastrophic effect on the feng shui of her house. She seemed to remember that the front entrance was called "the mouth of chi," where all the energy was meant to flow through. No wonder she was feeling so irritable--all the energy was being stopped at the front door!
Of course, now was certainly not the time to push the issue of the boxes; not when Patrick was so uptight about the lunch with Frank and Millie.
But the words were as irresistible as the last chocolate in the box.
"You won't move them," she murmured to the window, as if saying it quietly didn't really count.
"What did you say?" Patrick spoke sharply.
"Nothing."
"Ellen! I just said I would move them."
"So you did hear me."
"Are you two fighting?" asked Jack with interest.
So much for beautiful poignant moments, thought Ellen.
I decided I would spend the rest of Sunday watching television. A few months ago, Lance, who works in the office next to mine, lent me the series The Wire. He and his wife are always developing obsessions with TV series, and then he talks on and on about the fabulous character development and the amazing plotlines and the whatever--it's just television. I always want to say, "Look, Lance, I'm not that interested in television. I have a life."
Ha. Good one.
Such a pity that "stalking" isn't a socially acceptable hobby.
For some reason he insisted on lending me the series, even though I'm sure I'd showed minimal interest. He wants me to watch it so we can talk at length about each episode. I know this because he lent The West Wing to another girl in the office, and then every time he saw her he wanted to know what episode she was up to so he could do an in-depth analysis. Eventually she started hiding, leaping into nearby offices whenever she saw him coming down the corridor.
So I was never going to bother watching it and Lance has given up asking me if I've seen the "pilot" yet, but suddenly it seemed like the perfect way to swallow up a whole Sunday. I would eat toast and chocolate and try to let the rest of the day go by without even thinking of Patrick, Ellen or Jack. I was even looking forward to it.
But of course, like so many other things, it wasn't meant to be.
When I drove into my driveway, the new family from next door was pulling in too, with impeccably horrible timing.
They moved in on Friday, and they're just as bad as I knew they would be. A swinging-ponytail mummy and a bald-in-a-cool-way daddy. A little girl with freckles and curls. A little boy with dimples. They're adorable and athletic, friendly and frisky. It's going to be like living next door to four Labradors. They introduced themselves and said they hoped they wouldn't be too noisy, and I must tell them if they are, and they must have me over for drinks sometime. I tried to be polite but standoffish so they would know that none of this was necessary, that all that was required was a friendly wave. Jeff or the real estate agent should have explained this to them. The garage door sticks, garbage night is Monday, the neighbor doesn't require conversation.
As soon as I got out of the car, they all came bounding over to me, their tongues hanging out, tails wagging. I nearly held up a palm to ward them off.
"Do you want to come over to our place this afternoon?" asked the little girl.
"Give Saskia a minute," said the mother, all loving laughter. She's at least fifteen years younger than me. Maybe more. I had no memory of her name. I hadn't even bothered to register it.
They wanted to know if I would like to come over for a "housewarming barbecue" that afternoon.
"Just a few friends," said the mother. "Just very casual."
"The next-door neighbor at our last house was called Mrs. Short," the little boy told me. "But she actually wasn't short. She was actually pretty tall."
"Huh," I said.
The boy reminded me a little of Jack, something about the eyes maybe. Or perhaps it's just the age. He looks about five, the same age as Jack was when Patrick and I broke up. I didn't want to make friends with him. Just looking at him made my chest hurt.
"Or even if you just wanted to stop by for a quick drink," suggested the father.
"We've got special sausages," said the little girl. "They've got chili in them."
"No pressure, don't feel obligated!" said the mother. "We just thought--you know, if you didn't have anything else on, seeing as we're sort of sharing a house, we've never lived in a duplex before, so we thought--but of course, you probably have other plans, or you might prefer to just relax on a Sunday."
She stopped, a little flustered. I saw her husband give her a look. They could sense my resistance and they were giving me a way out. They're nice. Nice, polite, ordinary people. That's all I need. To be living next door to nice people. They make me feel so inferior.
So much for my day at home sedating myself with television. I told them I would have loved to join them but I had another commitment that would take up most of the day.
I overdid it with my regrets. I shouldn't have acted at all regretful.
"Another time!" said the father.
"Another time!" said the mother.
"Another time!" said I.
"Another time!" said the little boy, and we all laughed oh so heartily, and the poor kid frowned because, after all, why was it funny when he said it?
So, fabulous. Now there will be another time.
I went inside and spent quite a lot of time preparing for my fake social obligation. I decided I was going to an old friend's fortieth birthday party. It was just a casual but elegant event in her backyard. There would be lots of kids running about, and she was having it catered--I decided she was a well-off friend; in fact, her house actually backed on to the harbor--so the food would be good. I would be doing a speech! It would be funny and sentimental. The sort of speech that Ellen would do at a friend's fortieth birthday party.
I dressed in jeans, boots, a really beautiful blue top that Tammy had bought me for my birthday just before Mum died, that I'd never found the right occasion to wear--a fortieth birthday by the harbor, perfect!--and a long scarf that Mum had made for me. I knew that everyone at the party would compliment me on the scarf. My mother was very talented, I would tell them. I even blow-drie
d my hair and put on makeup and a pair of big earrings that Patrick always said made me look sexy.
By the time I walked out the door I was feeling the most attractive I'd felt in a long time.
On impulse I grabbed together the ingredients I'd bought for the Anzac biscuits and put them in a plastic bag. I decided I would drop them off at Ellen's front door on my way to the party. She could make biscuits; I was too busy with my active social life.
As I walked to my car, a man and woman were walking up the driveway toward the neighbor's house for the housewarming barbecue. The man was holding a bottle of wine and the woman was carrying a large plate wrapped in aluminum foil.
I smiled at them and said, "Hi!" as if I was a person too, a person off to a fortieth birthday party on a Sunday.
They smiled back. In fact, the man's smile seemed especially friendly, not at all perfunctory, almost like he knew me and was trying to place me, or almost as if--could it be?--he found me attractive.
"Coming over to the party?" he said.
"No, I've got another one to go to," I said. "A fortieth."
"Oh, well, have fun!" he said, at the same time as the neighbor's front door was opening and the next-door neighbors came out crying, "Look who's here!" and "So you found us OK?"
I went to my car quickly, before they felt they had to introduce me. There was none of this awkwardness when Jeff lived next door; neither of us ever had anyone over. As I turned on the ignition and waved good-bye, I saw the man was still watching me. He lifted his hand to wave good-bye and I felt a warm feeling, like the way I remembered happiness felt.
I reversed out onto the street and glanced back, smiling, ready to wave again if someone caught my eye, and saw that none of them were looking at me. The woman was handing over the aluminum-wrapped plate, and as she did I saw the man pulling her toward him, his hand on her hip in the same mock-masterful way that Patrick used to do, and she was laughing up at him, and the little boy from next door was pulling at his free hand, wanting to point something out to him.
The Hypnotist’s Love Story Page 24