‘Eva, what the fuck are you doing?’ Fergus is in the room now. He’s wearing a clean blue shirt and cream slacks. The outfit is very unlike him and it’s definitely not something he’d wear to work.
‘I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’ I pull my shoes on as quickly as I can and look around the floor for my jacket.
‘What are you doing?’ he repeats.
‘I was going to surprise you. I’m sorry, I thought you were at work. I’ll leave now, I’m sorry.’
I try hard not to look at him as I make my way to the door. I walk as fast as I can towards Johnston Street, where I order an Uber.
The driver turns to me as I climb into the back seat. ‘Are you going into labour?’
‘Please just get me home.’
As I start to calm down – breathing in for three and out for three – I see the funny side of what happened. He told me he was at work. I wasn’t to know he was bringing a woman home. At some point, I’ll be able to laugh about this.
Back at my flat I suddenly miss Sarah strongly. I’d slept quite soundly in Fergus’s bed, which I don’t manage to do for the rest of the night at home.
I WAKE IN THE MORNING with messages from Fergus and Sarah. The message from Fergus had come through last night, but I purposely ignored it and went to bed.
I will call you tomorrow.
I’m not sure who is going to make me feel better or worse, but I know Sarah is more important to me, so I decide I’ll wait to read her message until I’ve gotten this talk with Fergus out of the way. He calls at ten and I answer with my eyes closed.
‘I’m thinking about coming over there to have this conversation,’ he says.
‘Don’t speak to me like I’m a child,’ I retort.
He returns to these words several times during the ensuing fight.
I say I think it’s unfair he’s yelling at me this much.
‘You set the tone of this conversation,’ he responds.
‘You said you were working. I wanted to surprise you when you got home from work. I didn’t think anybody went on dates on Tuesdays.’
‘You said you didn’t want to do this anymore.’
‘I was feeling bad and I wanted a friend.’
‘Why didn’t you ring your friends?’
‘I wanted to have sex with you.’
‘You said you didn’t want to do this anymore,’ he repeats.
I know that Fergus is right to be mad, and yet I’m defending myself. I should just admit to using him and try to plead my case for why I’ve been such an arsehole, but I can’t help but argue back when someone is yelling at me. The argument is long and boring and doesn’t go anywhere until suddenly we are somewhere very ugly.
‘I just don’t understand why you’re so focused on controlling something that you don’t want,’ he says.
‘I don’t want to control you.’
‘You’re obsessed with my admiration.’
‘I’m not obsessed.’
There’s silence on the line for a bit.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. More silence; I hope it’s a sign he’s softened.
‘You know, I used to defend you when people in the industry called you a bitch. I won’t anymore.’ He hangs up.
My first impulse is to call Sarah and Annie. I know I’m too fragile to deal with more criticism – which I’m afraid Sarah’s message might contain – but I also know I can’t reach out to my friends for help until I’ve read it.
I’m sorry. I want to make that very clear. I feel for you and I take responsibility for causing some of the pain you’re experiencing now. I say that straight up because I know you, and I know you are going to interpret this message as defensive. It’s not meant as a defence, but as a way to make you see the situation from another perspective. You can’t entirely blame me for telling Renee what happened. If you weren’t concealing this huge truth from people, then there wouldn’t have been anything for me to spill when I was high. Remember when I first started sleeping with women and I told you guys, but not anybody else? Eventually Annie said to me, ‘You’re not out of the closet – you’ve just dragged us in there with you.’ I think you’ve sort of done the same thing with this pregnancy. The other night when Annie was talking to me about my behaviour she said I needed to start thinking about consequences before I act. And while I admit I do stupid things and I make mistakes a lot, at least I see my consequences through, like I’m doing right now, having lost my job. But you seem to be trying to avoid any consequences. It’s like you see yourself as a character you’re trying to get into and you can leave behind things that happen in your life like they belong to a show you’ve finished. I don’t know why you’re not telling people Pat is the father because we haven’t discussed it, which in itself is telling. If we had, I would’ve said – and I think Annie would agree with me – that you should contact Pat’s family and tell Travis too. I’m not sure why you haven’t done this already. I don’t know if you’re scared or if you feel like you’ve done something wrong. But you haven’t. Being pregnant isn’t a crime. You didn’t know Pat was going to die and you didn’t plan to have his baby. It’s just a fucked-up thing that happened. But what is wrong is having kept this big secret from everyone. Carrying on like you’re the only person involved when you’re not. I hope this doesn’t make you angrier with me than you already are. I do honestly feel terrible for being such a shit mate. I’m so bloody excited for this baby and I really want to take care of it with you. Sometimes I think it might be the best thing that’s happened to us. The thought that maybe you’re so angry at me that we can’t be friends anymore hurts me a lot and I hope that we can talk it out, properly, and figure everything out together. Thanks for coming over the other day when I was fired. I deserved to be fired and I don’t deserve to have such good friends. I love you.
FOR HOURS AFTER READING SARAH’S message I sit on the couch staring at the wall and thinking of an old wives’ tale I heard: that what a woman sees or feels during pregnancy could impact on the development of the baby. Pat too many animals, your baby is born hairy. Eat lots of Pink Lady apples, it will be born with a red birthmark. Stare at the moon – lunatic. If this is true, I think, my baby will be born a mute. Like the crazed child in the horror movie who stares more than she talks.
He probably already knows.
He’s probably angry at me.
Eventually I ring Travis. He doesn’t answer and I realise I’m still on private caller mode. I change modes so he can see the caller ID, but he still doesn’t answer, so I text him.
Hey, can you ring me?
Please.
I wait impatiently for him to reply. Impatient because I want to speak to him before I speak to Sarah. Impatient because I really want to speak to Sarah. I shower several times just to force myself to leave the phone. I go for a walk without it and then hurry home, anxious for his reply. But the vacant screen taunts me all day.
I google ‘how to know if someone has blocked you’, ‘how to know if texts aren’t coming through’, ‘will someone be mad if you are having their dead friend’s baby’.
In the evening, before I go to bed, I message him.
I understand why you don’t want to speak to me. You’re not the only person who is angry at me right now. I’m sorry that I kept this from you. What’s happened is so overwhelming and hard and I’ve been trying to deal with it as best I can. Anyway, I want to see you and speak to you about this in person. You were his best friend and if you want to be a part of his child’s life then I want that too. I just want to do what’s best for everybody – especially, obviously, the baby.
I stare at the message after I send it. I wonder how long he’s known. When I sent him the message from Mount Martha, offering to be there for him, was he already angry at me then? When I went to label the wines, was he hoping I would tell him?
By the time I go to bed he still hasn’t written back – and I haven’t replied to Sarah. I imagine her in bed, like me, only skating across the surface of sleep.
Answer your phone.
I’m trying to call you.
Are you saying that Pat is the father of your baby?
I can’t believe you told me this over text.
Ok sorry I just reread your message and I guess you thought I already knew. You tried to call me but I’ve been camping in the Grampians. I only just got reception.
I’m on my way to Melbourne now. Please let me know where I can meet you today. I’m reeling.
What the fuck?
INITIALLY WE MAKE plans to have coffee in the afternoon, but we don’t end up meeting until the evening. Travis needs a little more time to process things, he says. I’m pacing back and forth down my hallway when he tells me this and at first I’m relieved and then I start pacing quicker. I assure him there’s no rush, and can wait until whenever he is ready, when I know I won’t last more than one night in this state of suspense. I try to make a list of questions to ask him, like I did before I went to Kangaroo Ground, but I can’t think of anything. I’ve spent months wanting to get closer to Travis, and I realise now that maybe all I wanted was the comfort of being around someone who knew Pat.
I count my breaths as I leave the house, like we learned in the birthing class. Stay present, stay calm. Breathe through each moment and remember it will be over eventually.
The baby keeps kicking, a lot.
WE MEET AT Joe’s on High Street at eight thirty. Travis is already sitting in a booth, with what I think at first is an empty glass until I notice the skinny brown puddle at its bottom. He looks stricken and I feel terrible for having done this to him. All day I kept going over Sarah’s words – It’s just a fucked-up thing that happened – telling myself that this situation is just what a life is. Seeing Travis now soaks me in guilt. It’s not just a fucked-up thing. It’s my fucked-up thing.
I try to slide gently into the booth opposite him, like back at the party in Coburg, me moving carefully near him. The problem being that now I’m huge and nothing I do is graceful. ‘How are you?’
He stands. ‘I’m getting another drink.’
I wait while he orders at the bar. He returns with another glass, almost half filled with amber liquid. He must have asked for a double shot. Maybe the bartender took one look at Travis and free-poured. He sits across from me and doesn’t say anything. My quick, shallow breaths fill the space between us.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks. ‘Like, can you breathe?’
‘I walked some of the way here. It tired me out. The baby is squashing my lungs.’ I feel calm for a second – we’re talking, the baby has been mentioned – then I don’t. ‘I’m really sorry, Travis.’ To elaborate would take too long, so I keep it simple. ‘If there’s anything you want to ask me, feel free.’
Travis stares at his drink and doesn’t say anything. The silence is maddening and I want desperately to leave. The fact that I can’t only makes the situation worse. I grow impatient, then furious. I look across the bar, as though I’m hoping to see someone who can save me from this. I create a little fantasy in my head where we run into Renee and she sits down and then everything is easy and chatty. I turn back to Travis at the sound of him sniffing snottily. He wipes the back of his hand over his nose and then pulls the cuff of his shirt over his hand. I see his lips are folded in over each other. He’s red and quivering with shiny, wet cheeks.
I’ve spent so much time hoping to catch a glimpse of this sorrow and now that I have I realise how naive I’ve been. Like seeing the fires burning on the front of the paper and thinking maybe they would be a spectacular sight, then getting dumped in the middle of it and realising that, actually, it’s hell.
I try to strike a balance between showing enough concern and not staring at him as he cries. I look around the bar again but nobody is watching us; although I guess if they have noticed what’s happening they’ve probably assumed we’re in the middle of a break-up.
When he finally speaks his words almost shock me out of my seat.
‘I was so embarrassed.’
His voice is impressively steady, considering how much he’s shaking.
‘After he died, I was so humiliated to be around your friends.’
I’ve no idea where this is going. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but it feels close to something I’ve wanted for so long, the anticipation is burning under my skin. I want to bang my hands on the table, hurry him along.
‘I figured you must have all thought I was a terrible friend.’
‘Why would we have thought that?’
‘Because I wasn’t there for him.’
I think about it now, imagine how I would feel if I were Travis. If Annie or Sarah killed themselves, yes, I probably would feel responsible. It hadn’t occurred to me that Travis might feel like this because all I’ve been thinking about is myself.
All this time that I’ve been afraid of telling Travis, I’d thought I was afraid he’d be angry. I realise now that what I was afraid of was feeling my own shame and that I was right to want to avoid it. Shame is filling me now. Touching my mouth, the back of my throat, all the way down my oesophagus to my stomach, hot and prickly like drinking a whisky. Unlike drinking whisky, though, nothing is getting softer or melting at the edges. I’m excruciatingly present. I’m reminded of the horrible prospect of having a caesarean, of having to be awake while someone is cutting you open.
‘Travis, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s not your fault.’
I reach across the table and take his hand. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t squeeze my hand back either.
‘When I invited you to my parents’ place, a part of me wanted to impress you. Show you how helpful and nice I was.’
I didn’t care about you that day.
All I was thinking about was him.
Did a part of you suspect that maybe this was his baby?
I can’t form the sentences. My mouth sits useless on my face.
Travis becomes still. He takes a deep breath in. His cheeks are still wet, but he’s no longer crying. He takes his hand from mine and lifts his glass to his mouth.
‘Do you know …’ I stumble on the word ‘why’. ‘Do you know what it was?’ I wish I had a drink to stare into. Instead I stare at my hand, which is still on the table between us.
‘No.’
I look up. Travis is wiping his cheeks with his sleeve.
‘Nobody ever knows, Eva. Even if there is a note. You can’t explain something like that. There are no answers.’
He stands again with his empty glass.
When he returns from the bar his expression is severe and filled with dislike, which I don’t mind. I’m more comfortable seeing this loathing directed at me than feeling it within me. I let myself return to anger too. A moment ago, Travis was talking about his sense of responsibility and guilt. If there are no simple answers, then what does he have to feel sorry for? I seize on the frustration.
‘Why didn’t you reply to my message?’
My words sound sulky and my anger diminishes quickly. I feel embarrassed, like a child.
‘What message?’
‘The one I sent at Christmas.’
Travis takes his phone from his pocket. I assume he is checking to reread the old message, which maybe he does, but he also punches out a text, his thumbs moving fast. I want to know who he is texting. Does somebody know he is here? Did he tell someone what he knows? When he puts his phone back in his pocket and looks back to me, his face is blank. I watch his expression as he catches himself back up, remembers where we were up to.
‘Do you know how many of those messages I get? I never reply.’
‘I’m
sorry.’ I’m not sure what this apology is for. ‘I’m going to order a drink.’
I ask the bartender to make me something alcohol-free. He nods and starts muddling fruit. It’s not busy here tonight, but not empty either. Mostly there are couples, probably people on dates. I imagine the kinds of conversations they’re having – asking about each other’s jobs and their plans for the weekend. Where they went to high school. Nobody’s life is without drama but on a first date you pretend it is.
The bartender places a tall, pink-tinged drink in front of me.
‘How much?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I wonder if he’s been watching me and Travis.
Back at the table I feel more relaxed with something to fiddle with. I regret not getting a drink as soon as I arrived.
‘So, do other people know?’ Travis asks.
‘I told Sarah and Annie. Sarah got drunk and told someone. I’m sorry I sent you that in a message. I thought you must have heard.’ It sounds like an excuse. I think back to my anxiety yesterday, how I was convinced that he knew. I wonder now what I would’ve done if I’d known he didn’t. I wonder if we’d be here now. In a way, I’m glad I didn’t have to make that decision.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asks.
‘That’s a good question.’ This is media training. If an interviewer asks you something you either don’t know or don’t want to answer, you say it’s a good question, not a tough question.
Travis’s glass is empty already and he is batting it between his fingers, sliding it back and forth across the table. Why didn’t I tell Travis? Because I was embarrassed? Because I didn’t want him to pity me? Because I found the idea of a relationship with Pat’s family awkward or too hard? Is it what I said to Annie, that I’m terrified of regret, is that the truth? All of these things feel real but not. They’re not false exactly, but they’re not the whole story.
‘I think I was in shock myself, at my decision.’ This will do. This is true.
Small Joys of Real Life Page 20