by Nicole Trope
‘Molly Khan?’ says a young woman dressed in pink scrubs. Molly and Peter stand.
‘This way,’ she says, gesturing. Molly follows her, finding her heavy scent of perfume nauseating. ‘I’m Michelle and I’ll be doing your ultrasound today,’ she says as Molly lies down on the bed. Michelle beams at them both, probably used to excited couples waiting for their first glimpse of their baby. When she receives nothing back, her face falls a little and her blue eyes cloud.
‘We’re a bit worried,’ explains Peter.
‘Oh, don’t be worried, it’s a very standard test and I’m sure it will all be fine.’
‘I’ve had six miscarriages,’ replies Molly bluntly, unable to hide her nerves.
Michelle nods. ‘Well then, let’s see what’s going on.’ She is subdued now as she spreads the clear gel on Molly’s stomach. She moves the wand back and forth and Molly waits for her to tell them about the heartbeat, to say anything at all, but Michelle is silent.
Molly feels the cold air against her skin, feels the warning tightness of a headache, her throat swelling with anguish. It’s happening again. It can’t be happening again.
‘Molly, can you do me a favour?’ asks Michelle, and Molly can do nothing but nod. ‘Can you go to the bathroom and empty your bladder a little? It’s making it difficult to see because it’s slightly too full. Just try to get rid of about a cupful for me.’
Molly gets up off the bed, wondering how on earth you measure a cupful. She risks a glance at Peter and then quickly looks away when she notices a shine in his eyes.
In the bathroom, she takes a deep, laboured breath and tries to calculate the right amount. ‘Okay,’ she says quietly to herself. ‘You know how this goes. It’s over. Get it done and then you can leave, and later you can have a drink or scream or cry or run until you want to pass out. Just get through the next few minutes.’
Back on the bed, Molly grips Peter’s hand. Michelle slathers the gel once more and the wand begins to move across Molly’s stomach. She is silent for a minute and then two minutes. Molly feels the truth of a broken dream lodge itself in her heart.
‘There you go,’ says Michelle.
‘There you go what?’ asks Peter.
‘There’s your baby, see here?’ She turns the screen to face them. ‘Sorry, sometimes the little things hide, but there it is, see that heartbeat? It’s really strong. He or she is waving at you, hi, Mum, hi, Dad.’
Molly and Peter watch the image on the screen, the tiny hands, the moving feet, the fluttering beat of a heart, and Molly can no longer hold in her anguished relief. ‘Oh God,’ she sobs, squeezing Peter’s hands, ‘oh God, oh God, oh God.’
‘Shush, shush, it’s okay, love. It’s all okay,’ he comforts, stroking her head.
Molly doesn’t hear Michelle explaining about the measurements she’s taking; she doesn’t do anything except stare at the moving image of her child, of their child, wonder in her heart.
‘Okay, all done,’ says Michelle finally. ‘Do you want to wait for the results or shall we send them to your doctor?’
‘We’ll wait,’ says Peter, ‘we’ll definitely wait.’
* * *
An hour later, Molly practically skips back to the car, clutching the ultrasound pictures and the report that details a healthy growing baby.
‘Now can you call your mum?’ says Peter as he reverses out of a parking space, but Molly is already dialling Lexie, who cheers with excitement when she hears the news.
She calls her mother next, who bursts into tears. ‘I knew this was the one, Molly, I just knew it.’
‘We need a big celebratory lunch,’ declares Peter. ‘I feel like Italian. What about you? I know you can’t resist a good garlic bread.’
‘I feel like I’m going to be a mum.’ Molly laughs, and it is only after lunch, after too much bread and pasta and the tiniest sip of Peter’s white wine, when she lies down to rest, that a stray thought makes its way into her conscious mind. Will my mother love this baby, this child who is not related to her at all, as much as she loves Sophie?
She drapes her hand over her stomach. ‘I will love you enough; your dad and I will love you more than enough,’ she murmurs, and then she falls asleep.
Thirty-Six
Alice
* * *
I drop my flower into the open grave. I pull my coat tighter around me as the wind whistles through the cemetery. Grey clouds gather and merge as a storm threatens. The weather is terrible but perfect for a funeral, perfect for the deep well of sadness that has opened up inside me. I hadn’t expected to feel sad. I had expected relief, I think. I imagined that I would be relieved that she was no longer in the world because if she was no longer in the world, then I would not be able to try and tell her, once again, what she had done to me. I would not feel that I needed or wanted anything from her. I would not have to constantly work at forgiving her. If she was no longer in the world, then it was over and I needed to finally lay my past to rest and walk away from it. But I don’t feel relieved at all. Instead all I feel is an overwhelming sadness about who she was at the end, about her confusion and her bewilderment at the world. I feel sad that she never got to know her grandchildren, that she never got to sit around our dinner table at Christmas and enjoy the company of my boys. And I am sad for the life she lived, for all that she suffered. The sadness is deep and dark and I would like to sink to my knees and weep, while Jack and the boys stand solemnly behind me.
Alice doesn’t have a mother. Alice never had a mother.
It was a small funeral, quickly organised. Only Anika and Mary from the Green Gate had been able to leave the home to attend. Natalia was here as well. I watched Anika through the ceremony, watched how she wiped her eyes and shed tears and I tried not to wonder about her. I tried to only be grateful that she had taken such good care of my mother, but I cannot forget that Anika was always in my mother’s room and Anika is computer literate.
She and Mary left soon after the priest finished speaking, as the other residents needed to be taken care of. Natalia had to attend a meeting at school for her daughter and left soon after. I cannot remember my mother ever having any friends, even when my father was still alive, so very soon it was just me and my family at a cold gravesite under a grey sky.
Gus and Gabe had been given a lecture by their father all the way to the church about ‘appropriate funeral behaviour’.
Now I can see that Isaac has a firm hand on each boy’s shoulder, making sure that the boredom of a funeral for someone they never met doesn’t lead to poor behaviour.
The priest described her as a loving mother and a loyal wife. I didn’t know what else to tell him, what else to say. I didn’t say loving and I didn’t say loyal. He added those words. I didn’t know her, not the person she really was behind the alcohol and the depression. And the good memories I have of her are not concrete so I’m never certain if I made them up or if they actually happened. How awful it is that I have only vague memories of her not drunk, not sleeping, not mired in depression.
As we turn to go, I let my eyes sweep across the cemetery. There are people dotted here and there, visiting graves, replacing flowers and cleaning headstones. I wonder if I will ever come back, but in all honesty, I don’t think so. I start therapy next week and I need to find a way to live in my present, to finally put the past behind me.
I told Jack about the latest email and the messages from the woman on my blog and he agreed that I was right to delete everything.
‘You should have told me about the messages. I would have linked them to the emails,’ he said. ‘Whoever was doing it might be some sort of lunatic. Perhaps the blog wasn’t a good idea. I mean, you never know how damaged the people are that you’re connecting with.’
‘I think it was my mother… I think it was her sending the messages, and on the blog,’ I told him.
‘I’m not sure that’s possible… I don’t think it could be possible,’ he said, as I knew he would.
‘M
aybe she had help.’
‘From who?’
I shrugged my shoulders then.
‘Isaac is looking at the emails, and with a bit of luck he’ll be able to figure out who was sending them. If he finds something concrete, then we can take it to the police.’
‘And what about the young gardener? The one she kept calling Vernon.’
‘But what would he have against you? You’ve only spoken to him once, maybe twice. Perhaps you should talk to Anika about him, get the full story.’
I agreed I will talk to Anika in a few days. Then I can ask her about the frog and the blanket.
I am going to tell Jack about the blanket and the frog. I will need to tell him everything, to explain what really happened to Lilly and my part in it. He’s here today but he is caring for two dying patients at the moment, and more often than not, he doesn’t come home until very late. I will tell him, just not yet.
It is quite possible that my mother has had the frog and the blanket all along, and that she encouraged Anika to send them to me or that Anika took it upon herself to do so. Who knows what they talked about in all the hours they spent together? I cannot imagine what Anika would have against me although she may have been angered by what she regards as my poor treatment of my mother. She doesn’t know the whole story, so how could she ever understand?
I hope this is all over now. Just over.
Thankfully, there have been no more emails since my mother died.
I look down at her grave again. Despite everything, despite believing that she is behind all of this, I can’t quite believe she’s gone. I wipe away my silent tears, making sure not to turn around, not wanting to distress the boys. My mother is dead, I test out in my head but the words don’t seem real.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I whisper. ‘I’m sorry you had such a hard life. I think you would have loved me if you could have.’ As I utter the words, I realise that I believe them. She wasn’t capable. That’s the stark truth. She just wasn’t capable. ‘I… I forgive you,’ I say quietly. ‘I forgive you,’ I repeat with a little more force.
‘What did Mum say?’ I hear Gabe ask.
‘I’m cold,’ says Gus.
He’s right. It’s freezing. The clouds above merge and there is only grey as rain begins to fall. ‘I’m ready to go now,’ I reply. Something inside me feels lighter.
Turning away from the grave, I follow my family back to the car. Taking one last look around the cemetery, I spot a man standing behind a tree, a red cap on his head. But when I look back a second later, there’s no one there.
I shake my head. ‘Enough of this,’ I whisper to myself. ‘Enough.’
Thirty-Seven
Molly
* * *
Molly gets home and throws her shopping on the bed, easing off her shoes, which have grown tight over the hours she and her mother and sister have walked. Her phone rings and she smiles when she sees it’s Peter.
‘I just bought some leggings and tops so I don’t have to worry about tight jeans anymore. I hope you’re prepared for a fat wife,’ she says, laughing into the phone.
‘I am… You’ll be beautiful.’
‘Are you okay? You sound weird.’
‘Yeah… it’s just, Will found the woman from the blog using your computer history. He found her and her real name and her address, everything. It only took him half an hour.’
Molly sits up straight on the bed. Goosebumps tsunami over her arms. ‘Where is she? Who is she?’ The questions burst out of her.
He takes a deep breath. ‘Her name is Alice Stetson and she lives in Greenwich.’
‘Greenwich… Where, in England?’
‘As in Greenwich, the suburb next to ours.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Molly because she cannot comprehend what he has just told her.
‘She lives in the suburb next to ours, Molly, Will confirmed it. He says she’s definitely the woman who wrote the blog.’
Molly squeezes her fingernails into her palm. ‘So close,’ she whispers. Her mother was right. Meredith or Alice is Australian and she has been here all along. The irony of it is cruel.
‘Yeah. She may not be your sister, you understand that, right? It may just be a huge coincidence. She may not want to talk to you even if she is, and we’ll have to respect that. I know how hard that will be but we’ll have no choice.’
‘I know,’ says Molly. She releases her fingers, marvelling at the perfect crescents on her palm. She runs a finger over them, enjoying the sting.
‘Can you text me the address? I just want to look it up on Google.’
‘Okay…’ He hesitates. ‘I’m sending it through now but please don’t do anything until I’m home later. You should wait for me. We’ll figure out what to do together.’
‘Of course,’ says Molly lightly, knowing that she is lying. ‘I’ll see you at dinner – do you feel like a curry?’
‘Yes, yes good, I’ll see you at dinner.’
She holds her phone as she waits for the text to come through. The woman she thinks might be her sister lives in the suburb next door. They have probably stood behind each other in line at one of the local coffee shops. Molly could have smiled at her in the supermarket as they both reached for the same kind of juice. She could have hooted at her if she swung out of a parking spot too quickly. They could have been in the same doctor’s office, Molly with a cold and her sister – yes, the words feel right: her sister – Alice with a sick child. Does she have children? Did she also suffer from miscarriages? They could have both gone out to dinner with their husbands and sat at tables next to each other and neither had any idea. Her sister has been right here all along and she’s never had any idea. But if she is her sister, if she really is her sister and they have seen each other… why didn’t they recognise each other? Surely, she should have known her if she saw her? And why would Alice lie about her sister being dead? What kind of a person does such a thing?
Her phone pings, and she opens the message. She gets up off the bed and goes to her iPad, where she looks up the street. So close, so very close. She slides her shoes back onto her feet.
She needs to know for sure; one way or the other she needs to know for sure.
There’s no way Peter actually believed she would wait for him. No way at all.
Thirty-Eight
Alice
* * *
I sit in my kitchen, staring into space. In front of me is a cup of coffee in a bright blue mug, decorated with sunflowers. The mug was a gift from the twins last Mother’s Day. They had demanded Jack take them to the shops and they had wandered around with serious expressions on their faces, clutching five dollars each as they searched for the perfect gift. The large blue mug was an obvious choice to both of them. ‘Because you like a lot of coffee and this is really big,’ said Gus.
‘And because you like flowers and this is pretty like you,’ explained Gabe. I found it difficult to conceal my tears. I’m still amazed after all these years to be the recipient of such an enormous amount of love and devotion. I don’t think I thought it possible when I was a broken ten-year-old just trying to survive each brutal day of my life.
I hear a ping on my phone indicating an email has arrived. My heart races as I look down and then I remind myself that I have had no new emails since my mother died. It will be from school about the bake sale – emails have been coming in over the last few days from the other mothers letting me know what they’ll make. I glance down at my phone and open the email without looking at who it’s from.
It’s not from a mother at school. It is not from someone wanting to bring in something sweet to sell. It’s another email from him. From her? Another one.
* * *
I know where you live. I know where you live with your sons and your husband.
* * *
I feel my hands get clammy and my top lip beads with sweat. How can there be another email?
My mother’s computer is here in my home and my mother is gone and ye
t another email has arrived. A clear, threatening message from someone who knows more about my life than they should.
Whoever this is, is serious. It would have been easy enough to find me on Facebook. Alice Stetson née Henkel is listed as my name, and my profile picture is one of the three boys. My account is set to private but any half-decent hacker could get in and find all the information they needed. I think I may have even been stupid enough to add my address or telephone number as the site kept asking me to do. I log onto my Facebook and delete my account. I wish I was more tech savvy so I could wipe the internet of any information about me. I shake my head, once more regretting the blog and my desire to tell my story. I should have just kept quiet.
It’s time to get the police involved.
But police ask questions. They investigate things and they will look into my history. They may even ask me about Lilly and I will have to tell them the truth. But it’s time to tell the truth now, a voice in my head whispers. I’ve been running away from what I did for too long.
I need to protect my children now, that’s all that matters. Whatever happens to me, happens.
The sound of the door knocker makes me jump. I sit for a moment, trying to still my pounding heart, and the sound echoes through the house again. I cannot take another delivery from my past. I cannot take another reminder. I will not answer it. I will not. But the door knocker reverberates through the house again and again.
I stand up, testing my shaking legs. I will have to answer.