by Fiona Greene
‘You were alone.’ Mark looked like he was going to throw up. ‘He was alone. He died alone.’
‘No, Caleb had me. And everyone at that hospital. And through an absolute miracle that I’ll never understand, Frank and Rosa from Project Hope.’
‘The puppet theatre?’
Lexi smiled. ‘Yep. I’ll never know if they were there for Caleb, or for me.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘But after that first visit, they were always there.’
Mark stared at her. ‘He had a father. And grandparents. Two sets. Relatives. He didn’t need to die alone.’
‘He did not die alone. He had me.’ Lexi flared back at him. ‘What was I supposed to do? You said you wished you’d never set eyes on me. You said not to come near you again. My parents couldn’t stop telling me how I disappointed them. Tomas walked out. What the hell was I supposed to do? You tell me.’
Mark balled his fists and scrunched his eyes closed. He clamped his jaw shut and just stood there.
And stood.
She couldn’t tell if he was angry or upset or, worse still, judging her. And finding her lacking. She wasn’t going to stand for that. ‘Mark, I know this is a shock. Remember though, I was only just sixteen, I was completely alone, and my baby was dying. I was a child planning to bury a child.’ She choked on a sob. ‘I did the best I could.’
The vein in his temple started to throb. She reached out to touch his hand, but he shook her off. ‘Leave me.’
Lexi stared at the man she loved more than life itself and her heart shattered into a million pieces.
This time though, she was older. Wiser.
This time, when she left, it had to be her decision.
Numbness descended, and she turned and walked out of the bathroom.
***
Lexi was on the patio, staring out into the garden and cradling her now cold coffee, when she sensed, rather than heard Mark behind her.
She turned. After she’d left the bathroom, she’d pulled on her robe and finger-combed her hair. Mark, though, was dressed—right down to his boots.
‘Do you want to talk?’
‘No.’ He slipped on his sunglasses.
‘I know this is a shock, but we need to talk.’
He balled his fists. ‘No talking.’
‘I get that.’ Lexi’s eyes filled with tears as she stared at him. ‘But we do need to discuss this. I’ll be here when you’re ready.’
‘No.’ He jammed his fists into his pockets. ‘Just no. We’re done. If there’s one thing I’m not into, it’s liars.’ He turned on his heel and strode back into the house.
Lexi’s blood boiled as she followed him. ‘I wouldn’t have been in the situation I was in if you hadn’t been acting out a pre-arranged script that everybody else knew about, except me.’
He slowed for just a second, then continued down the hall. ‘I don’t think you can compare what I did with what you did.’
The ice in his voice chilled her to the core.
‘I’m not planning to. This isn’t a competition. We each did what we thought was right at the time, with the information we had. I don’t want to post-mortem that decision-making. I want to know how we deal with this.’
Mark stopped. He turned to face her. ‘We don’t. You know, when I found out what my ex had done, it took me a long time to get over her lies. I swore to myself that I’d never, ever, get involved with another lying woman as long as I live. And look where I ended up.’ He snorted and reefed open the front door. ‘You can do whatever you want. Me, I’m done.’
He strode out, slamming the door behind him.
Lexi put her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle her sobs. She pressed up against the viewing pane and watched him stride out to his car.
Then, as quickly as he’d dropped back into her life, Mark was gone.
Chapter Eleven
It had taken every ounce of determination and sheer doggedness for Lexi to get from the soggy patch of carpet in the hall, where she’d laid and cried for half an hour, to the kitchen for much-needed coffee. Then even more, to shower again, get dressed and put together a game plan.
But she was nothing if not resilient.
She’d walked away when he asked her to before, but she wasn’t going to leave it this way.
Not this time.
This time she’d give him some time to process, then she’d be back.
She pulled over a chair and climbed up to search the top cupboard for the keepsake box stored there. The one Rosa had helped her pull together for Caleb’s daddy, all those years ago.
She stepped down with it and went over to the dining table.
Oh, how she loved this box, identical to the one she kept in her bedside table. She pulled it from the velvet sleeve that protected the wood.
Caleb Joseph Conroy.
The metal plate was as shiny as the day they’d delivered it.
Inside the cedar box there was a copy of Caleb’s birth and death certificates, and a copy of all of the paperwork from the hospital. She’d also put a copy of the only photo she had of her and Mark back then.
She picked up the snapshot and gazed at it in wonder.
They were so young. He was skinnier than he was now, having not filled out as an adult yet. She was young, with big brown eyes and a shock of out-of-control hair.
But that wasn’t what she loved about this box. It was the reminders of her little man that melted her heart every time she opened it—the set of hand-prints and footprints in ink on paper, one of his tiny hospital wristbands, copies of the few Polaroid photos she had, a lock of hair, and a single tiny white singlet, now yellowed with age.
She put the garment to her face and breathed in. Even now, there was a faint hint of baby powder. Gently, she folded the singlet the way Rosa had shown her, and placed it back in the box.
More recently, she’d added the sketch that was the final design for the tattoo on her breast, and a resin paperweight, identical to the one on her desk at Rivervue. Caleb’s memorial stone.
She’d made this box, never expecting to have the opportunity to give it to Mark. And yet, here she was.
Stomach churning because she’d never thought about this day. Stupid really, but for some reason she’d assumed it would always stay with her. Safe with her. Gently, she closed the lid.
She had to share what little she had of her son with Mark.
Their son, she mentally corrected. For so long, she’d carried the sole responsibility for remembering Caleb Joseph. Now it was time to involve his father.
And if that meant another heartbreaking conversation with Mark, or him pushing her further away, then so be it.
She loaded the box into the car, and sat for a moment before slotting the key into the ignition. Through the haze of pain, one sentence Mark had uttered that morning stood out more than the rest.
If there’s one thing I’m not into, it’s liars.
A shiver worked its ways down her spine at the cold, hard reality of her situation.
The Draven.
She’d been so fixated on staging Larrikin, and using the big reveal of the Draven as a means to save Rivervue, she hadn’t stopped to think how her actions would be construed.
But she’d lied to everyone. Everyone except Kenzie, and she hadn’t even been completely honest with her. Not even Kenzie knew about the audio files tucked away in her office that she planned to splice into the third act of Larrikin when the time was right.
Until this weekend, it had been Rivervue that she’d thrown all of her energy and passion into. Saving the family she’d nurtured all these years had been more important than anything. That’s why she’d lied.
When they did find out what she’d done, they might well be just as pissed off with her as Mark was. Tendrils of dread wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
Up until today, she’d known she could save Rivervue. Now she wasn’t sure. Even if she did pull off a miracle and save the theatre, she couldn’t stay in Brachen.
Not now.
&nb
sp; Without Mark in her life the best thing she could do was cut her losses and move on. She lifted her gaze to the beauty of the old church she loved so much and swallowed down on the bitter taste of defeat.
Adapt. But she was all out of adapting.
Right now, she wanted to sit down and cry, let the misery pour out until there was nothing left.
You can’t just give up.
She wanted to though. But as the minutes passed, she knew she had to keep fighting. She wiped her sweaty palms down her thighs.
If she was going to approach Mark, there was something else she needed to collect. She needed to be one hundred per cent honest with him.
Coming clean about her deception now might mean she lost Rivervue. Yet, next to losing Mark, it meant nothing at all.
***
Stage fright: nervousness before or during an appearance before an audience.
Lexi loaded up everything she wanted to give to Mark and got out of the car. Likely, the low roar of her classic car had announced her arrival from streets away, but the front door to his townhouse remained resolutely closed.
‘Oh well, here goes nothing.’
She knocked, and instantly the door swung open. Mark’s expression was still thunderous.
Lexi’s heart rate ratcheted up a notch.
He’d changed out of his clothes from the night before into a black running shirt and shorts and had trainers on his feet. She could see the ring of sweat around his neckline.
His body language was more relaxed. That was progress. Right?
‘I’m sorry I didn’t ring, and I respect you don’t want to talk, but I have something for you.’ Lexi offered the box in its red velvet cover.
‘I don’t want anything from you.’
His disdainful “you” cut her to the core.
‘This is yours. Always has been.’
He made no move to take it. ‘What is it?’
‘Could we go inside, please?’ There was no way she was doing this on the porch.
‘Sure.’ He allowed her in.
‘Thanks. This,’ she offered the box, ‘is yours. It’s a memorial to Caleb’s life, that Rosa helped me put together.’
His expression was closed as he stared down at the box.
She thrust it forward, forcing it on him.
‘Thank you.’ He held it awkwardly, as though he didn’t know how to hold it. ‘Is he buried here, somewhere?’
‘Caleb was cremated. I found an artist willing to incorporate his ashes into memorial stones—they’re preserved forever within two interwoven strands of resin in each stone. Mine sits on my desk at Rivervue. Yours is in there. CJ’s Youth Theatre is his real memorial though. Without Caleb, there wouldn’t be a youth theatre, and every second of every day, I put my energy into teaching those kids as a way of remembering him.’
‘Caleb Joseph. CJ’s.’ Mark shook his head. ‘It was there all along. Staring me in the face.’ Mark went to slip the velvet cover off.
‘Wait.’ Lexi stopped him. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you. Once I’ve said it, I’ll leave.’
Mark set the box gently on the dining table then folded his arms. ‘Yes.’
‘You called me a liar earlier, and you were right. I apologise for the hurt I caused you, both today and in the past. I should never have kept your son’s existence from you. I was young, I was scared, I felt abandoned, and I didn’t know what to do. Nothing you or I could have done would have changed the outcome for Caleb. He wasn’t destined to live. I get how hard that is to come to terms with and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I could have found you. Or told you that first day in my office. Or when you told me about Emma and her imaginary friend. I had lots of chances, and I just couldn’t. Because once you came into my life again, I didn’t want our past to come between us ever again.’
Mark cleared his throat, preparing to speak, but she was so worried about what he was going to say, she didn’t let him.
‘I had the opportunity to keep him alive. In my heart and in my passions. I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet Caleb Joseph Conroy. I hope this,’ she gestured to the box, ‘gives you some comfort.’
After the longest time Mark said huskily, ‘Thank you.’ She risked looking into his eyes and the sheen of unshed tears she saw choked her up even further.
They stood in silence in the entryway. Two feet and a million miles apart. Mark didn’t seem to want to move and she wasn’t sure her shaky legs would carry her. But she knew she had to finish what she came there to do.
‘That’s not all.’ Lexi took a deep breath then gestured to the thick bundle of paper tucked under her arm. ‘Do you recognise this?’
Mark’s confusion played out across his face. ‘It’s the play? Larrikin?’
Lexi nodded. ‘Yes, it is. What I’m about to say is going to come as a shock, because I’ve been keeping something from you, and everyone else, in a desperate attempt to pull something spectacular out of the bag. Something I’m not sure Council would have approved.’ She paused for another deep breath. ‘Rumour has it that I’m writing Larrikin, but I’m not. I’ve been lying to you and to Council, to hide the identity of the playwright, because I thought there was a possibility that you wouldn’t let us stage this production.’
Mark stared at her as though she’d grown another head. ‘What do you mean? I watched you struggle to finish it. I watched it emerge page by page. You wrote that play.’
‘That’s what I wanted you to think.’
‘Who wrote it?’
‘A playwright called Draven. Have you heard of them?’
Mark shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so. Maybe, I might have heard the name?’
‘Draven is iconic in the theatre world.’
‘So, you have their play?’
‘Draven writes for specific locations. Re-interprets local history.’ She paused. ‘Corrects it.’
That got his attention.
‘The completed script is gifted to theatres like ours. A Draven is always honest, sometimes brutal and … well, this one is no exception. It’s going to ruffle some feathers. But, I’ve fact-checked the history and the research is solid, as far as I can see.’
‘Wait. This play is going to crap all over the legend of Ron de Vue?’ She could see the vein throbbing in his temple. ‘Why the hell would you perform it for the bicentennial?’
‘Dravens are stratospheric for the theatres they play in, both in sales and reputation. I wager the boost Rivervue would get from this play far outweighs any damage to Ron’s memory.’
He cupped his head in his hands. ‘But Brachen lives off the memory of Ron de Vue. It’s why you have a theatre, indirectly it’s why I have a job.’
‘I know that.’
‘Why?’
‘What’s the one thing you know about Ron de Vue, other than he was a soldier turned Hollywood darling?’
Mark’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He. Never. Came. Back.’ She emphasised the four words that had probably sent Draven on a journey to discover the truth. ‘Looks like no-one here ever dug too deeply into why. Turns out, our local larrikin may not have been such a great guy after all. At least not all the time. The play celebrates his life, but without the rose-coloured glasses.’
‘Ah, Lex.’ Mark’s shoulders dropped. ‘This is bad. Council tasked me with helping you put together something to celebrate Ron’s life.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve been reporting in good faith to Council, and the mayor. Now I find out you’ve been lying to me. That doesn’t look good. The mayor isn’t going to take this well.’ He paused. ‘Hell, this pretty much seals the deal on those apartments for you. I’ll be lucky not to lose my job.’
The mention of the Rivervue Revitalisation and those blasted apartments made her blood boil. ‘The mayor knows nothing about good theatre. I checked in with other companies, I risk-assessed. Securing the Draven is an absolute honour. The reputation boost, the renewed interest in our town and our
theatre it would bring is a positive. We’re expecting a sell-out the moment this becomes public. We’re expecting publicity, and news articles as the first Australian site to stage a Draven original. Everyone else only ever produces older ones. This is a massive deal, in theatre terms. I made a judgement call to proceed. The benefit of staging the Draven for the town of Brachen far outweighs the controversy over Ron de Vue. Mayor Forsdyke is an idiot if he can’t see that.’ She pulled herself up to her full height and planted her hands on her hips. ‘He has to accept this and let us proceed as planned.’
Mark clenched his fists, then stretched his fingers. Clenched them again. ‘The mayor doesn’t have to do anything. I can’t believe you’ve done this. Heads are going to roll. Yours. Mine.’ His head dropped. ‘Rivervue’s.’
‘No.’ Couldn’t he see that this was the best thing to ever happen to the theatre?
‘Who else knows?’
‘Just me. Oh, and Kenzie, who was there when this arrived, and recognised what it was the moment she saw it. That’s how iconic Draven is in theatre circles. Everyone else is in the dark.’
‘There’s one positive.’
Lexi gnawed on her lip. ‘I accepted the risk of losing my job and having to leave if or when things went bad. You didn’t. I will tell the mayor you weren’t involved.’
‘That won’t help. It was my job to be involved.’ Anger radiated off him in waves. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done something so … unprofessional. Noncollaborative. How were you going to deal with announcing it? On opening night?’
Each bitten-out word made her flinch. What did Mark Conroy know about running a theatre? ‘The posters, flyers, tickets will be arriving late next week. Everything up to now has been … a necessary diversion. We’re launching it next Saturday—that we’re putting on the Draven.’ She tried to portray herself as everything he thought she wasn’t. Businesslike. Collaborative. She stopped and took a deep breath. Her personal life was disintegrating right before her eyes, but her plan for the play remained firm. ‘There’s a media plan for the launch. I will tell the mayor you weren’t involved. I’ll own this. I’ll wear the fallout.’
‘How does that help me? You hid the details and I didn’t notice? I might as well pack my desk now.’ Mark looked from her to the script and back. ‘I cannot believe this. You can’t drag other people unknowingly into this sort of thing. I need to keep my job. I’m a single dad with a child to feed.’