Eleven Weeks (22 page)

I look at the corner of my very white, very shiny desk and pull the phone an inch away from my ear. Although gosh, if I can’t handle a grown woman crying at me, how will I cope with a baby?

“Okay, the next available appointment in the system is tomorrow afternoon at three p.m.; does that suit you?” I ask, clicking through the calendar on my screen. In all honesty, I can see six appointment slots free tomorrow; but I think poor ol’ Mrs McIntyre needs less choice in her life right now, not more.

“You can’t just … can you do me now?”

I suck in a breath. This is exactly what Mischa had tried to train me for. She’d said that sometimes, people just didn’t want to wait. They wanted security. Reassurance.

Love
.

And they wanted it now.

Still, I wasn’t ready to give it.

“You’re better off waiting till tomorrow. I can get—”

“I want you to read my pet’s spirit, and I want it now! Is that so hard to ask? It doesn’t have to be long, and I’ll pay double.” I suck in a breath. I do need the cash … “Triple!”

“To be honest, I’m not really qualified to do this …” I trail off, but even as I do, the “admin” email address pings and I click open an email from Mrs McIntyre, a photo of her beloved Buttons inside.

“Did you get my email?” she asks. I hit
zoom
. Buttons is a very cute, very fluffy looking Maltese. Or, was, I should say.
Poor Buttons
…

Ping

Another email comes through. This time, Buttons is wearing a tutu. Yes, a tutu.
Oh, God …

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you. While I have some psychic ability”—It’s not technically a lie. In my first training session, post-meditation this morning, Mischa praised me for my efforts, and said I did very well—“I am by no means an expert, and couldn’t guarantee you a correct reading.”

“Can you just … try?” Mrs McIntyre’s sobbing sounds more desolate, more alone, and that’s when I know. “If you can’t, I’m going to Puppy Power.”

I suck in a sharp breath. Puppy Power are our biggest rivals, and Mischa hates them with a passion.

Maybe I could give it a go. I stare at the picture of Buttons again, and then follow the instructions Mischa gave me. First, clear your mind, as if in meditation. Then, picture the animal in question. Imagine them, let them roam free in your thoughts, in your mind …

Try as I may, Buttons won’t come to life. The closest I can come is picturing him spinning around performing ballet in that ridiculous tutu.

“Mrs McIntyre—”

“Yes?”

She needs this.
I make up my mind. I look at the little timer on my desk that Mischa has told me to hit, should I ever start a consult with a client. It’s so she can work out how much to bill them.

I move my computer screen so it blocks the little clock. I can’t do this for money.

“Mrs McIntyre, Buttons misses you very much. You two had a very special bond,” I say. I look at the picture again. It has to be true. No self-respecting dog would allow its owner to dress it up in hot pink if it wasn’t true love.

“Yes, yes he did!”

He?
Interesting.

“He’s in a better place now. A place with … bones, and balls, and—”

“Buttons is terrified of balls!”

“Ball terriers. Bull Terriers. Who he is friends with, and they’re super friendly,” I try to cover. “The point is, he knows you miss him, and he doesn’t want you to forget the special time you shared together … But he doesn’t want you to mourn his loss forever, either.” I swallow. “You’re a strong woman, Mrs McIntyre; you can get through this.”

Silence.

“Th … thank you,” Mrs McIntyre says, her voice shaky. “It means so much to hear you say that.”

“That’s fine. Also, there’s no charge for this call.”

“You are just a godsend, dear,” Mrs McIntyre sniffles. “Do you have a dog?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“Kids, then?”

I rub my hand over my stomach. “I’m about to have a baby, though, yes.”

Mrs McIntyre sucks in a deep breath. “You will make a fabulous mother, dear. I feel it in my waters.”

I stifle a giggle as I hang up the phone, and try not to think dirty thoughts about Mrs McIntyre’s waters. I smile. I may have lost Michael—but at least I have this.

“I didn’t know you were pregnant.”

I whip my head from my desk to see Candy leaning against the doorframe.

“Please, don’t tell …” My words trail off. Who would she be loyal to? Her boss, or the new girl? It’s not really a hard question.

Candy lopes across the room and perches on the corner of my desk. “Is that why you took this job?”

“You can tell I’m not that …” I roll my hand in the air, “… into it?”

Candy sighs, and a blonde lock flies over her shoulder. “Sweetheart, Mischa is one of the kindest people I know. If you haven’t told her, I’d say she’s guessed. She helps people, Stacey. It’s what she does.”

She blinks, and her eyes radiate compassion. I manage a smile.

“How are you handling the pregnancy?”

I bite my lip. How am I …?

“Well, to be honest, I’m freaking out.” The words explode from my mouth before I can stop them. “I haven’t told anyone yet, and I have no one to talk to, and sometimes I feel so alone, you know?”

“You’re not alone.” Candy’s hand is warm when she places it over mine. “But you need to tell your family, at least.”

That lead feeling in my stomach strikes me again. Yes. Yes, I really do.

“But in the meantime, wanna talk about it?” Candy gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “We can do some seriously good baby fashion research over lunch?”

I smile. I’d really like that.

January 7

E
IGHT WEEKS,
five days. That’s how long it’s been since I fell pregnant. Which means I have roughly thirty weeks to go.

I’m starting to feel better about it all. I’ve marked out what cot I want to get, and researched the best stroller for my needs (a three-wheeled one, mind, so I can run on the sand with the kid in an effort to lose post-pregnancy weight). I’ve booked in my next appointment with the doctor for my first ultrasound. I’ve even started meditating at night, now that I’ve learned a few techniques. Apparently, meditation is great for pregnant people. Who knew?

And I’ve decided that this is the week when I’ll tell my parents. It has to happen sometime, after all.

Despite all this, despite the fact that every day seems to slowly inch itself along, like a council worker on a paid-by-the-hour job, I still miss him.

Eight days, thirteen hours and twenty-one minutes.

That’s how long it’s been since I last heard from Michael. Not that I’m counting, or anything.

And that’s how long it is since I’ve last seen Kate when Mum gets the call.

I know it’s bad because I’m sitting on the couch, slowly stuffing one plain cracker into my mouth after the other, knitting discarded on the floor, and all I can hear from the kitchen is, “Oh … oh … I’m so … Oh.”

“Stacey.” Mum walks into the lounge room and I sit up straighter, brushing the crumbs from my black tank top. “Something terrible has happened.”

She sits down next to me and I wrap my arms around my stomach. “Yes?”

“Kate had a friend … Lachlan? He was—he was in a motorcycle accident. He died.”

I blink.

Lachlan? Nice, supportive, funny Lachlan?

Kate.

I bolt up off the couch, run to my room and grab my handbag. I have to go to her. I have to go to her now. I—

“Stace, her mum said she doesn’t want visitors.” Mum appears in the doorway.

I push past her. “It’s my best friend. He was pretty much her
boyfriend
.”

I take the stairs two at a time, somehow managing not to fall over my own feet, and grab my car keys from the hall table before wrenching my car door open, slamming it shut, and hightailing it out of there quicker than a wasp on the hunt.

I pull up out front of Kate’s house and fly to her front door, my fist raised and ready to give it the knocking of a lifetime, when it really hits me.

He’s
dead
.

I suck in a deep breath. My head pounds, and it seems a little hard to breathe. Once more, that whole fragility-of-life thing hits me. How could I have contemplated killing my three-centimetre worm-child when this grown-up man just got taken?

“I’m never going to let anything happen to you,” I whisper as I rub my stomach again. I’m going to protect this tiny human from everything.

I knock again and the door opens and I’m still standing there, one hand in the air, one on my stomach, one small breath of air in my lungs.

“Stacey,” Deborah, Kate’s mum, brings me in for a hug, and I let one arm drape around her neck. I pull back and look at her, really look at her, for the first time in quite a while.

Her once-auburn hair is now streaked with delicate lines of grey. The lines around her eyes are deeper, and the purple that shadows them is unmistakable. You can see how much things have changed for her—it’s written on her face.

“Are you … okay?” The word seems so trivial, so
not enough
for what she is going through with her husband’s disease, but it’s all I have.

“Kate’s not doing well, she’s—”

“Are you okay?” I put my hand on her arm. “With your husband … Kate …?”

A sheen mists over Deborah’s eyes. She’s a woman I’ve always referred to as a second mother, and the next thing I know she’s in my arms, her frail body shaking as sobs choke from her mouth. I rub my hand up and down her back, shushing noises coming from my mouth. Comforting her like I would a baby.

“I’m sorry.” Deborah finally pulls back and runs a hand under her eyes. Even though she’s in a work uniform, with some foundation covering her cheeks, she’s not wearing mascara, so it’s just the damp she’s brushing away. I wonder when her days started getting like that. So tumultuous that the risk of wearing eye-makeup just wasn’t worth it.

“It’s fine.” I shake my head. And it really is.

I think of my life. Pregnant. Alone. Then I think of her life. Her husband is sick, can barely put together a sentence. Her daughter could die of the same disease. But right now, Kate is in the throes of heartbreak because the guy she really liked has died.

Maybe everyone is alone, to a degree. Maybe I just didn’t see it before.

“She doesn’t want to see anyone,” Deborah says. “It’s not just Lachlan, you know. Last night, Dave released a song about her. Some mean thing about … well, I’m sure you’ll hear it for yourself.”

Anger boils in my veins. “How could he?” I hiss. But what I’m thinking is,
How the hell could Michael be involved with that?

“Can I just see her for a few minutes?” I ask. “I won’t—I won’t bother her, I promise. I just want to … I want to be there.”

Deborah shoots a wistful look into the darkened house behind her. “Okay,” she whispers, and leads me in.

We walk into the lounge room, and it really is like walking into a house for the mourning. The heavy curtains are pulled shut, casting the room in shadow. Someone—presumably Deb—has lit an incense candle, so the heady scent of lavender fills the room. It creeps down my throat, choking me, and I stop, swallow, and try to take shallow breaths. Now is not the time to throw up.

On the couch is Kate. Scrunched up balls of tissue surround her, a pile of them on the floor, and a beige-coloured blanket covers her from the waist down. Her eyes are open, and she’s staring straight ahead, but she doesn’t make any move to signal she knows I’m in the room.

It’s the single creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.

I tiptoe over to her side, clear a space in the tissue debris and sit cross-legged on the floor next to her. “Kate?”

Nothing. Her eyes look straight past me, straight through me, to something I can’t see.

“I’m so sorry, hon.” I shake my head and lift my hand, combing a piece of her hair back behind her ear. It’s damp, and I wonder if it’s from excess crying or sweat. Probably both.