Relativity (8 page)

“Do you want to know if it's a boy or a girl?” the sonographer asked.

Claire shook her head. “We want it to be a surprise.” She reached for Mark's hand, moving his fingers to her stomach. The gel was slippery and cold. He was indifferent to the fetus, the way he was unmoved by abstract art. It made him feel guilty, especially when Claire's bond with the thing was already so tangible. So he faked it. He faked smiles and excitement, was attentive to her needs. If Claire knew how he really felt, she'd worry. Even Mark was worried. Once it was born—once he could see it and hold it, once it was real—this would all be different.

The sonographer handed him the ultrasound. Claire got dressed and went to the bathroom and Mark waited outside, continued to read his book. His heart broke for Sue when she found all her children dead—“the triplet of little corpses”—and how she blamed herself for it on top of her pain. He wanted to be sick as he thought of those dead children hanging from those hooks. Mark closed the pages.

When they returned home, Claire asked for the ultrasound. Mark searched through his jacket and his pockets. He couldn't remember where he'd put it. He looked everywhere. The ultrasound had disappeared.

“I can't believe you lost it,” Claire said, starting to cry. “It was the first picture of our baby and now it's gone.”

“We could go back and get another one,” Mark offered.

“That's not the point. The baby will never be this small again. I was going to frame it. This is the worst thing that's ever happened.”

Mark couldn't stand it when she was like this. Everything was a catastrophe. He knew the baby made her irrational. It was hormones; she'd be his Claire again soon. They were nearly halfway through the pregnancy. All he had to do was be patient; it would be over in five months.

Later, when Mark moved out of their home,
Jude the Obscure
was one of the few items he took with him. When he left Sydney to work in the mines, the novel was packed away in his parents' garage. He'd forgotten all about it and now it was on his father's desk.

Ω

THE FOLLOWING DAY,
a bulging brown envelope arrived. Mark hadn't expected to receive any mail; nobody knew he was here. Only Claire. His name was written in the unsteady hand of a child. Inside the envelope, there was a note and seven handmade cards. Happy Father's Day, they said.

Each year that Hallmark holiday—gift sets in the supermarket, ads on TV, fathers and sons exchanging smiles on the back of the bus—made Mark feel like he'd been punched in his gut.

A tear fell down his face. These cards were beautiful. Finally—twelve years too late—something in him stirred. Mark suddenly knew exactly how Claire had felt looking at the blob.

He had a son.

Ω

THE TWO BOYS
and their parents were called in for an official disciplinary meeting at school. As much as Claire dreaded the idea of this formal meeting, at least it might unearth some answers. Punishing her son felt futile anyway when he was punishing her back. Ethan shut himself away: closed his bedroom door, refused to speak during dinner. This secrecy, this lack of eye contact, was unusual. Claire missed him and the relaxed ease of their bond.

“We just want everyone to touch base, discuss the matter face-to-face,” Mr. Thompson had said over the phone.

Claire shrank. “I suppose Will's parents will be there too?”

“Yes, I've already spoken to Helen and Simon. I'm sure this will be quality face time.” Mr. Thompson paused. “Claire, I want to reassure you that this won't be a blamestorming session.”

“Thanks,” she'd said, in a measured tone.

Claire ran late to the meeting. The ballet company held a fund-raising afternoon tea with the new artistic director and she got stuck speaking to one of the most generous philanthropic supporters. As she sat on the bus, she felt jittery and agitated. The neckline of her dress was too tight. Claire felt apprehensive about Ethan's disciplinary meeting but mostly she hadn't prepared herself to see Simon again.

They'd met five years ago at the school Christmas play. Claire knew Helen, but Simon worked long hours and was never home when she dropped Ethan off at their house. That Christmas, Ethan and Will were wise men in the nativity, clutching oversized frankincense and myrrh in their tiny hands. Helen had insisted on sewing Ethan's costume so that all three wise men matched.

After the production, Claire ran into Simon, who was leaning against the school gate.

“These things always go on forever,” he said. “And your kid is only onstage for five minutes but they still make you watch the whole school perform.” Simon smiled. He reminded Claire of one of her high school boyfriends with his warm face and sensible haircut, the sort of practical boy she'd fancied before disappearing from her local school to study ballet full-time.

“I'm embarrassed to admit I don't know your name,” Claire said. “I only know other parents by the names of their children. You're Will's dad.”

“Simon. I have the same problem. You're Ethan's mum.”

“Claire.” She reached out to shake his hand.

He had a firm handshake. “Will talks about Ethan all the time. So you're Claire.” Simon said her name slowly. He looked at her for a moment; the intensity of his stare made her feel uneasy. “The ballerina, right? Helen mentioned something, when we were at the Opera House recently. That you work there.”

“Oh, ex-ballerina. Now I just work behind the scenes.”

“More interesting than my job anyway. I'm an accountant. Punchline to lots of jokes. Everyone is more interesting than me.”

They briefly maintained eye contact. Simon fiddled with the sleeve of his shirt. He looked at her in a way that she'd forgotten. Like she was visible, under the spotlight on a stage.

“Funny you mention it, but I need an accountant,” Claire said. This wasn't true. She'd never had any trouble sorting out her tax returns.

Simon took a business card out of his jacket. “Here,” he said, putting it in her hand. “Call me if you have any questions. About accounting.”

“Thanks,” Claire said and walked away to collect Ethan from backstage.

She didn't call him. The glossy business card turned gray at the bottom of her handbag, lost beside the old receipts and grimy bus tickets. But their offices were nearby and they kept running into each other around Circular Quay. Suddenly, Simon was everywhere. He'd always be so friendly, invite her to have a coffee or lunch; Claire always refused. Over time, she grew addicted to his persistence and if she didn't see him for a while, she'd miss getting her fix. Finally, after a long day at work, Simon persuaded Claire to have a drink with him.

They sat at a bar overlooking Campbell's Cove. Across the water was a row of identical storehouses, a sandstone procession of triangular rooftops. Claire twisted her napkin with her hands and ordered another drink.

“Tell me about being a ballerina,” Simon said.

Claire tried to laugh off the request. “It was so long ago. I don't really remember anymore.”

She knew all about being cast as that mystical object—the dancing figurine in the music box spinning on its axis. It used to annoy her, the fetish and fixation that went hand in hand with her career. She wanted to be taken seriously, to have her dedication and discipline acknowledged, not be degraded to some spectacle of bodices and tulle.

Mark never saw Claire that way; they shared this unspoken drive. He loved her perfectionism and hunger, how she'd practice and practice until her hips crumbled and feet bled. He was just as obsessive about his work, chasing some elusive original idea so he could challenge existing theories, change the world. Ambition and mastery—that was the foundation of their relationship. Their common ground.

“Do you miss it?” Simon asked.

“Not really,” she lied.

“I'm sure nobody could take their eyes off you when you were onstage.” He leaned forward and touched her elbow.

Claire felt embarrassed by how much she enjoyed the thrill of being desired. It seemed trivial, superficial, but there was something restorative about Simon's attention. Like coming up for air. Nobody had touched her since Mark. In those solitary years since their divorce, Claire knew she was lonely. But she'd instinctively brush the constant hum of loneliness away, as if it were a whining mosquito buzzing at her ear.

Under the table, Simon pushed his knee against hers. “Would you like another drink?”

Claire shook her head. She already felt a little drunk. “Maybe we should go.”

He seemed to take that as a challenge. “Or maybe we could stay?” His proposition hung in the air for a moment, resting between them, waiting for someone to react.

Something inside Claire just wanted to run with it, to be choreographed, to be pliable, to have someone else tell her the sequence of steps. It was unlike her to be this passive, but perhaps that was the point. She knew she'd play a role for Simon—the star, the ingénue—where embodying his fantasy was like wearing a mask. He didn't know her; she didn't need to be herself. Getting into character meant shedding her genuine skin. It was anesthetic.

Ω

IT WAS ONLY MEANT
to be a one-night stand. Simon was clever, made Claire laugh, but he was such an unexpected choice for a lover. She enjoyed speaking to him about politics, sparring over word games, but any conversation that wasn't flirtatious felt strained. She couldn't let her guard down. And it was such a relief he went home to someone else. Even though sour rushes of guilt often shot up the back of her throat, Claire didn't feel like a threat to their marriage. She kept Simon at arm's length; she couldn't get hurt that way. Even though Simon was married, Claire was more unavailable. Her heart had been trampled enough.

Occasionally they'd meet after work at the Observatory Hotel. The bleached hotel light—snow-colored and cool Egyptian cotton sheets, pale silver embossed wallpaper—made the trysts feel incandescent. But there was always something wretched about these rendezvous, the wide gloom of the king-sized bed and sterile modern amenities. After the white heat of sex cooled, their mood did too. While it was still exciting—though it had become monotonous, routine—Claire could never push aside the colorless melancholy of those long Thursday evenings.

Simon ran his hand down Claire's back. They were both naked and she hated this part: the exposed vulnerability that came after sex. She sat up in bed.

“You're so beautiful,” he cooed. Claire had noticed something in him change lately; he seemed sloppy, more affectionate. “Maybe I'm falling in love with you.”

She shook her head. “Simon, you're not.”

“But isn't that what you want?”

“I like things the way they are.”

Simon frowned. “What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It must have been pretty bad if you've closed yourself off to love.” He touched her bare shoulder. “You can tell me.”

“Nothing,” Claire said. “It was nothing.”

“Tell me. I promise I won't fall in love with you.”

And that autumn evening as the overcast sky turned dark, for the first time—not because she wanted him to love her, but because Simon listened and paid close attention—Claire told somebody else her secrets.

The affair lasted barely a couple of months. Maybe there were feelings there, below the surface, although Claire only knew how to suppress them. When they weren't together, she felt relieved, but there was something comforting about being wanted, a validating ferocity that kept her coming back for more. It made her feel like she still existed, like a part of her she'd thought had died still had a beating heart.

Inevitably, the excitement atrophied—like any building without a solid foundation, it was always destined to collapse. Claire called it off. She didn't want anybody to get hurt, though perhaps it was too late for that. Afterward, she was struck by expected grief. Simon was distant when they ran into each other again at soccer games or school functions. His aloofness stung.

Sometime later, Helen began to ostracize Claire, forgetting to invite her to trivia night, parent meetings, accidentally leaving her name off the Christmas gift to the boys' teacher. Claire was terrified Helen knew everything. But why would she? It made no sense for Simon to admit to his own infidelity.

More than that, Claire feared that by trying to dull her own pain, it had snowballed instead. That by running with Simon's anesthetic effect, she'd created an avalanche of new pain for somebody else.

Ω

CLAIRE STOOD IRRESOLUTE
at the principal's office door. The meeting had started half an hour ago. She took a deep breath and straightened the creases in her dress. This wasn't the moment to be nervous. What mattered here was Ethan; her personal shit and petty insecurities were irrelevant. She held her head high and let herself into the room.

Ω

THE CHAIRS
in the principal's office were arranged in a circle. No edges, no corners where Ethan could hide. Mum was late but Will's parents were early. Both of them looked very dressed up, like they were going to a concert or church. Ethan swung his feet and stared at the floor; his school shoes were scuffed, one lace undone. He stopped moving and fixed the collar of his uniform. Will looked at him quickly, then turned back to his mother. He was wearing a patch to cover his black eye that made him look like a pirate.

Other adults were gathered in the office too: the principal, Mrs. Doyle, Mr. Thompson, and the school counselor. Miss Alexander, the counselor, looked over at Ethan and gave him a closed-lipped smile.

“Should we call your mother?” Mr. Thompson asked.

Ethan nodded. Mum wasn't usually this late; he was scared she'd forgotten the meeting. Mrs. Doyle offered the phone and he dialed, but it didn't ring. “No answer,” Ethan said, deflated.