Three Wishes (18 page)

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Cat pushed away her plate.

“We didn’t want to tell you earlier, until we knew for sure.” Frank placed a hearty, proprietary hand on Maxine’s shoulder. Maxine looked up at him, her face flushed with girlish color.

“Sure of what?” asked Lyn faintly.

“Well. Sure that we were in love. Again, of course.”

“I
am
going to be sick,” said Cat.

“Excuse me,” Lyn stood up. “Excuse me for a minute.” She threw down her napkin and walked off the veranda, pulling on the glass sliding door unnecessarily hard.

“Goodness me, you girls are crotchety today!” said Nana Kettle.

“But this is good news!” Frank put his wineglass down and leaned forward with his hands clutching the sides of the table, a perplexed frown creasing his forehead. “You’re happy for us, aren’t you, Gemma?”

“I’m very happy for you,” said Gemma truthfully, but she had that slightly off-balance feeling she used to get when she was at
school and Cat or Lyn gave a teacher a different answer from the one she would have given. No, she’d think. I’m sure that’s not right. But how could we have got it wrong?

When their father first moved out of the house at Killara and into his new flat in the city, six-year-old Gemma wasn’t particularly concerned.

In her mind it was somehow vaguely linked to his blown-off finger from Cracker Night. It was like when she or one of her sisters got sick. They had to move into the little room next to Mum and Dad’s with the sofa that turned into a bed. That was so your nasty germs didn’t float up your sisters’ nostrils.

Probably Daddy had to sleep somewhere else for a little while because he didn’t want to infect anybody with his horrible sick finger.

“But Mum and Dad sat us down in the lounge room and
told
us they were getting a divorce,” said Cat and Lyn, years afterward, when she told them her childhood theory. “How could you forget that? It was awful. Mum was doing this weird twisting thing with her hands, and Dad kept bouncing up from his seat and walking around the room and then sitting back down again. We were so mad at them.”

“I was probably thinking about something else at the time,” said Gemma.

It had happened at intervals throughout her life: a piece of news of major social, political, or personal significance somehow slipped right past her.

When she was aged around ten, she asked her sisters, “What’s an ‘abba’?” They were staggered.

“Abba is a band!” cried Lyn. “A really famous, cool band!”

“Be careful what you say in front of people,” advised a shaken Cat. “You’d better check with us before you say
anything.”

The first time Gemma registered the “divorce” word was the day they found out they were going on the fastest water slide in
the world. The whole family was in the kitchen and Maxine was bent down by the oven, lifting up the corner of the foil to check on a yummy roast chicken. There had been a complicated incident involving Cat and a Barbie doll, and Gemma was just about to launch into a detailed account when Frank announced, “Lyn’s staying here with Mum for the holiday.”

Gemma took one look at the secretive expression on Lyn’s face and instantly grasped the situation. A similar event had occurred at school just the other day when she went to buy an Icy Pole at the tuck shop. When she came back, Gemma’s best friend, Rosie, had recruited Melinda as her new best friend. In the space of two minutes alliances had shifted!

Quite obviously, Mum wanted Lyn to be her best friend! She always did have a noticeable preference for Lyn. It was because she tucked in the corners so tidily when she made the bed and didn’t drop stuff. Now they were going to have their very own little holiday together. They’d probably start whispering and giggling together at the dinner table. It would be awful.

The only solution was to get Mum and Lyn to come on holidays too. Surely Mum didn’t want to miss going on the fastest water slide in the world!

But no. No, that couldn’t happen; that was a typical laughable Gemma idea because Mum and Dad were getting a “divorce”—an ugly-tasting word, very similar to “zucchini.”

And that was when one of Gemma’s worst secret fears came thumping to the surface.

Cat and Lyn had recently decided to inform Gemma that she was adopted. They were a little surprised she hadn’t worked it out for herself.

“If you were really our sister you’d look like us,” said Cat with rock-solid logic. “Triplets are meant to all look the same.”

“We still love you like a real sister,” said Lyn kindly. “It’s not your fault. But you have to do what we say.”

“No, Gemma, you’re not adopted, for heaven’s sake,” said
Maxine as Gemma cried into her lap. “Your sisters are liars—they take after their father.”

But she was never really quite convinced, and when she heard that ugly “divorce” word in the kitchen that day, the enormity of what was about to happen stunned her. It was like that movie
The Parent Trap
they’d seen at Nana’s place, where the divorced parents each took one little blond girl. There was no little redheaded girl in the movie.

Clearly, Mum was going to take Lyn, and Dad was going to take Cat. Neither of them would want Gemma because she was adopted.

What would happen to her? Where would she live? What would she eat for dinner? She didn’t know how to cook a chicken! She didn’t even know how to
buy
a chicken. What did you say? One chicken, please? What if they laughed at her? How much did a chicken cost anyway? She only had $3.00 saved up. That would probably buy her only, say, ten chickens. After that, she would be so hungry!

Six-year-old Gemma felt dizzy as she struggled not to collapse under the weight of everything she didn’t know. Her parents and sisters receded into the distance. She was a tiny penciled dot on a huge white sheet of paper. There was only her and she reached only as far as the tips of her fingers and the tips of her toes and beyond that there was nothing.

She didn’t even notice Barbie’s head roll out of her unclenched hand and onto the floor.

Diving like Dolphins

It drives me bananas the way women tiptoe into the surf, flinching each time another body part gets wet. Look at ’em. Flapping their hands, scrunching up their faces. It takes them three hours to get their hair wet. And when there’s more than one of them, it’s even worse. Squealing and bleating and backing up and inching forward and backing up again. I ask you, what is the bloody point?

When I was about fifteen, the age when I was just starting to worry if a girl would ever deign to sleep with me, I saw these three girls sun-baking down at Freshwater Beach. They were probably about eighteen, and they were gorgeous. Legs up to their armpits. Athletic-looking. I was giving them the surreptitious once-over from behind my reflective Miami Vice shades, when all of a sudden the three of them jumped up and ran down into the surf. They got to about their knees in the water and then they dived under at exactly the same moment. That’s what got me. Their synchronicity. It was bloody sexy for some reason. Three bodies suspended in midair, like dolphins.

If only those girls knew how many nights they spent with me and a box of Kleenex under the duvet. Ah, the fun we shared that year. I was fair, of course. All three of them got the treatment.

Anyway, I always swore I’d marry a woman who ran straight into the ocean, like they did.

I didn’t of course. Would you bloody look at her? Get in, woman! Stop being such a girl!

“Hello, you,”
said Charlie. “Happy Boxing Day.”

He held his front door open with his foot and placed his hands on her cheeks to kiss her.

“Mmm.” Every time Gemma kissed Charlie, she accidentally said “Mmm” as if she’d just taken her first mouthful of an unexpectedly delightful dessert.

Was it physically possible to break up with someone who tasted like that?

“I’ve been
very
domestic this morning,” she said when he finally let her go and pulled her inside. “I’ve made us a proper picnic—and I’ve put it all in my backpack so I can sling it jauntily over my shoulders.”

She spun in a circle to show him, faintly aware that she was deliberately being cute and charming.

The plan was to ride up on Charlie’s bike to watch the start of the Sydney to Hobart.

The other plan, Lyn’s plan, was for Gemma to ascertain whether Dan was having an affair with Angela. “Just find out what’s going on,” said Lyn. “But don’t break it off. She’s got no right to ask that.”

Charlie stood back and surveyed her.

“I’m overwhelmed by your jauntiness. I’m also overwhelmed by the fact that you think you’re coming on the bike wearing those shorts.”

Gemma looked down at her bare legs. “Oh.”

“Sorry. Not prepared to risk those very sexy legs.”

She lifted one leg and pointed her sneakered toe like a ballet dancer. “We’re vain about our legs. We got them from Mum.”

“We?” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Is this like the royal we?”

“My sisters.”

“To be honest I’m only interested in
your
legs—not your sisters’.”

“Speaking of sisters—”

His tone changed. “Let’s not.”

“Our worlds collide.”

“Yes.”

“This is a bit awkward.” Gemma clutched the straps of her jaunty backpack.

“Oh well. Let’s talk about something less awkward.”

“Cat wants me to break up with you.”

Charlie became very still.

“Cat was the one who stormed off? She’s Dan’s wife?”

“Yes.”

“Do
you
want to break up? Because don’t just use this—this thing—as an excuse. If you want to finish it, finish it.”

“No. I don’t want to finish it. It’s nice. I like your eyelashes.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Good.” He smiled. “I like your legs.”

“Is Angela having an affair with Dan?”

Charlie scrunched up his face in comical pain. “I really don’t want to do this conversation. Can’t we just go have a nice picnic and forget about our siblings?”

“We really have to do it.” A pleasing touch of Lyn-type authority.

He sighed. “We didn’t talk about it much because to be honest I didn’t want to hear. Even though it was obvious something
very
strange was going on in that kitchen. But yes, she did have something going with him. I don’t know how many times they saw each other. But he definitely ended it when his wife, your sister, got pregnant.”

His wife.
Cat was someone’s wife who got pregnant. Gemma could see Cat sitting on the bathroom floor, looking up at her, pretending so hard not to care about the results of the pregnancy test—and visibly trembling. She was shaking all over, and she didn’t even seem aware of it. And now Dan had put her in a situation where she was described as
the wife who got pregnant.

That slimy scoundrel.

“She swears that it’s definitely over,” continued Charlie. “I believe her. She doesn’t want to break up a marriage.”

Gemma didn’t say anything. She was busy punching Dan in the stomach.

“I thought about giving her a Chinese Burn,” offered Charlie.

“Humph.”

“If it makes you feel better, she’s really upset about the whole thing.”

“She’s upset!”

“Jeez.” Charlie held up his palms in surrender. “I know. Look, the real offender here is Dan the Man. I didn’t like him the moment I saw him.”

“Didn’t you?” asked Gemma, momentarily diverted.

“Nope. Arrogant prick.”

“Are you absolutely positive it’s over?”

“Positive.”

“Absolutely positive?”

“Absolutely. Look. It doesn’t need to come between us, does it?”

“No.”

Jesus, Mary—and Cat—willing.

“Because I think we could be good.” He wound his fingers around the straps of her backpack and jiggled her back and forth.

“Do you?” There was that melting-caramel feeling again.

“Oooh yeah. I think we could really go places…Like North Head, for example. Like right now.”

“Let’s go then.”

“Oh.” Charlie stopped as he went to pick up the two helmets from the hallway. “One thing I wanted to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Angie said she remembers seeing the three of you outside her flat. You’re not planning on stalking her, are you?”

Gemma felt the tips of her ears become mildly warm. “That was a one-off.”

“Good. Because she’s still my little sister. Even if she does stupid things.”

“Well. Yes.” A spark of embarrassed resentment.

She wore a pair of Charlie’s jeans for the ride up to North Head. At each set of lights he put one hand back and caressed her leg. She squeezed her thighs around his hips and the top of her helmet clunked romantically against his. At North Head they found a space among the crowds for their blanket and cheered as the ocean became a frothy highway of busily zigzagging yachts, their sails blossoming in the breeze.

“Doesn’t get better than this, does it?” said a man sitting next to them.

“Well, it could do,” began Gemma thoughtfully.

“No, mate, it doesn’t,” interrupted Charlie, and he put his hand across her mouth, like an elder brother. She’d always dreamed—somewhat incestuously—of a lovely, protective, bossy older brother.

Once the boats had disappeared off the horizon, they went for a snorkel on Shelley Beach. It was a glimmery, hazy hot day and the water was dappled green. They saw darting shoals of tiny, iridescent fish and sleepy cod slithering mysteriously in and out of rocky hiding places. The rhythmic kick of Charlie’s flippers created clouds of translucent bubbles and Gemma thought, At this particular moment, I am entirely happy. She felt his hand on her
shoulder and lifted her head and trod water. He pulled his snorkel from his mouth and pointed downward, his animated face squashed by his mask, like a ten-year-old. “Giant
stingray!” Then
he shoved his snorkel back into his mouth and dived down deep to see it. Gemma followed him and swallowed a gigantic mouthful of salt water when she saw the size of the alien creature flapping its way along the sandy bottom.

Afterward, when they were making banana smoothies in the cool of Charlie’s kitchen, she said, “Have you always lived in Australia?”

“Apart from when I was twenty—I lived in Italy for nearly a year, with my mum’s family.” He scooped ice cream into the blender. “They come from a little village in the mountains on the east coast of Italy. I’ll take you there one day. My aunties will try and feed you up and my cousins will try and feel you up. Ha.”

He was always doing that—talking as if they had a future.

Gemma watched him press the button on his blender. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

“You know what’s funny about you?” she said suddenly. “It’s like you’re always on holiday. You’re like a tourist. A happy one.”

(When Charlie got dressed, he sort of
jumped
into his jeans or shorts. She didn’t tell him that. She didn’t want him to get self-conscious about it, or stop it.)

“That’s because I’m with you. That’s the effect you have on me.”

“No it’s not. I bet you’re always like that. I bet you were born like that. One of those fat, gurgly little babies. Baby Charlie!”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I wasn’t even called Charlie. My real name is
Carluccio.
It was my friend Paul who started calling me Charlie. Have I told you about him?”

Something about the expression on his face made Gemma think, Uh-oh, he’s about to
share.
It was lovely of course, but she had a terrible habit of laughing in the wrong places when boyfriends got profound.

She tried to look meaningful. “No. Tell me.”

Charlie handed her a tall frothy glass.

“He lived across the road from me. I don’t even remember meeting him, he was just always there. We did everything together. You know the sort of adventures kids have together. Going places on our bikes. Finding stuff. Building stuff. Anyway. When we were fifteen, Paul died.”

“Oh!” Gemma just managed to stop herself from dropping her smoothie. “Oh dear!”

“He died of an asthma attack in the middle of the night. His mum found him, with his inhaler still in hand. Teenage boys don’t handle grief very well. The day of his funeral I punched a hole in my bedroom wall. My knuckles bled. My dad plastered it up and gave me a little pat on the shoulder.”

“Poor, poor Charlie.” She could just imagine his shattered, boyish face.

“It’s O.K., no need for violins. Drink your smoothie, please. The thing about Paul was that he was always so enthusiastic about things. I was the laid-back one, the one who was hard to impress. He was always saying, Oh man, that’s so cool! He’d see a blue-tongued lizard and he’d be down on his hands and knees with his eyes bulging just like the Crocodile Hunter and I’d be like Yeah, yeah’, but secretly just as excited. When he was gone, I really missed that. So, one day, I decided, I’d
pretend
to be like Paul. When I saw a good movie or caught a great wave, I’d say to myself, Oh man, Charlie, that’s so cool! It was like I was wearing one of Paul’s old shirts. At first I was faking it, just to feel better. But then I wasn’t faking it anymore. It was like a habit. So, blame Paul. He gave me my name and my personality.”

“Lovely name. Lovely personality.”

Charlie drained his glass and peered at the bottom as if he was trying to find something.

“What about your fiancé who died?” he asked, without looking at her. “That must have been pretty bad.”

“Yes, it must have been,” said Gemma, imagining how Charlie must be imagining her, young, in love, devastated. “I mean, yes, it was.”

“And nobody else has managed to get a ring on your finger since him. Is that because nobody can live up to his standards?”

“Nobody can live up to
my standards.”

“Oh I see. And it’s always you who does the breaking up?”

“Yes. I can’t seem to break that six-month mark.”

“I see.” Charlie nodded his head wisely and pretended to peer at her over invisible glasses, while judicially stroking an invisible beard.
“Very
interesting. Why don’t we move into my office and discuss this.”

He took her by the hand and led her out to his living room. She lay down flat on the couch, only to find that her psychiatrist was lying on top of her, explaining that he had diagnosed her condition and was ready to administer treatment. Yes, it
was
considered rather unorthodox in certain circles, but he could assure her it was highly effective.

She just needed to lie very still.

“Say something in Italian to me.”

“Io non vado via.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means I’m going to break the six-month mark.”

Before the day Marcus went flying across Military Road, Gemma had been living with him in his very expensive, very tidy Potts Point flat for close to two years. It never felt like home. She just slept at Marcus’s place every night of the week.

Cat and Lyn came to stay with her the night before the funeral.

Lyn was tanned gold from her interrupted holiday in Europe, with jet-lagged circles under her eyes. She’d been gone for nearly a year and her hair was longer and she was wearing an entire outfit Gemma had never seen before. Even her shoes were different.