Where Have You Been?

Prologue

A suburban bedroom. Two girls. Sisters. One, a little girl, eight or so, sits on the bed. It's only early evening, six o'clock, still light, but she's all ready for bed: cotton pyjamas, Jiffies, teeth cleaned, her pale hair damp from the bath. The other, much older, seventeen, eighteen, practically a woman, sits at her dressing table applying make-up. She traces a heavy blue line around her eyes, darkens her lashes, reddens her lips, her cheeks, brushes a silvery streak across her eyelids. The little girl gazes at her sister's reflection, sits very still, very upright, doesn't make a sound; she barely breathes, so intent is she on the performance before her.

The older girl stands, takes a backward step or two, turns this way and that, trying to get a full view in the mirror. The dress she wears is long, the fabric a swirling combination of purple colours – lilac, violet, mauve, indigo. It is a glorious dress, with underskirts and bows, puffs and flounces. It shimmers and glints in the light. The young woman looks glorious: tall, slender, golden. Resplendent. The little girl gives a deep, a heartfelt, sigh.

‘You look so beautiful, Karen,' she whispers, ‘like a princess. Like a fairytale princess. Like Cinderella.'

Her sister smiles at her own reflection. ‘I like that, Sukey.' she says, softly, ‘Cinderella – that's me.' She turns to her sister, twirls slowly, her arms outstretched, ‘And now I'm off to the ball.'

This is the moment when everything changes.

There have been other significant moments; a multitude of them if Susan cares to look back, and some (one in particular) even more significant than this.

She should have been prepared, of course; should have been awake to the possibilities contained within such an occasion – for drama, for revelation. For farce.
The Reading of the Will.
It isn't that the terms themselves are difficult to understand; she's understood what he's said well enough, but Susan asks him to tell her again, to explain. She needs time to recover. To compose herself. Right now she feels as if – no, she doesn't quite know how she feels.

‘It's really quite straightforward, Mrs Middleton,' the solicitor speaks slowly, patiently, as if to a child. ‘The house can be put on the market immediately, but any disbursements
from the estate are to remain in trust until the executors are satisfied that everything possible has been done to locate your sister. If we do manage to find her, she receives half of your mother's estate; if we don't – which is by far the most likely outcome – you'll receive the lot.' His voice is low, sonorous, plainly his intention is to sooth, to smooth things over, iron out all the unsightly bumps and creases.

‘But when did she make this will?' His bedside manner isn't having the desired effect: Susan's voice is pitched strangely, she can hear it – too high and too loud, and she's speaking too fast. ‘I don't understand it. My mother hadn't been well – not for a long time. She'd been in a home for ten years. She had Alzheimer's. She couldn't even remember who I was. She couldn't feed herself. How could she possibly have managed to write a will? Surely it's not – it just can't be – valid. This is crazy. This whole thing's crazy.' She can feel her heartbeat now – and like her voice it's too loud, and much too fast.

The solicitor appears unruffled. ‘It's certainly valid, Mrs Middleton. She wrote the will years ago.' He shuffles through the papers in front of him. ‘In May, 1980. I'm surprised your father didn't tell you, he was an executor.'

She shakes her head, as much to clear it as to indicate the negative.

‘Even if we do find Karen, your inheritance will still be quite substantial.' He leans towards her, lowers his voice. ‘Your mother's house has been valued at more than eight hundred thousand dollars. And in this market – who knows.'

‘It's not the money.'

The man says nothing, smiles a polite professional smile.

‘No really, Mr Hamilton,' for some reason, she wants this man to believe her, to understand. Because it's
not
the money. ‘I mean it – the money's not an issue. I don't care about the money.'

‘Then what is the problem, Mrs Middleton?'

‘I just don't understand,' Susan's voice has dropped to a whisper, and the man has to lean close to hear her, a little closer than is proper. ‘Hasn't anyone told you that she's dead?' Susan is unravelling, she can feel it. She clutches his arm. ‘Didn't anyone tell you that Karen's dead? How can we give her half of the estate when she's dead?'

The solicitor looks pained. ‘Dead? Well that's never been–'

She interrupts: ‘Karen disappeared more than twenty years ago. She was abducted, raped, murdered. God knows what. Anyway, she's dead. Gone. This can't be serious – it's insane! My mother wasn't of sound mind. I can contest it, can't I? Can't I?'

Mr Hamilton takes her hand, which has been waving about dangerously. His hand – large, cool, comforting – covers hers briefly. ‘Mrs Middleton. Susan. May I call you that?' He doesn't wait for an answer. ‘Susan, this seems to have come as a terrible shock to you, and it may be that your sister is, as you say, dead. But the police files on your sister's disappearance have never been closed, a body has never been found, and most importantly, as far as the terms of your mother's will goes, your mother herself never gave up hope.'

‘But it's...'

He covers her hand again, as if that will silence her. ‘Listen to me for a moment. The will is completely watertight. There's no question that your mother was of sound mind when she made it, and that the conditions are completely legal and reasonable. You can leave the whole business to me – since your father's death I'm the only remaining executor. Anyway, I'll advertise and then conduct interviews in the unlikely event that there is any response. Even if she is alive, Susan – and yes, I know you believe it's highly improbable – but even if she's out there somewhere, it's very unlikely
she'd make contact now, after all these years. What's more likely is that our notices will attract a number of – er – false respondents. I've seen it before: any hint of a lost heir brings out all sorts of opportunists. Mainly cranks, but occasionally some very clever performers. Professional impostors.

‘Of course it's standard procedure these days to have a DNA test, but as you're only half-siblings and we won't have a sample from your ... er ... shared parent, the test won't be conclusive. At best it will only advise that the possibility can't be excluded. Most unsatisfactory.' He sighs, then pauses, waiting for her to comment, but she has nothing to say. Instead she looks steadily down at the desk, at their two hands. She studies the dark hairs on his fingers, the ornate silver ring on his middle finger, the clean, neatly-cut fingernails. Her own: trapped; barely visible. He follows her gaze, releases her fingers without comment. Continues.

‘If, and again this is highly unlikely, if a respondent
can
prove her identity; if a set of – shall we call them qualifying provisions – are met – well, then I think your involvement will become necessary. Will become essential, in fact...'

‘But–'

Mr Hamilton interrupts, ‘At this point you would have to conduct any further interviews to determine true identity. The final decision will be yours.'

She wriggles her fingers and he moves his hand away. She breathes deeply for a moment, then looks up, meets his eyes.

‘After all,' he says, and his voice is carefully devoid of emphasis. ‘You're the only one left who knows her, aren't you?'

It's true that Susan's the only one left.

But know her?

The girl, Karen, is eighteen. It is the night of her sixth form formal – a big night, much anticipated. At ten to seven she is ready. She wears the gown that her mother has made for the occasion, her hair is curled, make-up carefully applied.
As pretty as a picture,
her mother says. The mother takes several photographs: Karen beside a mirror, in the lounge room, several in the garden, one with her young half-sister standing beside her.

She is walking to the dance. The school – where both dinner and dance are to be held – is only a few blocks away, and Karen has arranged to meet a friend – a girlfriend – en route. She says goodbye; the mother and sister wave to her from the front verandah. The phone rings and the mother hurries inside to answer it. It is her husband, the father of the young child, Karen's stepfather, calling from the north coast, where he has travelled for a business meeting. He has rung from his motel room to wish Karen luck, to wish her a fine time out tonight, to tell her that he's thinking of her, but has rung too late. By the time the mother rushes out to call her daughter back, Karen has already turned the corner, is out of sight.

Her daughter has been out late at night before this, but the mother waits up anyway. As mothers do. She watches television.
Ten o'clock. Eleven. Midnight.
She gets into bed. Tries to sleep.
One. Two.
Gives up and goes back to the lounge room. Tries to read a book.
Three.
The mother is mildly anxious – as mothers are wont to be – but what to do? Who to ring? It is the end of year formal after all. There was talk of a party after the dance, and Karen has been given money – more than enough – to catch a taxi home. She will be with her friends, good responsible kids, the mother thinks, they will look out for one another, keep one another safe. And they're not kids really, are they? At eighteen. Still – it's a dangerous world out there.

The young child wakes up, wanders out sleepily. ‘Is it morning yet?'

‘No. Get back to bed.'

Four.
The mother drifts off on the lounge.

Eight o'clock.

The child is shaking her. ‘Mum! Wake up. Mum, where's Karen? Karen's not here!' The mother checks the bedroom. It's empty, the bed still made. She panics. Dials 000 and disconnects immediately. Takes several deep breaths. Thinks. Finds her phone book. Dials another number, local. Speaks to a woman, another mother. Yes, her daughter is home, was back surprisingly early, just past midnight, is still asleep.

‘Wake her? Is it really necessary? ... Karen's not home? Oh dear. Hold on...'

A voice thick with sleep. ‘Karen? She didn't turn up. I waited by the bus shelter for half an hour, but she didn't arrive. She didn't come to the formal at all. I thought maybe...'

The mother disconnects. Her fingers are deft, knowing, they dial 000 again, while the rest of her body shuts down, freezes over.

‘We'll approach it this way.' Mr Hamilton has assumed the proper distance from his client. ‘I'll get the house organised: put it on the market, notify the tenants. I'll place the notice in the personals. On the off-chance that she, that someone, turns up, I'll have the appropriate DNA test kit sent to you. It's quite a straightforward procedure, I believe. You take a cheek swab and send it back to the lab.' He is brisk and businesslike. Susan is trying hard to look together, alert. She has an urge to take notes but hasn't the means. Instead, she nods every now and then.

‘In the meantime I'd like you to put together something about your sister. On tape, or paper, whatever's easiest. Whatever you can remember. Again, just in case. I've got the basic facts and they'll probably be enough – date of birth, last known address, that sort of thing – but I'd like some additional detail, personal detail, from you. What she liked, what she
was like.
Whatever you can remember about her. I know it's been a long time, you were only a child, but I'd like to – to get a feel for her. That way,' he says, ‘we can weed out any ... obviously false claimants – without going to the expense of testing them.'

‘But she isn't ... she can't...' Susan cannot finish the sentence. ‘And in all probability she won't. But she might. You have to prepare yourself, Susan. She just might.'

She.

Susan drives home.

It's a little bit early, but she pours herself a whisky. Drinks it straight.

She unloads the dishwasher, brings in the washing, scrubs the bathroom.

She remembers, just in time, to pick up Stella and Mitchell from school.

She is vague and distracted, but the children are busy with their games, and don't notice, don't care.

Just.

Susan hangs out another load, takes phone calls, organises her next month's shifts. She prepares dinner, feeds the kids, runs their bath.

She pours another drink; a double this time. Adds a dash of water, ice.

She kisses Ed warmly, lingeringly, when he gets home from work. Asks him how his day's been. Tells him that the meeting with the solicitor went well. That everything's under control.

Might.

Susan can't face telling anyone, knows that to talk about it will somehow make it more real, will make it seem possible. So she puts off telling Ed until she's downed the required number of whiskies. She waits until she's blunted her edges, so to speak.

‘Do you really have to talk to her? She's only a child, she won't be able to tell you anything.' Susan is sitting on the dining room floor, pretending to dress her Sindy doll. There are police everywhere – or so it seems to the child. Their big blue bodies crowd the small rooms. They're manning phones, taking photographs, talking to her mother who sits hunched over the table, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

‘Any information would be valuable to us at this point Mrs Carter. We have to talk to your daughter – you never know what a child hears or sees. Karen might have confided in her.'

‘She wouldn't tell her anything.
I know.'

‘Mrs Carter. Please.'

‘Oh, if you really think it will help.' Her mother shrugs. ‘Susy. Susy darling, will you come over here and talk to the police lady. She just wants to ask you few questions. About Karen.'

The policewoman squats down beside the child and smiles. At this level she seems very tall to Susan, taller than her father, and her dark hair is cut short like a man's. But even in the dim light, and through the fug of cigarettes, Susan can tell that she has a kind smile. She holds out her hand. ‘Come on sweetheart.'

Susan puts down her doll and reaches out. The woman pulls her up gently. ‘How about we go and sit over on the lounge, Susy. You might be more comfortable there.'

The child sits right in the middle of the big lounge. Her feet dangle, don't touch the ground, and she bangs her heels against the bottom of the chair. The policewoman sits close beside her. Her skirt rides up a little when she crosses her legs, flesh coloured stockings wrinkling a little around her knees.

‘It's a little bit scary, isn't it – all these policemen? I know I'd think it was pretty scary if I were you, but don't worry, sweetheart, everything'll be okay.' She takes the child's hand again. The policewoman has short bitten-down nails – but her hands are soft and warm. ‘Your big sister's probably just gone to a friend's place without telling anyone. Maybe it's a friend your mother doesn't know.'

Susan says nothing, looks down. Drums her heels nervously.

‘Perhaps Karen has a friend that you know, Susy? Maybe she's got a new friend, someone she hasn't had time to introduce to your mum? Maybe it's a boy?'