Where Have You Been? (11 page)

Susan continued her own visits, once a month, and then once every few months; watched her mother's slow disintegration. Eventually her mother lost the power of speech altogether, and was confined either to a chair or a bed all day. She no longer responded to anything – not voice, or touch, or even food. Clad in nappies, relying on the physio's manipulation of her limbs to keep them from atrophying, being spoonfed purees and attached to an IV drip to keep her hydrated. There didn't seem to be much point to such an existence. But she lingered on, as if her body was for some reason bent on denying its reality, determined to ignore the all too obvious hints given by her long-gone mind.

Her mother's funeral had been a terrible lonely affair. Only a handful of people attended the non-denominational service at the crematorium chapel: Ed and Susan; Anna (though she'd never met her); Aunty Di; the solicitor and a representative from the nursing home. Aunty Di had been the only one who'd shed any tears, had sobbed conspicuously into her large lace-edged handkerchief, shoulders heaving. The pastor had been kind, well-intentioned – but even so, his service contained very few references to the reality of the
life that had once been Susan's mother's, or the person she had been – after all, he had another funeral to do in half an hour. What could Susan herself say about her mother? What could she remember? What could anyone remember? There was no one left who had really known her. She had wished, all through the service, that her father had been there – he at least would have known something of who she was. Who she'd been. His own funeral had been very different, he'd had a few good friends, colleagues; there'd been some sense of recollecting, even celebrating, a good life. Later, at the wake, she'd heard stories about her father that made her realise how little she'd known of him. In death he'd become somehow bigger than the man she'd known – his life had a taken on a much greater significance than she'd ever expected. In death her mother was smaller, less significant, diminished. A pathetic scrap of humanity.

Susan had tried hard to cry at the funeral, but she'd already been grieving for years and felt as if she had no tears left. Afterwards, she'd invited Aunty Di back for lunch. They only talked about her mother briefly, almost guiltily, but Di could shed no light – she'd been her friend only for a short time, and couldn't really remember much about her – their lives had been connected by school, children, by a neighbourhood, and very little else.

This time Ed has insisted they visit the solicitor together. Hamilton had been his mother-in-law's solicitor only during the last – the lost – years of her life, and Ed is certain that this man is somehow responsible for the ridiculous will, that he has conjured this woman who says she is Susan's missing-presumed-dead sister, that – despite what Susan says to the
contrary – he is a slippery sort of fellow, shonky and conniving. He has checked with the Law Society, and the man is registered and evidently above board, but still, Ed is suspicious, wants to make sure they are not being conned, cheated.

Ed knows that Susan is irritated by his company, wishes him elsewhere. But he is resolute, immovable. ‘I'd really rather do this myself, Ed,' she hisses as they wait in the small reception area. ‘You're being too aggressive. You'll get his back up. It's not his fault, Howard's only doing his job.' He tries to hiss back, but she ignores him. ‘Why don't you wait in that cafe downstairs, have a cup of coffee, a hot breakfast? Go on. It's not too late.'

But it is too late. Hamilton's office door opens and the expensively suited solicitor ushers an elderly woman to the front desk. He has a brief word with his secretary, then turns to Ed and Susan, walks toward them smiling, his hand outstretched.

‘Susan. Hello. How are you? And you must be Ed.' Ed stands and takes the proffered hand. The man's grip is firm, his skin cool and dry. ‘Are you people hungry?' he doesn't wait for a reply. ‘Let's talk about this over coffee.'

Ed is disappointed. Other than a slight six o'clock shadow, the man is the model of the suburban solicitor. He's a little younger than Ed would like (of that indeterminate age, somewhere close to middle), but perfectly respectable looking.

He turns to his secretary. ‘I'm taking Mr and Mrs Middleton downstairs for breakfast, Virginia,' he says. ‘Be about half an hour. I'll bring you back something. A pastry? Coffee?' Howard Hamilton is hardly Ed's idea of a con man.

‘So,' the solicitor says, ‘So what's the problem, Sue? Why are you so certain that she isn't Karen? Fill me in.' They have spoken only about general things – Ed's work, the traffic, the
perpetually escalating value of Sydney real estate, while the man gulped down his late breakfast.

‘Look,' Ed says before Susan gets an opportunity to answer. ‘Look, if Susy says it isn't her, then it isn't. Don't hassle her. Don't make her feel guilty.' Ed knows he sounds like a belligerent child, but he can't help himself. He is consciously reducing his fat intake and the sight of the solicitor's eggs Benedict (Ed has ordered a skim-milk latte, toast and Vegemite, no butter) has been almost more than he can bear.

‘Ed,' Susan pats his hand gently. ‘It's okay. Howard's not hassling me. It's fair enough that I explain, don't you think?'

Ed says nothing, blows on his coffee.

‘You do understand that I've got nothing at stake in this, Ed,' the lawyer chips in. ‘I don't get any sort of commission. I don't get a percentage. I get paid for my time, nothing else.' The man is looking at him intently. ‘This is a will, not some sort of legal challenge.'

‘Yes. I know. It's just...'

‘I do understand that there's a great deal of money involved – that you and Susy stand to lose a substantial amount if this woman is who she says she is. I'm sorry, but the terms of your mother-in-law's will are quite clear, and I have a legal duty to ensure her wishes are carried out. I'm working for your mother-in-law – her estate, at any rate – not you and Susan. And certainly not Karen.' He smiles widely as if to take the edge off his words. But Ed has been wounded, doesn't respond.

‘Anyway,' Susan sounds slightly impatient, ‘We're here to talk about this woman aren't we? This Carly? And why I don't think she's Karen.'

‘You're right as always, Susy.'

Ed wonders if this man always takes such an intimate tone with his female clients –
as always? – Susy?

‘So tell us, Susan – okay if I take some notes? – Why do you think she's an impostor?'

Impostor.

It's such a portentous, such a weighty word. Such a serious accusation. Suddenly Susan realises that she can't tell him why with any certainty at all. And certainty is what's needed here, isn't it? Such a grave accusation. What she wants to tell him is that it's not the shape of the woman's nose or the colour of her eyes or the line of her jaw; that it's not the set of her mouth, or the sound of her voice; that it's not the hair or the jeans or the tatts or even the stud in the nose that matter. She wants to tell him that hands and feet and height and even bone structure don't mean much. That really, all these physical attributes don't seem to add up to anything. That it's just not so simple.

‘She's too short,' Susan says instead. ‘Karen was much taller than me. She was
tall.
'

‘Susy.' Even Ed looks slightly disgusted. ‘When you're eight everyone's much taller than you are.'

Howard consults his notes. ‘The woman's 161 cm,' he points out. ‘That's not something you can fake. It matches.'

‘But there's no saying that Karen didn't keep on growing, is there. Plenty of women keep growing well into their twenties.'

‘There are probably some women who do, Susan. But there are plenty more who don't. And then there's all the other physical indicators. Her eye colour, face shape, her nose and mouth – they're all within an acceptable range – and any differences are consistent with the ageing process.'

She tries again. ‘But you could make almost anyone fit within that range. She doesn't look anything like Karen. She's
too thin, for one thing. And she's too ... too hard-looking. Karen didn't have that pinched look.'

‘It's been twenty-odd years, Susan. And I don't believe she's had an easy life. People change.'

‘
It's not her.
People don't change that much. Karen could never have become that woman. I know.'

‘Is there any other reason, Susan? Have you got anything – more concrete?' He pulls up his sleeve, glances at his watch.

‘I just know it's not her.' She looks at Ed, but he's busy reading the menu.

‘Susan. Ed.' The solicitor's face is solemn. ‘I really can't find any legitimate reason to doubt this woman – physically it's more than possible that she's Karen, and as far as her knowledge about your family goes – well frankly Susan, I'd say she knows a fair bit more than you. You need to consider that if this goes to court it would be very expensive – things like this can go on for years. And they have been known to consume entire estates. I think you need to arrange another meeting with this woman. You have to talk to her.' He packs away his notes, motions to the waitress.

‘I don't want to meet her again,' Susan sounds childish even to herself.

‘You have to meet her again, Susan, either way. If this ends up going to court you'll have to be able to give some reason why – you'll have to be able to defend your position.'

She wants to tell him that it's not her position – that it's the position of her gut, her heart – and that those things are not (why should they be?),
not
easily defensible.

‘Listen,' Hamilton taps his pen rhythmically against the table, ‘how about we set up an interview, but with me present this time. Perhaps meeting on your own for the first time was a little confronting. Perhaps if I were to be there – a third party – I could – facilitate the conversation, so to speak. And mediate if necessary.'

‘Oh, I don't really think your presence'll be necessary, mate.' Ed blusters, ‘I'll be there next time.'

The solicitor looks uncertain. ‘I don't really know that that's a good idea, Ed,' his voice cautious, soothing. ‘Solicitors can be almost invisible – impartiality and all that ... We're used to these sorts of situations.'

‘But this is a family affair, and Susan may need my support. I don't see...'

‘Ed,' She sounds his name as firmly as she can, ‘Howard's right. You really don't need to be there.'

He goes to argue, pauses. Forces a smile. ‘Whatever you want, darling.' He picks up the menu again.

Susan makes a decision. ‘We'll try again tomorrow then. In your presence, Howard. Morning tea at my place. Ten-thirty.
You
can contact her.'

‘I don't know that your place is such a good idea.'

‘My place.' There is a principle involved here, though Susan's not quite sure what it is.

Hamilton purses his lips, sighs and shakes his head. Then breaks into a surprisingly boyish grin. ‘Okay then. Your place.'

Susan takes a deep breath, tries to smile back, is defeated by gravity.

That night she dreams she is back at college. She is sitting in a small lecture theatre, has written
Nursing 101: Human Anatomy
in large letters on her open foolscap notebook, is listening avidly. But the lecturer isn't the fussy little man she recalls – a dapper little doctor with a well-groomed goatee, famous for his garish bow ties – but the solicitor, Howard Hamilton, dressed bizarrely in a Pierrot costume, his face painted white, several large black waxy tears adorning his cheeks.

‘You will find the heart,' the Hamilton-clown lisps, in a high-pitched faux-French accent. ‘Right here.' He pulls
down a chart. ‘Beneath the ribs, between the lungs.' He taps on the diagram with a thin golden cane. ‘The blunt edge of the heart rests on the diaphragm, leaning a little to the left. The heart is not, as organs go, large: only five inches by three. Roughly the size of a fist.' He pauses, says conversationally, ‘You know, I've always thought it a pity that the vampire's most vulnerable organ isn't the kidney, say. Or even the lungs, the large intestine, the skin. With the heart, you see, there's such a wide margin for error. However,' he shuffles his papers together, glowers out over the podium, ‘by the time I've finished with you lot, you will all know precisely where the heart lies, will be able to drive that wooden stake, or shoot the required silver bullet, with one hundred per cent accuracy.' He pulls on the cord and the chart cracks back. ‘Right?'

The students begin to file out, but as Susan packs her books he beckons to her. She moves towards him reluctantly and he hands her something. It takes her a moment to recognise what it is he's offering: a miniature revolver, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, lies in the palm of his hand; three silver bullets resting beside it. ‘I think you might need these, Sukey,' he says, and now the clown is Ed, not Hamilton, ‘I think you might be needing these very soon.'

This is how she imagines it:

The woman (she will not, cannot commit to the intimacy of a name), the woman (and it is that same woman from the restaurant, only thinner, cheaper looking, harder) follows her into the kitchen. Her impractical high heels – or, no, scuffed elastic-sided boots – sound on the tiled floor. Howard Hamilton is already there, waiting. He stands, shakes her hand. He has already met her of course.

Or perhaps he hasn't arrived yet, the two women are alone. Just the two of them. Susan invites her guest to sit
down at the kitchen table, to take a seat. The woman sits. But doesn't she first ease out of her shiny leather jacket? Yes. She is wearing that same stained white t-shirt underneath. Or is it a black t-shirt this time? Yes. It's black and it's tight, and exposes her taut brown midriff. There's a silver ring in her bellybutton today, it catches the light. Or are there two rings, copper, slightly green-tinged? There's a metallic jangle as she hangs the coat over the back of her chair. Keys in her pocket? Or is it an uncapped needle and spoon? She leans back easily into the creaking leather – or straddles the chair between her thin denim-clad legs. Says:
Yes tea would be lovely, just what I need, such a lot of traffic. Milk and two sugars, please.
Says no to tea but would like coffee.
Black.
Would also like a whisky.
No water. No ice.
A silence (awkward?) while Susan boils the kettle, busies herself at the kitchen bench. Not silence but a strained conversation between the woman and Howard Hamilton about the weather (unseasonably wet, typically dreary?) or between the two women – about bus routes and ferry timetables and how far it is to the local mall and is the children's school nearby? And what are the little ones' names? And
fancy that, a nephew and niece and what about hubby? Can't wait to meet them all. Instant family.
No. The water boils loudly and nobody speaks. Safer.