Where Have You Been? (12 page)

Susan puts a plate of Tim Tams in the centre of the table. Or homemade patty cakes (with icing and sprinkles?), orange and poppy seed friands bought from the local deli. Pours coffee for the woman and tea for herself. Carries the cups, mugs, glasses to the table. Steady hands, no spills. Or does she leave a trail, her hands shaking? Takes the seat directly opposite. Pulls out the chair at the head of the table, Ed's chair, sits adjacent to the woman, who sips her tea delicately. Or blows noisily and slurps, dunks the Tim Tams, leaves a brown ring on the waxed table. Downs her whisky in one gulp. The two women drink in silence (what to say? where
to start, who will take the initiative?) then suddenly look up at the same time; their eyes meet.

In her imaginings it is at this point that the events are suddenly clear, without alternatives. It is at this point that the woman will sigh and get to her feet.
It's no good,
she'll say (and despite the deep, throaty reality, her voice will be high-pitched and plaintive, a little girl's voice),
I can't do it. I'm not your sister,
she'll say sorrowfully as she struggles back into her coat.
I'm sorry. It was the money,
she'll say as she sidles down the hallway,
I just needed the money. I'm truly sorry,
she'll say when Susan opens the door for her,
to have caused you all this trouble. All this pain. It was the money, you see. It was always the money. I'm not your sister. Your sister's dead.
And Susan will feel sad for the woman, not angry. She will feel sad for the woman but happy for herself. Will be infused with warmth and understanding. Will feel generous, even magnanimous. Full of pity for those whose sorry lives lead them down such paths.
I forgive you,
Susan will say, placing her hand on the woman's bowed shoulders.
I forgive you.

When the woman (not her sister, never her sister, how could she be? Karen's dead. Dead) has finally gone (and Susan stands watching her shuffle sadly along the street, watches until she's out of sight), she will lean heavily against the closed door for a moment and then head straight for the fridge. Will pour herself a glass of wine and down it in one gulp. Will pour another.

That would have been so much simpler. Upsetting, perhaps, for a short time, but later, a story to eat out on. A story guaranteed to elicit gasps of disbelief, maybe even a few laughs. But nothing that would upset the course of their neat and tidy, their
simple
lives, nothing to scar the psyche. Not an event that would have changed anything. (Oh, maybe Susan would have drunk a bit too much that night, cried a little, been comforted, supported by Ed in his textbook way;
maybe they'd have made love, with Susan too drunk to really enjoy it, and Ed guilty in his pleasure, concerned that perhaps he'd taken advantage.) But the overwhelming reaction would have been of relief. Oh, not just about the money, but the lack of complication. The lack of change.

Anyway, it's a nice scenario. Neat. Karen stays dead. Life goes on much as it did before. Nothing changes. End of story.

But Susan knows that life never happens the way we imagine. The way we plan.

It is the woman from the restaurant, but she is dressed differently this time, is hardly recognisable. She wears a tailored skirt and jacket, and her hair has been cut tidily. Her make-up is conservative, her lips coloured, but barely. For a moment Susan wonders whether she is the same woman. But when she speaks, her voice low, slightly tentative, she knows. ‘Susan?' This is all she says, but this is all she has to say. It is that same low smoky voice from the phone. From their brief meeting. ‘Susan?' Unmistakable.

‘Hello,' Susan's voice is shrill, jagged, edgy. ‘Come in.' She doesn't wait for the woman to enter, but turns and walks back up the hall. There is the click of the closing door, then the soft tap-tapping of footsteps behind her. By the time the footsteps reach the kitchen Susan has her back to the door, is standing at the sink filling the kettle.

‘Coffee?' she asks without turning, without looking at her guest. ‘Or tea?'

‘Coffee,' the woman says. ‘Thanks.' Susan hears the scrape of a chair, a faint rustle and a sigh as she is seated. ‘Nice place you've got here.' Susan says nothing, spoons instant coffee into earthenware mugs, waits for the water to boil. The woman tries again. ‘Good position too. Lots of light. You'd never find this kind of thing where I'm living.'

‘Milk?' Susan asks. ‘Sugar?'

She places a cup in front of the woman, carefully angling her head so as not to look at her. Not to meet her eyes. Susan takes the seat at the end of the table, as far away as possible, stares into her cup. There are things she wants to say, needs to say, things that must be said, but somehow she is frozen, speechless, voiceless. The coffee, she knows, would give her some courage, some heat, but her hand, both her hands, have begun to tremble, and she doesn't dare lift the cup. She wishes desperately for the presence of somebody, of anybody else. Hopes that Howard Hamilton will arrive early, but has no doubt that he'll be punctual. ‘Half an hour,' he'd said. ‘I'll give you half an hour alone. That should give you time to break the ice. Sort things out a little.' Obviously trying to avoid the anticipated emotional scene. Tears, recriminations. He needn't have worried. Susan is paralysed.

Finally it is the woman who breaks the icy silence.

‘I realise that this must be really shocking for you, Susan. Mr Hamilton told me that you'd always thought I was dead. I'm sorry if I'm disrupting your life,' her deep voice is measured, calm, confident. She doesn't sound sorry. ‘But I
am
Karen. I am your sister.' She pauses, as if expecting a response, but Susan is still incapable of speech, cannot even lift her head.

‘Susan? Please. This is hard for me too. Please,' there is a slight break in her gravelly voice. Then somehow she is right there, kneeling by Susan's chair. ‘Sukey,' she says softly, and the woman's arms are around her, surprisingly strong. Susan is rigid, unresponsive. ‘Sukey,' the woman gives Susan the slightest shake, ‘It's okay. It'll be okay. I promise. Sukey?'

What happens next is the stuff of daytime soaps, of melodrama. Weeping, laughter, protestations of disbelief, of delight. Nothing that can be recalled without simultaneously sniffing and wincing. By the time Howard Hamilton
arrives – half an hour, maybe an hour late – who cares? Who remembers? Anyway, he has timed it well, clever man that he is, the champagne is flowing and Susan has a sister again.

A sister.

Susan calls just as he's preparing his monthly ‘Recent Achievements, Future Goals' presentation to the staff.

‘It's her,' she says gaily. ‘It's Karen.' Just like that. No introduction, no gradual admission, not even a greeting.

He is astonished by her change of heart, amazed that after own determination to end the charade, that Susan's decided all she's said of her certainty about the woman's imposture, her that yes, indeed this woman
is
her sister, no doubt about it. He is bewildered by her obvious elation too – Ed would have sworn that her sister's possible return had not excited her in the least. That she had in fact rather dreaded it. And he is somewhat annoyed that she has chosen to give him such momentous news over the phone. Susan knows how this puts him out. Today of all days.

‘It's her,' she says again. ‘It's Karen.'

‘What do you mean it's her, Susan? We've just been up half the night discussing the fact that it's not her, and what you're going to do about it.' Ed's head is aching, his limbs are heavy from lack of sleep. He has had to send Moira, his personal assistant, out for drops for his bloodshot eyes. His tongue is thick. He likes to get at least nine hours' sleep the night before a presentation. But the matter was pressing, and a resolution wasn't arrived at until the early hours (three, four o'clock). A reaction, practically a speech, was prepared, rehearsed. ‘We've just been up half the night working out how to get rid of this bloody woman and now you're telling
me it's her?' He can hear his voice rise, feel his heart pound. ‘What's going on, Susan?'

‘I'm sorry, Edward. Sorry to bother you. But I thought you'd want to know.' Susan's voice is flat now, steely, cold. The elation gone.

‘Oh, Christ.' He doesn't know what else to say. Runs his hand over his face. Sits down. Says wearily: ‘So what next? If it's her.'

‘It
is
her, Ed. I'm certain of it.'

‘Oh Christ.'

‘Look, I have to go. Howard's leaving – I'd better see him out.'

‘Susy?'

‘Yes,' impatient now.

‘It's really her? Really your sister?'

‘It really is.'

Ed's presentation goes badly. He stumbles over figures, forgets the pertinence of particular points, is unable to answer several (
simple! simple!)
questions put to him by Derek. Even the overheads refuse to focus. He tries not to notice Moira's raised eyebrows, the soft snigger of the foreman as he leaves the room, but it's impossible to ignore.

He leaves work early that afternoon. He goes straight home.

He can hear their voices from the hallway. Susan's, light, familiar tones; then another female, but lower, darker. Unknown. There is the sound of laughter. The unmistakable smell of cigarette smoke wafts along the corridor. He guesses that one of Susan's friends is visiting, is staying for coffee, and he is annoyed. (Why today of all days? And why are they smoking inside?) He pokes his head through the kitchen door, intending only to give the briefest of hello's, then take himself off somewhere (the beach, the pub) to think. But when he looks into the kitchen it's not his wife he first sees.
It's another woman. A woman he doesn't know. And it takes him a moment (one second? two?) to realise that this is
the
woman. (He had imagined a girl. A schoolgirl.) His wife's sister. Karen.

Karen is perched on a stool in front of her dressing table (pale veneer, kidney shaped, once their mother's) applying make-up. She's getting ready to go out: a party, a dance. Susan sits very still on the bed behind her, watching her sister's reflection in the mirror. Karen expertly traces a heavy blue line around her eyes. Her mouth is open just a little, the tip of her tongue flickers occasionally at one side of her mouth. Susan follows the path of the pencil in the mirror. Her jaw slackens, mouth opens. Her sister pauses, grins at Susan's reflection. ‘You'll catch flies, Sukey,' she says, ‘if you don't watch out.'

It's the kind of story the women's magazines love.

Imagine the headlines:

Sisters reunited: Mystery disappearance solved after twenty years!

Or:

One woman's joy: ‘They told me that my sister was dead!'

And then the photographs: the two women dressed in their best casual clothes (a little too tight, a little too new); their faces made up, hair carefully styled; embracing stiffly; smiling uncomfortably, unnaturally for the camera.

And then to predict the story's slant, that's simple, too: first the details of the disappearance (more photos – unfocused family snaps; freckly, gap-toothed school portraits) followed by the years of fear and grief and resignation. And then (only two paragraphs later) the prodigal's return – the surprise, the joy, the catching up, the memories, the lives finally shared.

And best of all, in conclusion, the ultimate happy ending: the anticipation of a continuing relationship.
‘She's like my best friend already,' says one sister. ‘It's as if she's never been away, as if I've known her forever.'

‘It's fantastic,' responds the other, ‘the way she's accepted me, taken me in, made me a part of her family.' Then, squeezing her sister's hand for emphasis: ‘I won't be going anywhere. Not for a long time. Not ever.'

Leave it at that and you have a good solid story that will leave readers feeling pleasantly teary, agreeably moved. As if they've got their money's worth.

Just as long as they don't wonder too much about the detail, the bits left out, the story that lies between the lines. What happens next.

Especially what happens next.

It's best to keep these stories simple.

She's late for lunch.

The barbecue was Ed's idea. ‘You really need to have some sort of welcome for her, Suse. Not too formal – but still some sort of proper acknowledgement of her return. It's such an odd situation, surely it'll help to have some sort of occasion to ease her ... to ease you both back in?'

A barbecue is not Susan's idea of ease – she'd much prefer to start with quiet informal get-togethers – morning tea, lunch, family dinners, even a walk along the beach, a swim, but she knows there's no point in arguing, after all, it won't hurt too much. Ed's always been big on ceremonies: before they'd married she'd seriously suggested that they just elope, cut out all the fuss and bother, have a party later, but Ed had been shocked, had insisted that they have a more or less traditional wedding,
that it was necessary to mark the day, to declare their love, their new allegiance, publicly, and Susan had reluctantly agreed. Then, when first Mitchell and later Stella were born, Ed had insisted on holding naming days for both children (Susan had baulked at the Presbyterian christening ceremony his mother had eagerly anticipated). He'd invited all his family, his friends and most of the Middleton employees to a huge spread (served by caterers), had supplied champagne, several kegs, organised and made speeches, the whole shebang, and though neither of the children had really appreciated their earthly welcome (being at that stage of life either asleep or attached to their mother's breast), Ed had had a wonderful time.

Ed always has a wonderful time on such occasions. He loves parties. At social gatherings – especially his own – he is often to be found at the centre of a small group, maybe two or three friends or colleagues, holding forth on subjects dear to his heart. These are many and endlessly changeable and Susan knows them well, having been privy to their evolution: the place of men in a post-feminist world; fatherhood and family; rising property values on the lower north shore and the impact of this on the middle classes; the value of public education to society as a whole...

His ideas on all these topics have developed through long wine-fuelled sessions into what is almost a sermon, so detailed and logically structured is the ineluctable half-hour (give or take a few minutes) disquisition. Ed likes to lean when he talks, so he can usually be found with his hip pressed into the barbie, or casually, easily, one leg crooked against a tree. But this casualness is treacherous, even the experienced are deceived into thinking a quick chat about a more trivial this-and-that might be possible. The inexperienced nod and snort and make polite efforts to end the conversation, those who know Ed well resign themselves, assume an interested expression, grit their teeth and endure.

He wears himself out; rather like a child at a birthday party. Susan knows that at the end of most gatherings she's quite likely to find Ed asleep somewhere – never drunk, but exhausted – on a couch or in a quiet corner, snoring softly.

So Susan bows to the inevitable and arranges a Sunday afternoon barbecue. No big deal, she tells her bemused sister over the phone. ‘Just a casual thing, meat, salad, bring a friend if you want, say around twelve o'clock, even earlier if you like. If you've got nothing better to do.'

‘Yeah, okay,' Carly laughs, ‘I don't have a friend handy, but I'll bring a bottle of something will I? You do drink don't you?'

But on the day, two o'clock comes and still the guest of honour hasn't arrived. Susan's had the salads out, the table set, the potatoes in the oven for hours; the kids are whinging – they're starving, though they've eaten bowls of nuts and crisps, hacked into the cheeses. Ed's whining too. He drove in early to the fish markets, brought back mussels, salmon cutlets, kilos of prawns; he has his chef's apron on and fired up the barbie. Despite Susan's best efforts to distract him (she has kept him well supplied with drinks and nibblies and soothing conversation) Ed is getting edgy: his cheeks have a slight pink tinge, his expression is taking on a particular and familiar set (righteous? disapproving?); he pulls at his shirt cuffs, mutters about consideration and respect (how difficult is it to make a phone call?); threatens to start without her. Susan, bolstered by their recent meeting and the bottle of champagne she has already consumed, feels light, unworried, indifferent. Her sister will turn up – she's sure of it.

Ed had wanted to invite a few other people – his parents, Anna and her husband Tom, Derek and his wife Cathy – but luckily, as it turns out, Susan had managed to talk him out of it. (
Think of Karen ... Carly, she's barely even met me, and you want to expose her to the entire family menagerie!
) Susan's one exception
had been the solicitor, she'd invited Howard Hamilton on impulse – though now she's really not sure why. He did have a previous engagement, he'd apologised, but he'd be nearby, so would call over in the late afternoon.

Karen, Carly (to call her Carly seems awkward, but no more awkward than Karen) does turn up, of course, but it's close to three and she makes no mention of her lateness, no excuse and no apology (Oh, how Susan envies such casual – or is it studied? – carelessness), just brushes Susan's cheek with her own and hands her a bottle, then advances on Ed (who is simmering by the barbecue) her hand outstretched, her smile wide. Susan can't hear exactly what she says to him, but she can see Carly's friendly handshake, her large gestures, the gradual lightening of Ed's face, his eventual unchecked smile.

She is pleased by Ed's almost immediate capitulation to Carly. (
She's a great girl, Susy,
he whispers to her in the kitchen later,
a terrific girl!
) After his initial brief meeting with her he'd seemed doubtful
(for some reason she reminds me of my kindy teacher,
he'd confessed,
a bit stitched up, slightly scary)
and it seems to her utterly right – both desirable and appropriate – that Ed should be so charmed. After all, Susan observes in her suddenly sentimental state, there's no doubt that her sister has set out to be, and is, remarkably charming. Oh, it's not the sort of charm that manifests in the painfully obsequious and ingratiating behaviour that Susan remembers thinking constituted womanly good manners
(oh, what a wonderful room/baby/lunch; do let me help you make that/carry those/clean this)
and that she now knows is gush, though she occasionally (and somewhat shamefully) succumbs involuntarily to her early instincts. No, Carly's is a far more sophisticated appeal. Ever-so-slightly offhand; subtle and insinuating.

Susan has always considered herself reasonably attractive (a pretty enough girl, and she's worked hard, hasn't let herself go), but she feels herself dowdy, almost matronly beside Carly.
Everything Carly does – the clothes she's wearing (she's less conservative today: not quite the same look as their first disastrous meeting at the restaurant – though it's a similar style. Today she's dressed all in black: jeans, t-shirt, boots, everything's tight and vaguely worn, it's probably op shop, and not at all the sort of thing that Susan would ever wear, but on her, on Carly, it's right); the way she walks (head down, all her movements unhurried, loose, graceful); the way her streaky hair, fashionably untidy, falls across her face (only to be ignored); the way she involves herself physically when she listens – stretching her long neck forward – all this seems to Susan to be just right. And somehow enviable.

Then there's her talent for conversation or, to be more precise, her flair for encouraging conversation, for asking the right questions – though none of this, Susan notices, is directed at her. She had hoped for some moments alone with her sister, had imagined another cosy tete-a-tete in the kitchen, or some comfortably banal chitchat about this and that, would even have been satisfied with time spent in companionable silence, but Carly seems to be avoiding all such contact. Instead she has played totem tennis with Stella and Mitchell – who are immediately won over by her unexpected clumsiness – and then acted as Ed's barbecue assistant, standing by his side, ready with the tongs, taking charge of the caramelised onions, the mussels. When they finally eat – and it's past four by that time – Susan finds herself sitting at one end of the rectangular table, leaving Carly and Ed opposite one another in the middle, the children having willingly agreed to eat inside, in front of the television. Susan, who is well into her second bottle now, pleasantly sozzled and really beyond playing the good hostess, is also beyond conversation, is content to listen as she eats. She feels weepy, uncharacteristically sentimental, feels strangely privileged to witness her husband and new sister's undeniable rapport.

Says Carly (her plate pushed to one side now, her chin propped casually on clasped hands):

‘So you have your own business, Ed? The kitchen industry? It's always appealed to me – the thought of having my own business, but then I guess it appeals to most people. Not being beholden, not relying on others. Being your own master, more or less. But I guess it's like any job – the glamour eventually wears off?'

Says Ed (leaning forward, mirroring her posture, his expression earnest, thoughtful):

‘Well no, actually. Personally, well for me anyway, the glamour – the excitement – never wears off. I don't think it's the job, necessarily, I know that plenty of blokes who're in a similar situation get pretty fed up and bored with the whole thing. But I don't really ever get bored: my gran always used to say that only boring people get bored, and I reckon there's some truth in that. That's my attitude to life in general. Sometimes, when things get
too
easy, you might have to create your own challenges. You've got to always set goals for yourself, to try to extend your possibilities, to reach for something that's slightly beyond your capacity ... It's like exercise, isn't it? When it stops hurting you have to go further, harder, faster...

Says Carly (with an admiring shake of the head, a respectful tilt to her lips):

‘I can't imagine how you've managed to do all that and have kids as well. It's not that I don't like kids, but how do you find time to have any sort of
life?
'

Says Ed (leaning back, stretching, smiling benignly):

‘Quality time. That's our secret, isn't it Suse? (Susan smiles, nods, pours herself more champagne, breaks open the last mussel.) My father, for instance, was real old-school. You know, home from work at five-thirty, sit down and read the paper,
leave your father alone boys, he's had a hard day.
He gave us the odd belting, made us help him out in the garden on the weekend, cleaning bricks, burning off. Then we were working at the factory when we got older: cleaning, edging, stacking. I grew up not knowing him, and him not knowing me. Not as a person. We didn't have a real relationship, couldn't communicate, could never really talk about the things that matter. Our relationship's only really improved since I joined the business – he's been more or less forced to communicate in a meaningful way – we've had to talk, had to get to know one another. But it's taken more than thirty years to get here...

‘Now, me and my kids, my family, it's different. Susy's home most days and the one day that she works I leave work early, so the kids are always straight home after school, and always one parent available. And then most other days I'm home early enough to help Mitchell with his homework, to read to them before bed, tell them about my day, explain that I'm working hard for
them
as well. For their future. The weekends are their time. I take them both to the beach on Saturday mornings, when it's warm enough. They paddle, play in the sand. Then maybe we'll see a movie, go out to lunch – McDonald's, Pizza Hut, a cafe down in Manly, wherever. Have a quiet sit down and a good talk. Find out how they really feel about things – it's important, you know, to get below the surface of things. That's what parenting's all about. It's not just about being there, is it Suse? It's about making that time count, every minute of it, making it really count. Establishing a close relationship ... Quality time. That's what makes a strong family unit.'