Where Have You Been? (17 page)

He stays where he is. Wide awake now. Indignant. ‘Jesus, Suse, I really thought you'd be a bit more loyal to Carly. To your sister. You should be telling Anna where to get off, not agreeing with her.'

Susan says nothing. Rolls onto her side away from him.

‘She's your own flesh and blood, Suse. Your trust should be absolute, unconditional. The way you trust me.' He pauses for a moment, adds, ‘The way
I
trust her.'

‘She's not your flesh and blood, Ed,' Susan mutters. ‘She's not your sister.'

No, she's not his flesh and blood. Not his sister. As he slides down beside Susan and grapples with her rigid form, he thinks how glad he is that Carly is his sister-in-law and not his sister, thinks how useful he can be to her, psychologically that is, in his role as disinterested observer. How glad he is that he can champion her without challenging other allegiances, without the complications of a shared history, shared trauma.

He cups his wife's breasts from behind, presses his groin into her warmth, feels her loosen, respond, thinks how well such detachment suits him.

There are not words in his vocabulary, and not in the English language either, Ed suspects, to describe the overpowering emotion – a mixture of love and passion and responsibility and tenderness – that he felt when he first held his babies. And although the intensity of those first moments can never been repeated, the quality of his connection with the two children has never diminished. His feeling for Susan has, he is aware, changed over time: he loves her, this is not in doubt, indeed his love for her is probably far more profound than it was in the beginning of their relationship. Even if the once all-encompassing nature of their sexual communion has lessened over the years, this is only because they have reached a higher level; are connected forever by their shared creation. Still, he is not overwhelmed by feeling for her in the way that he once was (those long ago days when his heart would constrict whenever she entered the room, when countless hours were spent mentally undressing her). In any case Susan does not need that sort of adolescent devotion from him – she is strong, self-possessed, self-reliant, would probably find it irksome.

He wonders whether it is partly the knowledge of the children's vulnerability, their undeniable, unspoken need of him that secures, has in fact created – in a neat illustration of the principles of supply and demand – his particular emotional response. Wonders whether what he feels for Carly might not be a similar sensation – brought on by what he knows is her particular defencelessness and vulnerability, the insecurity and uncertainty of her position. Along with her almost unconditional trust in him. It's remarkable how a need can be so easily, so effortlessly and so pleasurably fulfilled. Remarkable how the need can so quickly become mutual. He wonders and marvels at the strangeness of human relationships.

He has never felt like this about his own sister.
Ed has never had a real female friend. In fact, there aren't that many women in his life. Oh, there's his sister, Pam, but she lives a thousand miles away – in central Queensland – and the five-year gap seems never to have closed. She is bossy and critical, and in her presence he is boorish, becomes as callow as she anticipates. There is Cathy, his brother Derek's wife, but with Cathy's interests currently not extending much further than her own ever-increasing brood (she and Derek have four children under six; and a fifth on the way) there's been little opportunity for them to develop any sort of a relationship. Then there are the women he works with: Moira; and the office girl Trudy, who comes in on Wednesdays and Fridays to file, dust and run errands. He also knows a number of female designers and architects, but none of these could be classified as friends; these relationships are only casual, far from intimate, or, in some cases, highly competitive, tinged with vague resentment. They're not friends. There's Susan, of course, but that's different. She's his wife.

But now there's Carly. Despite her official sister-in-law status, Ed has no qualms about thinking of her as a friend also. She displays all the characteristics of a friend. She is easy to talk to, is interested in his opinions, in him. Unlike Susan, who is always busy, always semi-distracted by the children, a meal to be made, an appointment to be kept, who seems always to be walking out just as he's walking in, Carly is available. He can talk to her about anything. Anything. She is familiar with the situation at work – the conflicts, the personalities – and on a few occasions has helped to devise strategies for Ed to deal with Derek, difficult clients, the odd recalcitrant employee. She is genuinely interested in the work he does. Never displays a blank face, or yawns, but interrogates him in her charming way, demands to know more, more, more. Wants to understand. She even – and he is careful here, there are all sorts of loyalties, all sorts of
boundaries that can't, that shouldn't, be crossed – listens to his concerns about Susan. And occasionally voices her own.

One night when they are the last up, are sitting at opposite ends of the couch watching television, Carly says, out of the blue: ‘You're worried about something, Ed, I can tell. You seem tense.'

‘Eh?' (Though now that she mentions it, Ed realises that the left side of his jaw is sore, that he has been grinding his back teeth, clamping down, clenching – always a sure sign of tension.)

‘There's something, Ed,' she insists, ‘something's really bothering you.'

‘No, really,' he gropes for an answer, gives up. ‘It's nothing.'

‘It's Susan isn't it?'

It's miraculous, the way she identifies his anxiety, knows what is wrong with him even before he has managed to articulate his concerns to himself. Susan. He shrugs, grimaces, gazes mesmerised as she moves up the seat towards him.

‘You mustn't worry, Ed. It's just a phase. All women go through it. It's to do with having children. A friend of mine said that for years after her kids were born she felt nothing for her husband. She hardly knew he was there. That she felt distanced from everyone. Really detached. It's not depression or anything, at least only of the mildest sort. It's nothing serious. She's not going to harm herself. Or the kids.'

Carly is right beside him now, pats his hand gently. ‘It's nothing to worry about, Ed. Just one of those things married men have to cope with.'

Ed believes he has read of this phenomena somewhere or other, a sort of common, low-grade, postnatal depression – but was unaware that Susan was experiencing such feelings. The children, after all, are hardly babies anymore. Thinking back, though, he must admit there have been occasions (more
and more frequent?) when Susan has seemed not only down, but switched off, unreachable. Until now he has put it down to a preoccupation with work, or the onset of her period, an influx of mysterious hormones, has offered only a minimal degree of support and sympathy, has indeed sometimes reacted impatiently. Has put it down to an inevitable increase in fractiousness, irritability, the taking-for-grantedness that characterises an enduring relationship like marriage. Has thought it a normal phase of married life. And no doubt this was the very worst reaction he could have had. The sort of a reaction that could only exacerbate any sort of depression.

He assumes that Susan has described her condition to her sister, feels sad momentarily that she has been unable to tell him herself. But really, overwhelmingly, he's simply grateful that she has a relationship with her sister now, an experienced, compassionate, older sister, a relationship that lacks all of the entrenched resentments of the past that he knows tend to bedevil most sibling relationships.

Carly is silently watching him, her hand still lightly covering his. He manages to dredge up a smile. ‘Thanks Carly.'

‘I shouldn't have told you. I just thought...' She bites her lip, looks away.

‘No. Oh, no,' Ed turns his hand upwards in hers, grips her fingers tightly, I appreciate you telling me, I really do. Now that I know about it I can try and be more helpful, careful. Find a solution, perhaps.'

‘Well, I've been thinking...' her voice suddenly hesitant, slightly shy.

‘What? Tell me.'

‘Oh. It's not really any of my business. I'm probably being a bit presumptuous...'

‘Carly. No. You could never be presumptuous.'

‘Well ... I've been thinking that maybe Susan's the tiniest bit ... bored. That maybe she could do with an extra day or so
of work. I've noticed that she's always far more cheerful, far more – alert – when she's had some time ... away.'

‘But...'

‘Wait,' she squeezes his hand. ‘I know you don't want the kids in childcare, you want them to be able to come home and all that – and they can. Remember I'm here now. I can pick them up from school. Help them with their homework. Get dinner ready. Whatever. And I'd be really pleased to be able to do something useful. To make it up to you both. To pay you back.'

Ed is moved, has to clear his throat before he speaks. ‘Oh, Carly. You don't have to pay us back. You're part of our family, now. It's our pleasure. Our privilege.'

At first she is unnerved by their trust. They have no doubts, none whatsoever, none that she can discern anyway. Whatever she says, whatever she tells them, is taken at face value, is believed. Whatever she says is valued. They never question what she does, either. They trust her; they value her.

This is a new experience. New and intoxicating.

She is pleased but puzzled by Ed's suggestion.

Susan has made this same suggestion several times over the past few years. The temping service that Anna runs generally has trouble filling afternoon shifts – which is the shift Susan already works, prefers to work – and Anna has been begging her to take on the extra work for years now, but Ed has always insisted that her one day a week was
sufficient, that they didn't really need the money. That the children needed her, their mother, available to them – the way his mother had been available to him. That the hours after school were probably the most important part of the day. That kids needed to unwind in a secure, loving environment. That they shouldn't have to spend long hours in institutional care. She mentions all this to him now, reminds him of his previous stance, surprised by his inexplicable about-face.

‘But the children are older,' he explains (this has never provided a justification before, age he had proclaimed, didn't matter – a sixteen-year-old was just as likely – more likely – to need to talk over the stresses of the day with a concerned and loving parent). ‘It's not so important that you're always around now. And it's different, I won't have to leave work early – Carly has offered to pick up the kids after school, to get dinner ready, whatever we need.

‘Anyway, I think it would do you good to get out of the house more,' he doesn't quite look at Susan when he says this, looks slightly off to one side. ‘You need to – to re-establish yourself in the world. Make sure you keep up your skills, learn new ones. And you'd meet new people – it'd cheer you up.'

‘What do you mean – cheer me up?'

She's perfectly cheered.

She phones Anna. Tells her she's available to work an additional evening a week.

‘What's going on, Sue?' Anna sounds suspicious. ‘I thought Ed was adamant about you only working that one day. Last I heard he was convinced that the children would become alienated, anorexic, self-mutilating delinquents if they were denied access to their mother for periods of more than an hour at a time?'

‘Oh, you know, we just...'

‘And who's looking after the infants, Sue? Don't tell me they're being allowed to mix with the socially-stunted, emotionally-deprived after-school care kids?'

‘Oh, shut up, Anna. He's not that bad. And I don't think that he really thinks they are deprived. The after-school care kids, I mean...'

‘Well, who's looking after them? Not Mamma Middleton? Or has Ed made the business more family-friendly – has he arranged to leave work early?'

‘No.'

‘Then who?'

‘Carly.'

‘Oh. Carly.'

There is a long silence.

Then: ‘Well, I can offer you a three-to-eleven at Delwood Private.' She's brisk and cheerful as always, but Susan can sense a wariness in Anna's voice, a withdrawal. ‘Every Wednesday. How's that?'

They are walking the children to school. It's an easy walk – only a few flat blocks – and for once they are well ahead of time, the pace is leisurely, unpanicked. Stella skips between Susan and Carly, swings her aunt's hand back and forth, chatting away to the two women about this and that, her conversation like a spurt from a little bubbler. Mitchell walks a fair distance behind, stops frequently to examine bits of bark, insects, rocks. Already his pockets are filling up.

Susan takes advantage of a brief lull in Stella's chatter. ‘Have you ever wanted kids, Carly?' It's another question she's been longing to ask.

Carly says nothing for a moment, then leans down and whispers something to Stella, who giggles and runs back to Mitchell.

‘Sorry,' Susan is embarrassed suddenly. ‘Maybe I shouldn't ask.' Although Carly hasn't said anything, and her expression gives nothing away, Susan knows she has somehow transgressed, that she has asked the wrong thing again. She resigns herself to a skilful deflection, an artless non-answer, but Carly surprises her.

‘No, that's okay. You just startled me – asking out of the blue like that.' She considers for a moment, then: ‘I guess I've never had the opportunity, Susy. No bloke whose gene pool I'd want to share.'

‘Oh, I guess it's not...'

She interrupts Susan's fumbling rejoinder: ‘And to be quite honest, Sue, they're a bit of a bore aren't they? Oh, I don't mean yours in particular, but kids in general. A bit of a drag. They get in the way of – of
real
life, I guess.'