Where Have You Been? (23 page)

‘Aunty Di,' Susan starts, ‘I'm sure Carly had...'

‘And that stuff about the red dress. Rot. Utter rot. Never wore red in my life, was always told it would clash with my hair.' She frowns, gives her stiff, grey curls an absent pat.

‘But Aunty Di...' She tries again.

‘No, no, enough of that.' She's beaming again. ‘You enjoy having your sister back deary.' She lets go of Susan's wrist and taps the driver on the shoulder. ‘But don't trust her. Not as far as you can throw her.'

It is remarkable to him, a thing of wonder and mystery, genetics.

Ed marvels at the way his daughter's tiny hand carries the shape of his own – larger, coarser, certainly, but still recognisable. Or his son's eyes which seem (somewhat dauntingly) to contain Ed's own mother's expression at certain moments. Lately, Ed has caught glimpses of his father (whose face is plumper, less defined than his own – or so he'd always thought) staring back at him from the bathroom mirror.

He likes to imagine the endless chains of DNA connecting him backwards and forwards in time and, on bad nights (when he wakes up, heart pounding and soaked from some black dream of death), this image of connection never fails to give him some comfort. Now Ed is certain that he can see similarities between the two sisters.

‘There's a sort of family resemblance,' he says, looking from one to the other during dinner. ‘Nothing specific – not eyes, or nose, or mouth, or hair or bodies. It's hard to say what exactly. But there's something. And I can see Carly in Stell, too,' he says.

‘In Stella?' Susan looks dubious, and he knows that she's only thinking of the most obvious elements of their daughter's appearance. Stella is dark-haired, dark-skinned. Short but round, sturdy. A cherub. Her features are small and contained and solemn.

But Carly takes him seriously, the way she always does, pauses in her eating, looks over at Stella thoughtfully. Stella slurps her spaghetti, heedless of their regard. ‘I guess,' Carly says, ‘I was little and stocky like that as a kid, but that's the only thing I can see.'

Ed is disappointed that Carly doesn't recognise – and he was so sure she would – the body part that she shares with his daughter. With their hair pushed back it seems unmistakable. Both his daughter and his new sister-in-law have funny little close-set ears. He cannot point it out himself, it seems too intimate, suddenly, that whorled and
curling part, that soft pale space above, tender skin behind. He shrugs, agrees.

‘Yeah, that must be it.' Carly smiles, resumes eating, but Susan is gazing at him, frowning, and he blushes, though he doesn't know why.

‘No you weren't.' It takes Ed a moment to realise that Susan is addressing Carly, not him. ‘You weren't at all stocky as a kid,' she says. ‘Neither of us were. I've got photos of you and you were like me. Skinny. Bony. The kids are both like Ed physically. Nothing like us.'

Carly shrugs. ‘Memory's a strange thing,' she says casually. ‘Especially mine.' She laughs suddenly (oh how he enjoys her sudden bursts of merriment). ‘And people's ideas about resemblances can be vee-rrry strange. Like today, what Aunt Di said about Ed and Hugh Grant. Will you tell him or should I, Suse?'

Both women are chuckling now, look first at one another and then at him, laugh again. The children are smiling expectantly, only too willing to join in.

‘What is it? What's so amusing?'

Now, with the full force of their combined humour directed at him he can feel their similarity strongly, even if he can't see it. He enjoys the sensation, feels warmed by their affection for one another, for him, waits for them to share the joke, laughs along with them without knowing why.

Later, Ed studies a photograph of Hugh Grant taken from a magazine, inspects his own face in the bathroom mirror, searches for the resemblance. After all, Susan's Aunt Di has recognised it – has thought it worth commenting on. And, though both Susan and Carly clearly regard it as a hilarious comparison, completely undeserved, he cannot get it out of his head that there must be something significant in his appearance, something – a look, an attitude – that he shares with the infamous philanderer.

He looks at the magazine image again, and then at himself. Surely not. Ed imagines that he can actually see the weakness in Grant, that he can read it in his face – the way he has sometimes imagined a sign of approaching mortality in photographs of those who died tragically young. The actor's mouth is soft, loose, slightly petulant, his expression vaguely shifty, his chin lacking definition. Ed's jaw is square, his lips full and firm, his hair thick and springy, his eyes clear, set well apart. There is no resemblance, none at all. She's confused him with somebody else, surely.

You say you want to know about my life? About what I've done, where I've been, who I am? I say you don't. I say you don't need to know. I say you can't know.

Look at this – look at you – at your world. It's a world I know about. A world we all know about. Tree-lined streets, picket fences, happy children riding their bicycles up and down well-kept footpaths. Wall-to-wall carpets. Air-conditioned cars. Summer holidays. Happy marriages. Baked dinners. Stories before bed. Flowerbeds and cocker spaniels. Wholesome breakfasts. Burglar alarms. Nutritious packed lunches. Ensuites and built-ins. Please and thank you. The smell of jasmine. The buzz of lawnmowers on long weekends. Piano lessons. Remote-controlled garage doors. Fire insurance, car insurance, life insurance, insurance insurance. Chats over the back fence. Library books. A glass of red with dinner. The whites washed separately. Plastic bag–lined garbage bins.

That's the main thing, isn't it? – all the garbage is put in plastic bags here – that way you can't see it, can't smell it, don't have to think about it. All that mucky stuff. Just seal it up and someone else will take it away.

But you don't know, do you? You don't actually know where the garbage goes.

That's the difference, you see. The difference between us. I know. I know what happens to the garbage after you tidy it away.

The young real estate agent rings to let her know that he has an interested client. That a young couple have taken a contract and he's confident they'll be collecting the deposit in the next few days. Susan comments on the speed of the sale – the house has been on the market for less than a month.

‘I reckon you could've asked for more, Mrs Middleton. For another, say, sixty-five grand, and you'd still have sold it, no worries. It was a bit of a bargain, y'know. And then if you'd sold it at auction...' he adds regretfully.

He tells her he can organise the rest of the business with their solicitor. There'll probably be some documents to sign, the contracts and so on, but he's pretty sure that the lawyer has power of attorney anyway.

‘That's right,' says Susan. ‘I probably don't have to really be involved.'

‘Yeah. I probably should have rung him first, but I just thought you'd like to know...'

‘I'm grateful. Thank you.'

There's a lengthy pause.

‘Well, thanks.' She wonders what he's waiting for. ‘You've done a great job. We're really pleased...'

‘Look,' he interrupts, ‘it's probably none of my business, but you said that was your sister, right? That woman who was with you when you went through the house?'

‘Ye-es...'

‘Well, you know how you said she's just moved here from Melbourne?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, I'm certain that I saw her in Sydney, not so long ago. Maybe – oh – around three months ago.'

‘Well, perhaps she was here ... She just hasn't mentioned it. I'll ask her if you like. Where did you see her?'

‘No, no. I don't want you to tell her.' He sounds panicked. ‘Look, this is kind of awkward.'

‘What is?' Susan is nonplussed, has no idea where the conversation is heading.

‘Well, it was at this bucks night. We'd organised this – um – this girl for my mate.' He clears his throat. ‘A girl for the night. You know what I mean.' His extreme embarrassment is obvious, even over the phone.

‘A girl?' Suddenly she understands. ‘Oh. That sort of girl.'

‘It was a high class kind of escort agency. Expensive.'

‘What's that got to do with my sister?' Susan is in a hurry, is getting ready for work, and is really not in the mood for confidences from total strangers.

‘That's the thing, you see. I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's probably not important. None of my business. But the girl ... we took a few photos, just so he would remember, you know, the experience. And I checked them after I met you both that day.'

‘And?'

‘Well, it's her. Your sister.'

‘Who is? I don't understand what you're trying to tell me...'

She can hear him take a breath. ‘The girl we hired for the night. It was her. It was your sister.'

‘My sister? I think you must be mistaken ... People can look so different in an photo, you know. My sister's never...' she trails off, can't finish the sentence.

‘No look, I'm sorry. It wasn't just the photo. I recognised her, and I'm pretty sure she recognised me too. You see I'm certain of it – I couldn't really get it wrong if you know what I mean...' he clears his throat again.

‘Well, no I don't know. I'm sure you could ... get it wrong. After all the – the girl was for your mate ... I don't suppose you really saw her for that long?' Susan's voice is tiny, the frightened squeak of a hunted mouse.

‘The thing is ... I did. I mean my mate, the groom, he didn't want to, he wouldn't ... Anyway, we'd paid for her, couldn't get our money back.' He takes a deep breath. ‘So, in the end we drew straws. And it was me. I won. Look, I don't want you to think badly of me – I don't have a girlfriend or a wife or anything. I wasn't cheating on anyone, and we'd paid our dough, it was only fair...'

He pauses, obviously waiting for Susan to say something, to excuse him, perhaps, but there's nothing she can say.

‘So I couldn't really mistake her could I? It'd be hard to mistake someone you've been so – so intimate with.' His voice seems a little louder, more confident, slightly belligerent, she can imagine his chest swelling a little. ‘In fact, you could say I know your sister pretty intimately.' He adds darkly, ‘Better'n some, anyway.'

‘Well, um. I guess I should thank you for that information.' She's polite as she can manage, ‘So thanks very much.'

‘Yeah, but that's not the only thing. There's more.'

‘More?'

‘The thing is – she took off with my wallet. I'd just had a big win on the pokies, and there was more than a
thousand bucks cash in it ... and all my credit cards. I rang the agency when I realised, but she'd done a runner that night. She'd been using a false name anyway, so there was no way of catching up with her.' He sounds almost apologetic.

Susan can think of no way of answering this, ponders hanging up.

‘Anyway,' he says briskly, ‘the whole thing's pretty seedy, I guess, and I'm not going to rake things up, go to the police or anything, but I thought you probably ought to know, having kids and all that. Just thought I ought to warn you. You never know, with people like that, do you? Where they'll take you? What they'll do.'

Susan's not sure what to do with this information. One minute she thinks it could be true, the whole squalid scenario, the next that it's impossible, the most outrageous libel, that she should contact someone – the man's boss, the real estate commission or whatever organisation keeps these people under control; even the police. But then, what if it is true, what then? So she keeps it to herself, doesn't mention it to Ed, certainly doesn't mention it to Carly. But she tells them about the possible sale, later that evening. Watches Carly's face carefully when she passes on the young real estate agent's certainty that they could have got a little more.

‘I wouldn't listen to that little sleaze,' she says dismissively, ‘Doubt he knows what day of the week it is. He doesn't have a clue.'

‘Oh,' Susan keeps her voice even, casual, her expression deadpan. ‘I thought he seemed pretty smart. And cute. I don't know why you think he's a sleaze...'

Her sister snorts. ‘No. I guess you wouldn't, Susan. Why would you?'

Moira puts a call through to him. ‘It's your sister-in-law,' she says.

He wonders why Cathy is ringing him, worries that something may have happened to Derek, or perhaps his parents, then wonders how she would know before him anyway.

‘Ed.' It takes him a moment to realise that it's Carly – they've never spoken over the phone – but her voice is unmistakable, that husky burr. His own voice deepens in response.

‘Carly. Hi. How're...'

‘Ed, look I'm really sorry, but Stella's broken her arm. She fell off a slippery slide at the park. We're at the hospital – Manly. In Casualty.' She's suddenly breathy, anxious.

‘Oh, shit.'

‘I think you'd better get down here now. They're talking about surgery. I've rung Anna, but she hasn't been able to get hold of Susan yet.'

‘Oh, shit.' Ed has a meeting scheduled at four-fifteen and the client is travelling all the way from Penrith. It's too late to put him off.

‘Ed?'

‘Sorry, Carly. I'll be there. Fast as I can. Fifteen minutes, thirty maybe. Depends on the traffic.' Almost an afterthought: ‘Is it a bad break? Is Stella okay?'

He grabs his coat, his briefcase, tells Moira the news on his way out.

‘Go,' she says, shooing him out the door. ‘Go. And don't worry, this guy's got a mobile, it'll be fine. Hurry, she'll be needing you.'

He hurries out to his car, checks himself in the sun visor mirror. Pats at his hair, straightens his tie. He tells himself that it's his anxiety about his daughter's broken arm, that it's
the overwhelming fact of the thought of his daughter, his baby, broken, in pain, in danger, that and nothing else, that is making his heart pound, his breath come faster. She'll be needing him.

He reverses too fast out of the factory driveway, has to swerve to avoid an oncoming truck.

The poor little thing – she'll be needing him.

It is after seven before they manage to contact Susan, and by the time she arrives at the hospital Stella is already out of surgery, in recovery. Stella's ulna had dislocated and her radius has fractured badly enough to warrant a plate. It's hard to get any clear idea as to what actually happened – Carly has taken Mitchell to Ed's parents for the night – and Ed is vague, isn't quite sure.

‘Carly said she fell off the slippery dip, I think. But Mitch said it was the fireman's pole.' The surgeon has recommended an overnight stay.

‘I'll stay with her,' Susan tells Ed as they wait outside recovery for Stella to regain consciousness. ‘She'll only need one of us.'

‘Perhaps it should be me,' he says half-heartedly. ‘You stayed over when Mitch had gastro. I guess it's my turn.'

‘Ed. Go home. Honestly. What good would you be? I'm a nurse remember.'

‘Well, I should at least wait until she's out of recovery. What if...?'

‘Go now. She'll be fine.'

‘Really?' He sounds doubtful, but is obviously relieved, eager to be gone.

‘Really.'

‘Should I bring you anything? Change of clothes, a book, toothpaste, pyjamas? Food?'

‘Nothing. I've already eaten. And I can just sleep in what I'm wearing. Just go home and relax.'

He hugs her briefly, hurries away.

When Stella's wheeled back to the childrens ward Susan hovers nervously over her daughter, listens to her drugged mutterings, watches closely as she drifts in and out of consciousness. Though she has downplayed her concerns to Ed, she is worried (how could she not be?), is particularly anxious about the effects of morphine on Stella's infant system. She checks her daughter's oxygen levels, her pulse, her pinprick pupils, every few minutes. She has never seen it happen, but knows that seriously adverse reactions are always a possibility with young children. Eventually the exasperated charge sister unplugs the monitor and takes it away.

‘You have to let her sleep, Mrs Middleton. She's fine, everything's perfectly normal. We'll check on her every half-hour. That's really all that's required. Now, why don't you try and get some rest.'

‘Mummy?
Muummmeee?
'

Susan's by her bedside immediately. ‘I'm here, darling. You're okay. Mummy's here.'

Stella clutches Susan's wrist with her good hand. ‘Mummy?'

‘Here, sweetheart. I'm here.' Susan brushes a stray hair back from her face. Stella's skin is pale, clammy.

‘Mummy. I wish I didn't.'

‘Didn't what, darling? What did you do?'

‘Why can't you change it, Mummy?' Her voice is light, dreamy. ‘One minute everything's normal and then it's not and you can't change it. Why can't you go back to before? Before was better. If I could just go back to before I wouldn't
have to be here.' She closes her eyes wearily, but tears squeeze beneath the lids, and slide down her cheeks.

Susan says nothing, wipes her daughter's face gently with a tissue.

Stella's breathing slows, deepens. ‘It's not fair,' she whispers, ‘not fair.'

It isn't fair, thinks Susan, Stella's right: there should be some way to get back to before.

Ed can't sleep. He is worried about Stella, is feeling slightly guilty about Susan having to stay overnight at the hospital. Guilty too, about leaving Mitchell with his mother, whose reluctance was evident even over the telephone.

‘You'll have to pick him up early tomorrow, Edward. Before seven. I've got a busy day. I do have a life, you know.'

His awareness of Carly in the bedroom across the hall only increases his anxiety. They have never really been alone in the house together. Not without the children, and not all night. He's uncomfortable, tries moving from his side to his back. Turns over and pushes his face into the pillow. Looks at the clock. Three thirty-four. Moans. It's no good, he can't sleep.

She comes into his bedroom quietly. He is not even aware of her presence until she slips in beside him. Doesn't know she's there until it's too late.

No moment is wasted. They do it fully clothed, with the necessary coverings dragged down, rucked up. There is no flesh on flesh. And none of the familiar sensations and sounds that accompanies his marital lovemaking. Or if there are, he's completely unaware of them, utterly oblivious. And
the anxiety, the what-ifs (Susan arrives back early, his mother calls in unexpectedly). Somehow, strangely, this anxiety only increases his pleasure, provides an unlikely turn-on.