by Renee Kira
The phone is still in my hands. I know I should call David back, but he’s the last person I want to talk to.
Looking at the bedside table, I can see the topaz ring she bought that only fit on my thumb, but I wore anyhow. There’s a novel she lent me I still haven’t read. That’s all I have left of her.
I pick up the ring and stare into the heart of the jewel, as if the answer to my questions is inside of it. My head feels stuffy and I am on the verge of tears, but I tell myself I can’t cry yet. I have dinner to cook and washing to fold.
The doctor missed that it was twins on the first ultrasound. One of them was hiding, tucked behind the other. I should have known; I was so hungry all the time. Even now, six years since they were born, I remember that hunger.
I know a newborn is hard on everyone, but those first few months were rough. Sometimes I get a flash of the same dread return to me. The early days of twins were difficult beyond description.
Then I met Veronica. I kind of knew her, or at least her face was familiar. I’d gone to catholic school and she’d gone to the state school. I’m sure our paths must have crossed when we were teenagers.
With her own baby huddled on her chest, I watched her across a crowded room in a community centre. One of the women in our mothers’ group had said something stupid. I can’t even remember what it was now. It involved organic vegetables. But I caught her rolling her eyes. She didn’t expect anyone to notice. When her eyes met mine, I couldn’t help but smile at her. She smiled back, the wordless joke bringing us together. We were friends before we even had a conversation.
That’s how it started. With our newborns strapped into slings or sleeping in prams, we confessed to each other. All the secrets of life with a small child came out. That motherhood was not what we expected. That we didn’t always wash the dummy when it got spat on the floor. That we longed to sleep for more than two hours. At parks, in shopping malls, it all came out. And finally, I had someone else to talk to who didn’t judge me. It was Veronica who told me about post-natal depression. She came with me to that first doctor’s appointment. I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t. I might have lost my mind.
Our friendship was easy at first. It’s only in the last few months that things have become complicated. But now, looking back, I can see the seeds scattered everywhere. I wonder if Veronica knew how things would turn out? Perhaps she saw it coming the first time our eyes met over baby toys and cups of tea.
I might not want to cry, but I can feel the hot tears on my cheeks. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, knowing that my makeup will have left black smudges around my eyes now.
The low hum of the garage door opening interrupts my thoughts.
‘Is that Dad?’ Noah calls, jumping up from a new game they are both playing.
‘It’s not the right time!’ Jacob stays sitting, the more logical of the two, not believing his Dad could come home early.
I walk down the hallway towards the front of the house. A key clicks in the lock and the front door opens. The sound serves as confirmation. Both boys run from the playroom to the entrance, slipping on the tiles in their socks. David is there, his navy work pants dusty, white silica dust dotted on his eyebrows and the ends of his eyelashes. He hasn’t showered. Like my father, before he became too sick to work, David is a stonemason. We have an agreement that he has to shower before he comes home after what happened to Dad. I guess today is an exception.
His mouth is solemn and his brow is creased with concern. He knows about Veronica, but he doesn’t know if I do. He’s looking at me, trying to judge my expression.
‘I saw it online.’ I save him the stress.
He gives a grim nod and slips his boots off next to the door. The boys rush to hug him, but he holds his palm up, making a stop sign.
‘Daddy’s got to get these clothes off first.’ Both boys take a step back. They know the rules.
David looks past us to the back of the house. He doesn’t know whether to shower or talk to me. I don’t want that dust near our boys, no matter what is happening.
‘I’m okay. Go shower,’ I direct, even though I am a long way from okay.
David walks down the hallway, heavy in his work gear. He turns back and speaks low enough the boys won't hear. ‘They’re saying it’s murder.’
I nod. My eyes grow hot. I’m going to cry again.
‘When did you see her last?’ His voice grows low and urgent. Noah has disappeared back into the playroom, but Jacob stays.
‘Yesterday,’ I said. ‘You know it was yesterday.’
He shrugs like he doesn’t, but I’ve got the text messages from him to prove it.
‘How was she? Was she all right when you saw her?’ he presses.
‘She was Veronica.’ She wasn’t all right. Telling him that won’t help.
There is only so long before the police attach Veronica to me. Everyone knows we were friends. We were always together. At the coffee shop when she took ten minutes off work. At the park with our boys. Always.
There’s no avoiding it. The police will want to talk to me soon. They will want to know everything.
3
Isobel
It’s two days since I found Veronica’s body on the beach. I feel weird, kind of cold. Like I need to eat a meal or put a jacket on, but those things won’t help. I’m restless, itching to do something, but I’m clueless as to what.
Veronica Hayes is all anyone is talking about. Somehow, the police have kept it under wraps that it was me who found her. That can’t last for much longer. Every time I leave the house, someone brings her up. Within a day, the word is out she was’t a jumper. I saw the ligature on her neck, I already knew that.
My parents don’t know it was me that found her either. My mother is prone to drama, to put it mildly. She needs to hear it from me before she hears it down the local bowls club.
I knock loudly, the last time the doorbell worked I was in high school. The forest green paint on their front door is peeling. Inside, I hear the murmur of my mother’s voice.
It’s Dad who opens the door. He raises his thick eyebrows. ‘Isobel!’ He says my name like no one else, the emphasis on the last syllable. The way it was intended to sound.
Lately, I’ve noticed that my parents are getting old. Dad’s hair has turned from salt and pepper to an ashen grey. There are age marks on the back of his hands. Every time I see Mum, there’s a new ailment. A limp or a cough.
‘Hi Dad.’ He opens the door fully and takes a step back.
He’s wearing a worn burgundy jumper that must be as old as me. His hair is tousled, like he’s been wearing a hat. I wonder if he’s been out on the water already this morning.
‘Your mother’s in the lounge. She’s hurt her foot feeding the dog.’
‘Again?’ Last year she had a fracture and walked around in a moon boot for six weeks.
There’s a strange expression on my Dad’s face. Part grimace. Part guilt. You can never quite predict when she is going to hurt herself. The house is full of ramps and handrails he installed, but it’s never enough.
‘It’s not your fault, Dad. It happens.’
He shrugs as if he doesn’t believe me. ‘Be nice to her, yes?’ He presses his lips together, then slowly turns around, not waiting for me to answer.
He does everything slowly, my father. It’s something more than patience. I guess that’s why he’s a fisherman. He’ll wait all day for them to bite, with no sudden movement to scare them away. Or perhaps the fish taught him to be like that. I’ll never know.
The entry to my parents’ home is small and has mirrored tiles on the longest wall to make the room seem bigger. They’re so out of fashion now, they must be due to come back in again. Nothing has changed in this house in my lifetime. Not the dark orange 1970s kitchen or the avocado green bathtub.
Before I follow him inside, I clutch his wrist so he pauses. He turns back to look at me. ‘Do you need money?’ I ask in a low voice.
He smiles. ‘No, Isobel.’
‘But for the medical bills?’
‘This is why I love Medicare. It’s the best thing about this country.’ He gives a smile and then makes his way to his armchair.
To watch my parents struggle through retirement while I live in luxury by the sea goes against the order of how things should be. But that was how my grandfather wanted it. There was even a provision in the will that prevented me from giving them money. I did anyway. It turns out you can’t will from the grave. But there was only so much of my help they will accept.
I’ve never learnt how to be subtle about it. God knows, I’ve tried. But subtle is not my style.
‘We’re not taking any more money, Isobel.’ His voice is low and steady, in tones honeyed by his accent. If you want to know if he is angry, you have to listen closely to these tones. He has never risen his voice to me. ‘You have your own future to think about.’
He was born in South America and was a student in Santiago before he left the country. After that he met my mother in Australia. I don’t know when he left or why. He won’t talk about it.
Mum’s eyes widen with a smile when she sees me. She’s sunk in a lounge chair with her foot propped on a low timber stool. Her round face is pink, her red hair in tight curls.
I eye her foot, wishing she’d take better care of herself. Two years ago, she was diagnosed with brittle bone disease. It was a late in life diagnosis and her case is mild. Still, she’s prone to fractures.
‘This is a nice surprise,’ she says.
‘Hi, Mum.’
A strange look passes between the two of them. They’re glad to see me, but I’ve interrupted something. My parents have always kept the uglier parts of their own lives from me.
They’ve been through a lot. I get it. My father wears his long-sleeved cotton shirts even on the hottest days of the year. I saw the scars once when I was a kid. I know some people can’t talk about their own pain. Then there is my mother, who can’t hide her injuries, but never would. She has her support group lunches and her groups on social media. She couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.
‘Sit down and your Dad will make us some tea.’
I sink into the sagging red armchair opposite hers. Dad takes his cue and goes into the kitchen.
‘I’ll get the kettle on then,’ he says.
My mother doesn’t answer. Her sharp eyes are taking me in. ‘You don’t seem well,’ she states it as a matter of fact, not an enquiry.
I shrug. ‘It’s been a rough couple of days.’
She keeps her eyes on me, waiting for an explanation.
‘I’ll tell you. First, tell me what happened to your foot.’
My mother looks down at the heavy boot on her right foot. ‘Like your Dad said. I was feeding the dog.’
‘What, did you trip over him?’ They had a fluffy black thing that barked a lot.
‘I didn’t trip over anything, I lost my footing. One moment I was upright, the next I was sprawled on the patio.’ She turns her face away from me.
I hear the rush of boiling water and the chink of ceramic cups from the kitchen.
‘Don’t forget biscuits,’ calls Mum.
‘Never,’ replies Dad.
‘What did the doctor say?’ I ask.
‘Oh, not much.’ Her tone is dismissive.
Dad came in, placing three cups of tea on the glass coffee table in the centre of the room. ‘You know your Mum, Isobel. She has her health problems.’
‘But what if it’s something else?’
‘Nothing else is wrong,’ says Mum. ‘Anyway. You were going to tell me why you look like such a mess. It’s not Ben, is it?’
‘No.’ I don’t want to hear my ex-boyfriend’s name. It’s only been a few months since he ended things. ‘Something happened. I wanted to tell you before someone else did.’
‘What happened?’ Dad’s voice questions as he sets a plate of biscuits down. ‘Is everything all right? Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘What then?’ asks Mum. The wrinkles on her forehead etch deeper than usual.
‘I was running Sunday morning. On the beach, down by the cliffs…’
‘What are you doing running down there? What if the tide came in?’ interrupts Dad.
‘It’s fine, I know the tides. I run the beach most days.’
He lets out a disgruntled sigh.
‘Anyway. There was… a body. I found it. I called the police. She was a woman around my age. Her name was Veronica Hayes.’
They exchange a glance.
‘Did you know her?’ I ask, surprised.
Dad shakes his head. ‘No. But I know who she is. I’ve seen her ads.’
‘We heard that her body was found yesterday morning,’ says Mum. ‘Very sad. I know her mother, Heather.’
‘What ads?’ I ask.
‘She’s a real estate agent,’ says Mum. ‘She’s on that billboard at the netball club. She’s got a little boy, he’s six.’
How was it they both knew all these things about her and I had never heard her name?
‘What happened to her? How did she die?’ asks Dad.
‘It’s an open investigation. I might be questioned again.’
‘Questioned? Why would you need to be questioned? If you let them question you it makes you a suspect, Isobel!’ Mum says, straightening her back and sitting upright.
‘It doesn’t make me a suspect.’
‘You should have just stayed away. Let someone else find her. Now you’re involved,’ she huffs.
‘You think you need a lawyer?’ Dad asks.
‘No! God, this conversation got out of hand quick. I just wanted to tell you it was me that found the body. Her. Veronica.’ I stand up. ‘I didn’t want some nosy neighbour to tell you and worry you over nothing.’
That ship might have sailed. Both of their faces are pinched with concern. They have little faith in the police, after what happened to my father. I can tell him this is a different country than where he grew up, but he just smiles and calls me naïve.
‘Have your tea,’ my father points to the cup on the table.
I sigh and sit back down, although I want to leave. They’re making a big deal out of a small thing. Picking up the lukewarm tea, I take a sip.
‘We have the same birthdate,’ I say.
‘What?’ asks my father.
‘Veronica Hayes. She has the same birthdate as me. And she grew up around here. I didn’t know her. Or, I don’t remember her.’
Mum turns to me, she opens her mouth to speak, but Dad interrupts her.
‘It’s a horrible thing to discover, sweetheart. Do you want to stay here for a few nights?’ he asks.
My Mum’s head shoots up, staring daggers into him. But, it’s her house and I don’t want to be here anyway.
‘No, it’s okay. I’m going to her funeral on Friday,’ I say.
They both look surprised. Dad stands up and places an arm on my shoulder. ‘Is that a good idea? It might not be what her family wants.’
‘That’s true.’ The idea has only just occurred to me.
Mum sighs. ‘You should stay away. Like you said, you didn’t know her.’
I look over at her. Not getting involved in something isn’t part of her ideology.
‘Sometimes it’s better to leave things be,’ she says quietly.
4
Maya
Every Tuesday is shopping day. Not shopping for me, but for my father. I might be grieving but he still needs to eat. He’s long past being able to drive or even walk around a supermarket on his own. His oxygen tank is now a permanent attachment.
His laboured breathing is so loud I hear it over the car radio. In and out, a slow wheeze that rattles as he exhales. I hate the sound, it’s a terrible reminder that his lungs have an expiry date that is fast approaching.
‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ he says.
I nod.
‘Only Neil, on the day they found her. They sounded overwhelmed.’
‘They would be,’ he says with a huff. ‘What an awful thing.’
I turn into the supermarket car park.
‘Nasty business,’ he adds. I hope it’s the end of the conversation. It hurts to talk about her.
‘You got a list today?’ I ask as I pull into the closet park to the supermarket entrance.
‘Yep.’
I like to do Dad’s shop first thing in the morning. I can get a spot right next to the front door and we have the empty supermarket to ourselves. It would be easier if he gave me the list and I came here alone. Better still I could do the whole lot online. He won’t have it though. He won’t let go of anything he can still do for himself, no matter how small.
He might be a slow mover, but he doesn’t waste time. He pulls his oxygen tank with his right hand, reaching for canned beans and packets of biscuits with his left. The wheels of the trolley squeak underneath me as I follow him up and down the aisles.
‘You seen this stuff?’ He holds up a packet of microwave rice before dropping it in the trolley.
‘Yeah,’ I smile. He can cook a meal as long as he doesn’t need to stand up too long. Using the oven is hard, but the microwave is a godsend.
When we reach the checkout, Dad pulls his wallet from his back pocket. I lay a gentle hand over his. ‘I’ve got this one.’
He gives a humble nod and slides his wallet back into his pocket. I know he feels embarrassed, but he shouldn’t. It’s not Dad’s fault things have gone this way. His work poisoned him and his insurance company cheated him.
‘You’re a good girl, Maya,’ he mumbles. ‘Always were.’
The only time he ever took off work was when Mum got sick. Even then, he would go back to work for weeks at a time in between her chemotherapy appointments. It was only five years after that he got sick himself. It started with coughing and wheezing. He had no history of smoking and wasn’t asthmatic. The diagnosis was dropped on us quickly.
