‘Nearly there.’ Rose was looking at her watch.
‘Now?’ I said.
Rose shook her head.
It didn’t take long before he stopped twisting.
Rose kept time on her watch. I felt reassured by that. Rose wouldn’t let me do anything bad to Billy. And yet it felt like an eternity before she gave the nod to release him.
As soon as he rose to the surface of the water, I knew something was very wrong. I hooked my arms around his shoulders and lifted his head out of the water. ‘Billy?’ I gently slapped his face. ‘Come on, Billy. Wake up.’
But Billy didn’t wake up. He didn’t turn his head to suck in a breath or cough and splutter or gasp for air.
I dragged him from the water. He was heavy but I got him to the shore and rolled him onto his side. When he still didn’t breathe, I tried to administer CPR. I’d read a book about how to do it, and we’d practised it at school on plastic mannequins, but it was harder on an actual person. Rose just stood there, in shock. I breathed into Billy, again and again. After several minutes with no response, I sat back on my heels and looked at him. He was the most unnatural colour – a slippery, whitish blue. His eyes were open, but lifeless.
That’s when we heard Mum.
‘Girls?’ She was looking around for us, and spotting us on the shore, she appeared relieved. Then she looked past us to where Billy lay. For a moment, she remained completely still. Then she ran. It was a sight to behold. Mum never ran anywhere.
‘Billy!’ she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She fumbled at his neck, presumably trying to feel for a pulse. ‘Billy. Come on. Come on, Billy. What happened?’
Rose and I remained silent, as Mum herself tried to breathe life into Billy. She continued for what felt like hours, only pausing to swear under her breath and, once, to lift her head and say what sounded like a quick prayer, which was odd as I’d never seen Mum pray before. When she finally spun around, her face was streaked with tears and dirt. ‘What happened? Someone tell me.’
‘I . . . I was trying to help him stay underwater longer than me,’ I stammered. ‘I must have held him for too long.’
‘You held him under?’ Mum stared at me. ‘Why would you do that, Fern?’
I glanced at Rose. Mum followed my gaze. Something funny happened to her eyes. ‘Did Rose tell you to?’
Somehow, I understood the danger of answering that question. And so I didn’t.
‘Oh, of course it’s my fault,’ Rose said. ‘Nothing could be the fault of your precious Fern.’
Mum stood up and grabbed Rose so tightly that her feet lifted off the ground. ‘Billy is dead, Rose. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes,’ Rose said evenly. ‘I understand.’
‘And now you’ve implicated your sister!’
‘You’ve always hated me,’ Rose shouted, crying now. ‘You’ve only ever loved Fern. Everyone loves Fern!’
Mum let go of Rose and lifted a hand to Rose’s face before hesitating and dropping it down.
‘I don’t hate you, Rose. But it does feel like you’ve spent your life trying to make me prove I love you. And now, a boy is dead!’
Mum looked down at Billy’s lifeless body, then up again, meeting Rose’s gaze.
‘If you want to prove that you love me,’ Rose said, ‘this is your chance.’
Mid-afternoon, Rose goes to Target to get the baby some smaller clothes. The moment she is gone, I move quickly.
The hospital is quiet, apart from a few mewling, newborn cries. I struggle into my rainbow dress, one of many souvenirs of the bizarre brand of love Rose has for me, and I lift the baby out of her crib. She is warm and feather light. I hook my bag over my shoulder and cradle her against my chest. It’s lovely how she seems to fit into the space perfectly, like she was made for this space. Perhaps she was?
It’s funny, she doesn’t look like an Alice to me, I realise. More like a Daisy or Lily or Poppy. Or Willow? There’s something about the strength of it that I like. Yes, Willow. That’s her name.
It is so easy to get out of the hospital that I don’t feel like I am ‘breaking out’ at all. I skulk past reception and out into the street, covering Willow’s face with the blanket as we walk past the smokers. There is a taxi idling there, having just let an elderly man and woman out, which is perfect. I may not be the best mother for my baby. But I am becoming more and more certain with each passing moment that Rose isn’t either.
I feed Willow in the taxi and she falls into an open-mouthed sleep. I have nothing other than my handbag. No nappies. No clothes. At least I have milk, and judging by how sore my breasts are, more milk is coming in. All in all, it could be worse.
When we pull up, I half-expect Rose to be standing there, her faux concern pasted onto her face, ready to launch into a speech about how this kind of behaviour is exactly why I can’t be a mother to this baby. Maybe she’s right. Still, I’m delighted to find that she isn’t here. For once, it seems, I’m one step ahead of Rose.
I ask the driver to let us out at the back of the library. My plan is ill-thought out at best. I’m not even sure it is a plan. All I know is that I have to call Wally. I have to tell him he is the father of my baby. Even if he is upset with me for not telling him, he will surely help me figure out the right thing to do. I know now that the right thing is not to leave my baby in Rose’s care.
I let myself into the library through the back door. It’s quiet inside, so I manage to make my way down the muted, carpeted hallway without being noticed. Through the opaque glass window, I can see people moving about in the staffroom, and I hear Trevor’s high-pitched, irritating laugh. I can’t chance going across the library to the secret cupboard, so instead go through the vestibule and into the bathrooms. Inside, I enter a cubical and sit on the closed toilet, resting Willow on my knees while I retrieve my phone. I have fifteen per cent battery left, which is astonishing to see – normally, I don’t let it get below ninety per cent, but I didn’t have my phone charger at the hospital. Still, fifteen per cent is all I need. I search for Wally’s number and that’s when I notice. No service.
‘Shit!’ I say. A baby noise bubbles from Willow, a squawk of sorts, as if in solidarity with me.
‘Fern? Is that you?’
I freeze, inside the cubicle. It’s Carmel’s voice.
‘It is you!’ she says, after a minute. ‘I recognise your shoes.’
I look down at my shoes – sequined silver sneakers that are unlikely to belong to anyone else at the library.
‘Are you alone?’ I ask.
‘Yes. It’s just me.’
I open the door. Carmel opens her mouth as if to say something but then she sees Willow. She sucks in a breath. ‘You had your baby!’
‘Yes.’ I smile down at her, wriggling in my arms.
Carmel creeps closer. ‘A girl?’
I nod.
Carmel’s hand goes to her heart. ‘She’s beautiful, just beautiful, Fern.’ She’s smiling, but suddenly her expression becomes concerned. ‘But why aren’t you in the hospital?’
My smile falls away.
‘What is it, Fern? Is everything all right?’
‘Rose wants to take my baby away from me.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘That’s ridiculous. She wouldn’t.’
‘The thing is . . . I agreed to it. I thought the baby would be better off with her. But . . . I’ve changed my mind.’
Carmel listens to me intently, her face full of concern. It’s the first time anyone has listened to me intently in a very long time. I feel unexpectedly teary. ‘Have you told your sister this?’
I shake my head. ‘Rose has a way of getting what she wants.’
‘Ah,’ Carmel says. ‘I too have a sister.’
We look at each other for a moment and I have a strange feeling. Like an understanding travelling between us. It’s nice.
‘So, what is your plan?’ Carmel asks.
‘I need to call Wally. I think he can help. But there’s no reception in here.�
��
‘Then we must find reception,’ Carmel says determinedly. ‘The library is quiet right now. Keep your head down and no-one will pay you any attention.’
Carmel checks that the coast is clear and then we head through the vestibule. Gripping Willow tightly, I push the door onto the library floor open. By the time I see the uniforms, it’s too late to turn around. They’ve already seen me.
‘Now,’ Carmel says, standing between them and us. ‘I really don’t think this is necessary–’
I don’t hear the end of Carmel’s statement as I have started to run. I don’t get far. A policewoman catches up to me as I reach the side door. She doesn’t grab me, perhaps because of the baby in my arms, but she uses her body to block me into a corner. If I were willing to let go of Willow, I could have taken her down with a hip throw. But I’m not.
‘We’ve spoken to your sister,’ the policewoman says. ‘You need to give us the baby. We’ll take good care of her, I promise . . .’
She reaches for the baby and I rear back, twisting away from her. It startles Willow and she starts to cry. I’m considering knocking the policewoman down with a leg sweep when I see someone standing at the front desk at the other end of the library.
Rose.
It’s Gayle at the desk, and she doesn’t appear to be giving Rose a satisfactory answer, because Rose slams her hand against the desk. Then she glances around wildly. When we finally lock eyes, for a moment I think I must have mistaken someone else for her. She looks different. She looks . . . like a madwoman.
‘Give her to me!’ she cries, running toward me. I hold Willow closer, knitting my fingers together. Breast milk saturates my chest.
‘Ma’am, I really need you to give me the baby,’ the police-woman says again.
I turn away from her, and from Rose. I don’t let Willow go.
I cry. I moan. I sob. I even bite the padded edge of the bed. Once again, like when I was in labour, I am an animal. Willow is gone. Rose was saying I kidnapped her, so they took her from me. The ache of being away from her is nearly overwhelming. My breasts are rock hard, my dress is drenched. My body still aches from giving birth to her. But I don’t even have a photograph of her. Even if I did, my phone is out of battery.
‘It’s all right, Miss,’ the nurse by my hospital bed says to me in a strange, flat sort of voice. It’s not Beverly, nor any nurse that I recognise from the maternity ward. I’m in a different part of the hospital. The psych ward. This nurse has a stern face, pinched lips and nude stockings that don’t hide her varicose veins. ‘The doctor has given you a sedative so you will feel much better soon.’
‘Where is my baby?’
The nurse glances at the doorway. Two police officers stand there, talking quietly to one another. I recognise the policewoman as the one who chased me across the library. I never did hand over the baby. Karate had made my finger strength superior to most people’s, and they had no chance of getting her off me without a fight. Eventually, they’d held Rose back and allowed me to carry Willow outside, while the police formed a loose circle around me, in case I made a run for it. Outside, there had been four police cars waiting. All of them for me.
‘There’s just a bit of confusion that needs sorting out,’ the nurse says. She gives me a look that I can only describe as pity and gives my hand a gentle pat. I pull my hand away.
‘I want to see my baby,’ I say.
The sedative must work, because before I know it, I’m waking from a deep sleep. Nothing has changed except that now, a man is in the corner of the room, talking to the nurse with the varicose veins.
‘Where is my baby?’ I ask again, quieter than before.
The pair of them startle, then turn to look at me.
‘Hello,’ the man says, grabbing a chair and dragging it swiftly up to the bed. ‘You must be Fern.’
I don’t reply. He sits down. ‘I’m Dr Aston. I’m a psychiatrist. How are you feeling?’
‘Not good. I want to go home.’
Dr Aston nods, looking down at his notes. ‘Well, hopefully we’ll be able to arrange that soon, but first I want to have a chat to you about how you’re feeling. I understand you’ve recently given birth?’
‘Yes. Where is my baby?’
‘She’s in the paediatric wing. I’ve just spoken with her doctor and she’s absolutely fine. I’m told she’s being taken care of by your sister.’
‘I do not want my sister near my baby.’
Dr Aston’s eyebrows rise. He glances at the nurse and then back at me. ‘I understood you intended for your sister to adopt your baby. Is that incorrect?’
‘It was correct,’ I say. ‘But I changed my mind.’
‘I see. Well, first things first.’ He looks up as a woman appears in the doorway. ‘Ah. You want to do this now?’
‘If it’s convenient,’ the woman says.
The doctor nods and gathers his notes. ‘We’ll finish this in a bit, Fern. Don’t worry, we’ll get it all sorted out.’
Rose has been saying that for months. Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine. And now, here we are.
The woman comes into the room. She doesn’t look like a doctor to me. She is wearing normal clothes. She is in her mid- to late-forties with blue eyes and dark blonde hair that she wears in a long braid down her back.
‘You don’t look like a doctor,’ I say.
‘That’s because I’m not.’ She holds up a lanyard. ‘Detective Sara Brookes. Is it all right if I ask you some questions?’
I take a moment to process this. A police detective. Then I realise. I kidnapped a baby. She must be here to arrest me.
Detective Brookes sits in the seat that Dr Aston just vacated and pulls out a small notebook and pen. ‘I like your bracelet,’ she says, bizarrely. I can only deduce that making small talk helps perps to ‘talk’. ‘Is that a bush engraved on there?’
‘A fern,’ I correct. ‘Because that’s my name.’
‘It’s lovely. The name and the bracelet.’
We stare at each other for a moment.
‘Congratulations, by the way,’ Detective Brookes says. ‘I hear you had a baby girl. Where is she?’
‘She’s in the paediatric wing,’ I tell her. ‘With my sister.’
Detective Brookes looks surprised. ‘Why isn’t she in here with you?’
I frown. ‘Because I kidnapped her. Didn’t you hear?’
Detective Brookes sits back in her chair. ‘You kidnapped your own child?’
I nod. ‘At least that’s what my sister is telling people.’
‘I wonder why she’d say that.’ She gives me a long assessing stare. ‘Why don’t you tell me a little about your sister?’
The question is too broad. I can’t even begin to narrow it, so I just pluck random facts out of my mind, as if from a hat. ‘She’s the same age as me.’
‘Oh. You’re twins?’
‘Fraternal twins. And we are very different. She’s short, and I’m tall. She has no sensory issues, but I do. She’s diabetic, and I’m not.’
The detective writes on her notepad. ‘Are you close?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t know where the paediatric wing is.’
She smiles. ‘What I mean is . . . do you spend a lot of time together?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And she is . . . a good sister?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s . . . kind? Does nice things for you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And other times?’
I throw up my hands. ‘I don’t know. She’s just Rose, okay?’
I’m frustrated by this conversation. I just want my baby. I’m not sure what Rose being a good sister has to do with anything.
The detective nods. ‘I understand your mother passed away very recently,’ she says, taking the conversation in another strange direction. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. The hospital staff indicated that you visit weekly.’
‘You’ve spoken to Sun Me
adows? Why?’
‘Just part of our investigation. Your mother’s cause of death isn’t clear, so we just wanted to check up on a few things. We understand that your sister hadn’t visited in a very long time until she went the night before your mother died. Why was that? Didn’t she have a good relationship with your mother?’
‘Rose?’ I laugh. ‘She didn’t have a relationship with Mum at all.’
‘She never spoke with her?’
‘Well, no-one spoke with Mum. After her overdose, Mum couldn’t say two words. She improved a little over the last year. She was starting to talk in short sentences.’ I think of what she said to me about my baby. Don’t give Rose the baby. ‘Recently she told me not to give Rose my baby.’
If only I’d listened.
Detective Brookes writes some more in her notebook. Then she frowns thoughtfully. ‘That’s a pretty bold statement. Why do you think she would say that?’
I look at her. ‘I don’t understand. Why are you asking me about Rose and my mother? Aren’t you here to charge me with kidnapping?’
She smiles. ‘Not at this point.’ She taps my bracelet with her pen. ‘Let me guess, your sister has a matching bracelet?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But with a rose on it.’
‘Because her name is Rose.’
I nod. She rises to her feet. ‘You’ve been very helpful. That’s all I need for now.’
‘Wait!’ My voice is hoarse. The detective raises her eyebrows. ‘Will I get my baby back?’
More than anything, I wish I had the ability to read other people’s facial expressions. Because when Detective Brookes narrows her eyes and says, ‘Leave it with me,’ I have absolutely no idea what it means.
An hour passes. Then two. I’m in hour three when I recognise the person loitering in the doorway.
‘Owen?’
‘Hey, Fernie.’
I blink. It’s him. It’s really him. ‘What are you doing here?’
He shrugs. His hands are tucked into his pockets and he seems as close to shy as I’ve ever seen him. ‘Can’t a guy visit his sister-in-law in the nuthouse?’
He’s had a haircut. Which isn’t unexpected, I suppose, since he’s been away a year. It suits him like this. He appears to have lost weight and gained muscle. Owen had always been well built, but these last few years he’d become a bit softer-looking.
The Good Sister Page 22
