I think about this. But I don’t believe it. ‘You think she did that on purpose? So I would realise she wanted a baby and try to have one for her?’
He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘Well,’ I say. ‘In any case. I’m sorry.’
Wally walks back to my bedside. He looks down at Willow. I’ll never get tired of the way he looks at her.
‘You know what’s funny,’ he says. ‘I’m not.’
When I’m released from hospital, we go back to Wally’s new flat, stopping by Rose’s en route to collect Alfie. Wally’s flat is in an older style building that reminds me a lot of my old place. He rented it a few months ago – things got so busy with FollowUp that he decided he needed a more permanent base. It still looks like he hasn’t properly moved in. He says it’s just a stopgap until we buy something bigger, but honestly, I quite like it. I loved my little flat.
Willow and I don’t leave Wally’s flat for the next forty-eight hours, and Wally only leaves to walk Alfie. Carmel is our only visitor, coming by to drop off a pile of books for me, a couple of takeaway hot chocolates and an adorable pink onesie for Willow. She said if I needed anything, she was just at the end of the ‘line’. I wasn’t sure what line she was referring to, but when I told her this, she just laughed and said she’d check in with me tomorrow.
Both Wally and I try to sleep when Willow sleeps, but we find, frustratingly, that we cannot tune our body clocks to the bizarre schedule of round-the-clock forty-five-minute naps, so we make do with merely resting while she sleeps. Sometimes we read or play a game of sudoku. They’re lovely, those little pockets of time we have together.
Two days after we get home from the hospital is a Thursday. My first Thursday, I realise, as a mother, and without a mother. The fact that I’m not visiting Mum is made both better and worse by Willow’s existence . . . though I can’t help but think what a magnificent Thursday it would have been if I could have taken my daughter to meet my mother.
Throughout the days, my thoughts drift indeterminately to and from Rose. Detective Brookes has kept me in the loop. After Rose’s arrest, she was remanded in custody and is now awaiting arraignment. She has been asking to see me, apparently. I tell Detective Brookes that I will see her, at some point. And I will. But for now, it’s a relief to keep my mind busy caring for Willow.
I’ve been at home for a week when Detective Brookes calls to tell me she’d like to see me at the police station. It’s not the usual first outing with a baby, which, according to my baby book, is generally to the doctor’s office or the maternal health clinic. Still, I feel okay about it, as I was given reasonable notice and was able to plan the best route to take and to ensure there will be ample parking for Wally’s van. As the baby book instructs, I allow extra time to account for baby-related mishaps, but even so, we pull up at the police station five minutes late.
Detective Brookes is waiting for us outside, as planned. She doesn’t appear to be upset about our tardiness. ‘Follow me. I’ve reserved a visitor’s parking spot for you so you don’t have to walk far. And I’ve found us a quiet room on the first floor.’
It was Wally who suggested I tell her about my sensory issues in advance. As it turns out, her son has similar issues and she is happy to make accommodations so I can be more comfortable. I’ve found that a lot of people have been happy to accommodate me, actually, once they realise my challenges. All this time, I’d thought that Rose was the only person who understood how to care for me. How wrong I was.
We park the van and follow Detective Brookes into a small interview room with three chairs, a table and a potted plant. Cream floor-to-ceiling horizontal blinds obscure the view of a fire extinguisher outside.
‘Take a seat,’ she says, and I do. Wally declines, instead standing in the corner. Willow is expertly strapped to his chest by a long piece of cloth and he is bouncing even though she is fast asleep. We have both bounced a lot this past week. Sometimes I find myself standing in the shower, bouncing, even though Willow is asleep in the next room.
‘The reason I asked you to come in today,’ Detective Brookes says, sitting down in the chair opposite me, ‘is that I wanted to show you something.’
She places a notebook in front of me. It’s pale pink, embossed with gold flowers and the words A penny for your thoughts in gold leaf.
‘Have you seen this before?’
I reach out and touch the hard cover. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘It’s Rose’s diary.’
I frown. ‘Rose doesn’t keep a diary.’
Detective Brookes shrugs. Clearly, it’s one more thing I didn’t know about my sister.
‘Would you like to read it?’
I hesitate. ‘But . . . you’re not supposed to read other people’s diaries.’
‘Rose gave me the diary,’ Detective Brookes says. ‘Trust me. She wants us to read it.’
I don’t get it. ‘Why?’
Again, she shrugs. But there is something about her expression that makes me think she has her suspicions. ‘Open it,’ she says, and I do, flicking it open in the middle and then leafing the pages backward.
‘Have a read. Let me know if you have any comments about anything in there.’
There’s a lot in there. Page after page of Rose’s handwriting. I scan the page in front of me. It’s about the time I drew on the coffee table when I was little. It surprises me that Rose would write about this. She was always so reluctant to talk about anything in our past. I’m about to turn the page when something catches my eye.
‘Wait,’ I say.
Detective Brookes leans in. ‘What is it?’
I scan the page again. I remember that day very clearly, because of the drama that followed. I didn’t know Mum meant that I should do my homework in the book on top of the coffee table and I’d been embarrassed when I realised my mistake. But Mum wasn’t mad with me. ‘Thank god the coffee table was cheap,’ she’d said with a laugh.
I think it was the laugh that set Rose off. She said Mum would never have laughed if she did something like that. She got so mad she stormed into the bedroom and broke every single one of my toys. It was one of the biggest meltdowns I’d ever seen her have.
But Rose’s diary tells a different story.
I flick to the next page. It’s about our ninth birthday, when Mum made us that amazing unicorn cake. Rose had been in such a strange mood that day. I’d stayed away from her when she was like that, but this time we had to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Mum got out the ‘good plates’ because it was a special occasion. I’m not sure why, but this seemed to be the wrong decision and Rose stormed out of the house. Mum looked everywhere but couldn’t find her. Rose was gone all night long. I remember Mum and me waiting in the hallway through the night for her to come home.
But Rose’s version of this is different too.
‘This isn’t right,’ I say. ‘This diary it’s . . . not how things happened.’
I flick the page. Another story. I don’t understand. Why has Rose done this?
There’s only one entry that causes me to pause. It’s the one entry about Mum’s boyfriend Gary. I read that one twice.
‘There are two particular entries that we are interested in,’ Detective Brookes says. ‘I’ve earmarked them. Both are to do with a boy called Billy . . .’
I look up, stunned. Rose wrote about Billy in a diary? She’d always been so insistent that we never even talk about Billy. Unless . . . unless she’s created a fictional story for it too.
I flick to the pages that Detective Brookes has dog-eared and read the entries, once, and then again. Then a third time. I can’t believe it.
My eyes find Wally and Willow.
‘This isn’t what happened,’ I say. ‘Rose made this up! I swear, this is not–’
‘It’s all right, Fern,’ Detective Brookes says. ‘We know.’
I stare at her. ‘You know?’
‘Of course we know. Your sister isn’t the first master
manipulator we’ve come across.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why did she write a diary? What is the point of it?’
Detective Brookes sits back in her chair. ‘It seems to me she was laying the groundwork to claim that you couldn’t care for a baby, in case anyone questioned her adoption of your daughter. And, the way she portrays you here, you’d make a prime suspect in your mother’s murder, taking the heat off her.’
I shake my head. It’s too crazy to contemplate. I look down at the diary. Entry upon entry about our childhood. It couldn’t have been a spur-of-the-moment plan. This would have taken her months to compile. All to make me look unfit and secure her rights to my baby. My heart hurts.
‘But why give it to you now?’ I ask. ‘She’s in jail, no one is going to give her a baby now. Surely she doesn’t want the baby taken away from me and given to a stranger.’
Wally keeps his gaze firmly away from mine, but he stiffens slightly. I’ve become more in tune with his non-verbal communication these past weeks. Perhaps just sharing space with someone does that.
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why would she want to hurt me like that?’
Detective Brookes smiles ever so slightly. There’s a sad edge to it.
‘I don’t know,’ she admits. ‘But I have a feeling it’s a sister thing.’
Wally and I lie on the bed, side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Willow’s bassinet is in the corner, but she is snuggled into Wally’s chest – her favourite place to be. The flat is quiet and calm, but still my head is spinning. On the way home from the police station, Wally spoke to a lawyer to ask advice on the Billy situation. The lawyer advised that it would be highly unlikely for Rose’s testimony to reopen enquiries into Billy’s death nearly twenty years after the fact, particularly with no witnesses to corroborate her story. At this point, everyone seems to have accepted that Billy had drowned by accident and that was the end of the story. It seemed the other part of the story would remain forever buried.
Wally turns his head to face me and his glasses slide down his nose. ‘So your mother really never did those things in Rose’s diary?’
‘No.’ I think about that. ‘I mean . . . there were moments of truth in there . . . but they weren’t to do with Mum. It’s as if Rose just unearthed all our memories and recast them so she was the victim. Mum never broke our things or left us overnight or locked Rose in her room.’
‘They were all lies,’ Wally says.
‘Yes,’ I say. Then I hesitate. ‘Or maybe it’s the way Rose thinks things happened? I know that when we have recollected things together, her versions are always a little bit different to mine. Bigger, more dramatic. And she always adds things she couldn’t possibly know, like why people did what they did. But the way she tells them, it feels like she believes it is true.’ I pause.
‘What is it?’ Wally asks.
‘There was another part of the diary that I wondered about. About one of Mum’s boyfriends. Gary. She said he did something to her in the swimming pool. I think that part might be true.’
Wally frowns. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he tried something similar with me.’
Wally rises up onto an elbow, balancing Willow between his chest and other arm. ‘Your mum’s boyfriend–’
I hold up a hand. ‘He didn’t hurt me. I gave him a knee to the groin and he didn’t try it again. It never occurred to me that he might try it on Rose. I should have looked out for her better. I hate the idea of something bad happening to Rose. Even now, I hate it.’
‘Unfortunately, that sentiment isn’t reciprocated,’ Wally says. ‘If it were, Rose wouldn’t have falsified a diary intended to keep Willow from you.’ He stands up and carries Willow over to the bassinet.
‘The part I don’t understand is why she lied about what happened the night Billy died. She didn’t need to lie about that. I did drown Billy! Why did she need to say that she wasn’t there when he died?’
Wally frowns. ‘That is weird.’ He puts Willow down. Standing upright again, he becomes very still. ‘You said it was Rose’s idea to hold him under,’ he says slowly. ‘And she kept time while you held Billy down?’
‘Yes.’
‘And didn’t you say if felt like a long time? Maybe it was a long time?’
It takes me a minute to understand where Wally is leading me. Rose told me to hold Billy down. She told me how long to hold him. And then she made up a story saying she wasn’t there.
‘It makes sense. Why else would she need to make up a story about it?’ Wally says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t think Rose would do that.’
‘I’m sorry, Fern,’ Wally says. ‘But I think she would.’
It takes me a minute to realise the ramifications of this. ‘So I didn’t kill Billy?’
Wally shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you did.’
Before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks. ‘If this is true, Wally . . . it means I can be trusted with my baby! Doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, Fern.’ Wally wipes a tear from my cheek. ‘It does.’
I let out a sob. Wally comes to my side and I allow him to hold me for the longest time. It doesn’t even bother me the tiniest bit.
I can be trusted with my baby, I tell myself. I can be trusted with my baby!
I understand it’s true. It’s just that, after all these years, it’s going to take me a little longer to believe it.
Three months later . . .
I sit on the floor with my legs crossed and Willow in my lap. Linda stands in front of me wearing a pair of giant white underpants over the top of her clothes, and a bright red cape – Captain Underpants. She zooms around the room, her cape flapping behind her.
We’re at Baby Rhyme Time. Sixteen mothers sit on the floor cross-legged with their babies balanced in their laps. An additional four mothers sit on chairs at the back, breastfeeding or pushing their strollers vigorously, trying to get their babies to settle. Wally sits on the floor beside me, watching Linda curiously.
‘Tra-la-LAAAAA,’ Linda cries, taking off across the room again.
I have to lip-read because I’m wearing my noise-cancelling headphones. They’re big ones – the ones that look like earmuffs – and I’m wearing them over the straps of my black-tinted goggles. Wally is also wearing headphones and goggles, as he doesn’t like to be left out. We’ve been coming to Rhyme Time every week for three months now. Willow enjoys it and it’s one of the few places where no-one stares at our accessories. In fact, a few weeks ago, the funniest thing started happening. A little boy, the older brother of one of the babies, had come in wearing a little pair of headphones and goggles too. His mother told Wally he’d always found the music a bit loud and our solution, she thought, was genius. The following week, another child was wearing them. This week, half a dozen babies and toddlers have them on.
Last week, Carmel had asked if I’d consider facilitating a Sensory Rhyme Time session, where the music would be soft and the lights kept low. I’d agreed before she’d finished asking the question. Since Willow and I were released from hospital, Wally and I have divided our time between staring at Willow and frantically reading books about how to raise a baby, and while it hasn’t been a bad existence, I’m missing my routine. Besides, Carmel has told me that Wally is welcome to bring Willow any time we like. I’m glad because I think Mum was right when she said that taking a child to the library is the very best education you could give a child. Willow is going to be very well educated.
I still haven’t visited Rose. I’ve felt the pull, definitely felt it, but for now I’m ignoring this particular pull. At Wally’s urging, I’ve had a few sessions with a very nice therapist named Kevin. He wouldn’t comment on Rose’s mental health without seeing her, but last week he did pose a couple of interesting questions that I’m still ruminating on a week later.
How does your relationship with Rose serve you? How has it ever served you?
Until I have an answer, he said, perhap
s hold off visiting.
So I am. Until I have an answer.
‘All right, mums,’ Linda says. ‘Are we ready to fly?’
Linda is affixing an imaginary cape onto Wally’s back when I realise it is time to take my leave. I may have been making improvements in recent weeks but pretending to fly in an imaginary cape is beyond even my new capabilities. I hand Willow to Wally and retire to the secret cupboard for a couple of minutes of quiet reading instead.
I’m beginning to think Wally was right when he said I was normal and everyone else were the weirdos.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
It’s been three months since I was remanded in custody, awaiting trial. Now, there’s a sentence I never expected to write. I keep expecting to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream. No such luck. It seems this will be my life. Bookends of horror, surrounding a too brief, happyish middle.
As a remand prisoner, I have privileges that a sentenced prisoner doesn’t have. For example, I can wear my own clothes rather than the prison garb – though, I’m not sure if this small freedom is a kindness or not, as it makes me stand out to my fellow inmates. I also have more flexibility around visitors – they can come as often as they like. But no-one has come. Three months and no visitors. Not Owen. Not even Fern.
All I have, it seems, is my journal.
My prison psychologist suggested it might be enlightening to write in it. To get really honest with myself, he said. I’ve avoided it for a while, but now I figure . . . why not? It’s not like I have anything else to do.
As far as I’m concerned, Billy got what he deserved. Flirting with me all week, and then taking Fern down to the river and kissing her? It was clear Fern wasn’t his peer. She was vulnerable. Billy was no better than Gary.
Poor Fern didn’t even seem to realise she’d been taken advantage of. She continued to swim around the river with Billy like a fool while they tried to see who could hold their breath the longest.
‘Why can’t I beat you?’ Billy kept crying.
The Good Sister Page 24
