‘I guess it was an accident,’ said Annabelle, seeming to sense Willa’s discomfort. ‘I’m very sorry, Willa. I don’t have children, but I imagine it’s the worst thing that could happen to anyone.’
‘Yes,’ said Willa. ‘I think it is.’
They both sat in silence. Willa looked across Annabelle’s shoulder out of the window. She had a sudden urge to see the ocean and feel the breeze. She got up and went across to the little stained-glass window.
After a while, Annabelle spoke. ‘Do you feel all right in here?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Willa.
‘Inside here. The Old Chapel? It doesn’t feel creepy?’
‘Not really.’
‘Oh, well that’s good.’ Annabelle got to her feet and scooped up both cups, then headed across to the sink. She began washing them vigorously under the running tap.
‘Why?’ asked Willa after a moment.
Annabelle put the mugs on the drying rack, and turned to her slowly. She had a furrow across her brow, as if she was considering what to say.
‘There was… an accident here once. I just… oh, I don’t know. This place just gives me the creeps.’
‘I heard about the little girl falling off the dog sled. The gravestone outside,’ said Willa.
‘Oh, no. I didn’t mean that! And how insensitive of me to even… with your Esme dying. No, I… oh, I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot!’
‘It’s all right,’ said Willa. ‘It’s all right, I promise.’ She wondered what was going on inside Annabelle’s mind.
Annabelle wiped her hands on the tea towel and threaded it through the oven handle, taking care to spread it out evenly. ‘Well, let’s not talk about it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Only… if I were you, I wouldn’t sleep here. On your own. Being… sad, like you are. The energy in here is strange.’
‘All right,’ said Willa. ‘I mean, I’m not sleeping here anyway.’
‘I’m sorry. Please don’t repeat any of this. It’s silly. Dan would be angry that I said it.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Willa. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.’
‘No!’ said Annabelle. ‘Goodness, no! I don’t know what I was thinking, saying anything at all. I… please forget about it.’ She was clutching at the necklace again, rubbing the cross repeatedly with her thumb.
Willa stared at her and saw something disturbing in her eyes. It was fear, she realised.
‘Annabelle, I promise I won’t say anything. Whatever happened here, it’s none of my concern.’
‘Oh, Willa…’ said Annabelle. She turned and walked towards the door, and without looking back, raised her hand. ‘Thank you so much for the tea.’
She scuttled down the steps, and Willa watched her walk determinedly across the lane, open the gate and disappear through her flower garden.
Eleven
Annabelle
‘Please just go to work, Dan.’ Annabelle was perched on the edge of their bed in her dressing gown. It was eight o’clock and the sun was streaming through the window. The sky was a vivid blue and she could hear the birds singing outside in the walnut tree. Some attention from Dan should only have added to the perfectness of the day, except it wasn’t the sort of attention she wanted.
‘What did the doctor actually say, Belle?’ asked Dan as he yanked at his shoelaces. ‘It can’t be anxiety. What could possibly be stressing you? You’ve got the life of bloody Riley, prancing about in the garden all day while I’m trying to earn enough to keep this place going. And you look properly sick.’
‘Well the blood tests and thyroid and the ECG all came back normal. So it looks like you’re stuck with a nutcase. Sorry about that.’ Annabelle gritted her teeth. How dare he think she didn’t have enough in her life to be stressed about?
When she’d seen Dr Collins, the woman had talked Annabelle through all the tests the hospital had done, and the further tests that had been done in her office. All clear. A perfectly clean bill of health, apart from a tiny elevation in her cholesterol and an admonishment about her weight.
‘Is there anything that’s been worrying you lately, Annabelle? Have you been irritable or not sleeping?’ the doctor had asked, giving Annabelle a disturbingly empathetic look.
She was such a nice young woman. Pretty, too, with huge brown eyes. Took care of herself. She wore lovely make-up and had a nice dress sense. She should be treating properly sick people. Not people like Annabelle, who had every single thing they could ever have desired. A lovely home, the nicest garden on the north-west coast, an accomplished husband, an interesting – and probably soon to be wildly successful – new business.
‘Not really,’ said Annabelle. ‘Everything’s quite good.’
‘Hmm.’ Dr Collins’ eyes flicked back and forth across Annabelle’s face for a moment. ‘Well, I still think what you experienced was most likely anxiety. A panic attack. It can happen when you have low levels of stress for a long period, then suddenly there might be a trigger – one you aren’t even aware of – and your body releases lots of adrenalin and your brain is suddenly overwhelmed with physiological signals. It can certainly feel like you’re dying, as you described. Your fight-or-flight response in overdrive, if you like.’ She paused, waiting for Annabelle to comment.
Annabelle couldn’t think of anything to say. Basically the doctor was saying she was insane.
‘I know you’re not convinced, but when you go home, I’d like you to log onto this website and fill out the anxiety checklist,’ said Dr Collins, handing Annabelle a flyer for a depression and anxiety organisation. There was a pretty coloured butterfly at the top. ‘The results will only be for your viewing, but there are lots of resources on there. And I’d also like you to make an appointment with a psychologist to discuss management, in case it happens again. Here are a few names, but look around and ask friends; it’s important you have a good relationship with your therapist if it’s going to work.’ She was smiling patiently.
Annabelle had been making tiny rips in the corner of the flyer, without realising it. They both looked down at the shredded butterfly in her hands. She slid the offending corner beneath her palm. A therapist! How ridiculous.
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong, Doctor, but I just think it’s unlikely,’ she said. She folded the flyer and put it in her handbag. Her appointment time was over. She stood halfway up, then sat down again. ‘I suppose while I’m here, I should get you to check a little cyst I have. On the side of my breast. I know it’s nothing, but I feel bad about wasting your time with this other nonsense, so we might as well do some real medicine before I go.’ Annabelle gave the doctor her best, most understanding smile. Nobody liked talking about mental problems, did they? A lump was much easier territory. It would make the doctor feel better about charging her for a long appointment.
On the examination couch, Annabelle removed her bra and fixed her eyes on the ceiling. Dr Collins’ fingers probed her breasts, and when she got to the lump, she pushed and prodded it several times.
‘Any pain?’ she asked.
‘No. None,’ said Annabelle forcefully. See, I am perfectly healthy! ‘I know I’m silly to even mention it,’ she said. She wanted to get dressed. She’d only ever had one breast examination before – by a very pushy locum doctor several years ago, who had insisted on it, after she’d admitted she didn’t bother. The whole thing was excruciatingly awful – to be nearly naked, with someone looking at her flabby belly and droopy breasts and touching her private bits under unforgiving fluorescent lights.
‘All right, you can get dressed,’ said Dr Collins, after she’d prodded a bit more.
Annabelle put her clothes back on and stood next to the desk, waiting to be dismissed. Dr Collins’ fingers flew across her keyboard in a frantic tapping frenzy.
‘Just sit down for a few minutes, Annabelle,’ she said as the printer next to her computer hummed into life. She gave a crooked half-smile, and Annabelle thought: what a difficult woman you are
.
‘I’m afraid it’s very unlikely to be a cyst. The lump is hard, and it’s not moving around under the skin when pushed. I’m afraid it might be a tumour of some kind, and we will need to get it checked out quickly to see whether it’s benign or not. I’ve typed up a referral to the breast clinic in Launceston. You’ll need to spend most of the day there, probably. They’ll do a mammogram and an ultrasound, then if they think it’s possibly malignant, they’ll do a fine-needle biopsy of the tissue in the lump on the same day. The results will all come back to me.’
She was staring directly at Annabelle with her silly bug eyes all gloopy with concern, and Annabelle was cross that she’d gotten herself into this ridiculous situation. How could the woman be so sure it wasn’t a cyst? She didn’t have time for a whole day in Launceston.
Dr Collins handed her the paperwork.
‘Right. Thank you,’ said Annabelle.
‘You need to ring them today, Annabelle. It’s not the sort of lump I like to find. It’s very concerning.’
‘Goodness, you’re a worry-wart!’ said Annabelle. She really didn’t have the time for this today. She had to get to the farm co-op to pick up food for the chickens and two bags of fertiliser and several trays of new herbs to plant in the kitchen garden so they’d have time to grow before the fete. Then she had to repot the hydrangea cuttings into individual pots for sale at the fete, oversee the cottage cleaning and source a dozen new chairs for this weekend’s wedding, which was bigger than any of the previous ones they’d hosted. One hundred and twenty people! Only sixty would have chairs, though. The others could stand and mingle.
She gave a little laugh to placate Dr Collins, but the woman pursed her pretty lips and leaned forward as if she was about to talk to a toddler.
‘Please, Annabelle. I’ll try to ring you this evening to find out your appointment date. If they can’t fit you in by the end of next week, I’ll ring a friend of mine who works there. I don’t want a delay.’
‘Oh,’ said Annabelle. She could feel her heart thumping. She really, really hated anything medical, and Dr Collins wasn’t giving her enough space. The idea of a big fat needle going into her breast sent little shivers through her.
‘And I’d really like you to ring a psychologist today too. I imagine this lump has been adding to the anxiety you’ve been feeling. It may have triggered something.’
Now, in the bedroom, with Dan hovering about with a face like thunder, Annabelle sighed heavily. She wondered again whether the lump was anything to do with her having this so-called anxiety episode. Probably not; there were lots of other things that might have been playing on her mind. The new wedding business, for a start, which was really very exhausting if she was honest. Plus there was Dan complaining about their finances all the time. And Willa. Willa’s appearance was very unsettling, but Annabelle didn’t really want to think about it. She knew she should just be able to cope with all these little things, but lately she wasn’t sleeping well, and she was just so incredibly tired.
‘All right,’ said Dan. ‘Well, I’m heading off. A psychologist seems like a waste of money to me, though. What’s he going to say that you don’t know already? Stop being such a stress-head and get on with it. It’s not bloody rocket science.’
Annabelle looked down at her feet. She hadn’t told him about the lump yet. One thing at a time. The silly psychologist was bad enough. She was probably only going to teach her how to do a relaxation exercise or something useless like that. The woman had promised to let her know if a cancellation came up. She wished Dan would just go to work.
‘I have a meeting at the golf club tonight. I’ll probably be home around ten or so.’
‘Okay,’ said Annabelle.
‘Don’t save me dinner. I’ll get something in town. Unless you need me to come home… if it turns out you really are sick or something.’
‘I’m fine. I’ve got heaps of work to do. It will be good if I don’t have to cook.’
Annabelle felt heavy. She didn’t know what to do. She still hadn’t called the clinic in Launceston. Every time the phone rang, her heart raced at the thought that it would be Dr Collins checking up on her. Somehow the idea of a psychologist was so much more inviting than the breast clinic. At least she could lie down and close her eyes in therapy. Wasn’t that what people did? She’d seen it in Woody Allen movies. It looked quite relaxing.
* * *
Annabelle finished writing and propped the beautiful hand-printed card against the bottle of red wine. A local artist had given her an excellent discount on the cards, which were on lovely heavy stock and featured coloured tulips and other flowers from the area. Her guests appreciated the personal handwritten note. She was sure it helped when they considered their stay in the cottages. They left her excellent reviews on the accommodation website.
Annabelle is a truly delightful host!
We couldn’t fault Annabelle’s place – pristine and stylish!
Do ask for a tour of the orchard. Annabelle is dynamite!
She liked the ones with exclamation marks the best. They were decisive. I am committed to the content of this review and I am not afraid to use emphatic punctuation to show it!!
She closed the door of the cottage and left the key in it, ready for her guests checking in tomorrow. There was no need to lock doors around here, and it made the check-in process so much easier if she didn’t have to think any more about it after the cottage was clean and ready.
She’d already had dinner, and it was late, but she’d been restless in the house and knew the best way to cure that was to find something to do. The cottage and the garden had called to her, and it was such a lovely evening. The sun was setting over the hills towards town, and beyond the cliffs the ocean was greyish-pink with tinges of orange. It reflected the swirling colours of the clouds that hung low over the cove in billowing puffs and streaks. It would be a clear day tomorrow, by the looks of those colours.
At five minutes to five, Annabelle had finally telephoned the breast clinic. She had an appointment at nine a.m. the following Friday. Seven days away. Seven long days with nobody to confide in. An image of her mother running in the paddocks behind the dairy kept appearing to her. Darling mum. Such a fun person. Annabelle was sorry she’d been so clueless back then, when her mother was dying. So completely separate from the whole thing. She could hardly remember it really – just that Sylvia had been bossy, and their father had been quiet, and whenever Annabelle looked back into her childhood it was through a painful veneer of guilt.
She should have read to Mummy; sat with her and told her stories. Instead she’d been doing what you did at that age: hanging around with friends, riding bikes, going to the beach, slathering herself with coconut oil and baking on the best tan possible. She shuddered at the damage she’d probably done to her poor skin cells. A thought settled through her, sharp and sinister. What if this lump was cancer? What if her breast was misshapen after treatment? Or she had a big scar? Dan loved her pendulous breasts. She had once been quite proud of them herself, back when they were still perky and evenly balanced and hadn’t been competing for attention with her ever-growing belly and thighs.
She walked across the garden, stopping to pull some weeds that had grown through the mulch beneath a newly planted Japanese maple. The same image of her mother appeared in her mind as she squatted down – happy, carefree, beckoning to Annabelle as she ran backwards in her trousers and a bright red woollen jumper. A pain caught her in the chest, the kind she hadn’t felt since she was a child. I want my mum.
Sylvia had stayed for a couple of years to raise her after their mother died, but she was distracted, busy, still in training as a nurse and out with Dan the nights she wasn’t rostered on a night shift. She’d tried her best, but Annabelle had had a special bond with her mum. She’d felt abandoned by everyone after she died.
She supposed her mother was trying to tell her something now, appearing like this in her mind. Go and chat to your sister. And now that sh
e thought about it, Sylvia might have a herbal remedy to make the lump go away. Or there might be some sort of cream she could recommend to rub on it. Lately Sylvia had been talking a lot about the ancient medicine of Ayurveda, and she seemed to have a powder or a herb to cure anything. Then another thought occurred to Annabelle. There might be a special Ayurvedic tumour-reducing diet she could go on! Lose some weight in the process as a bonus. She smiled to herself.
As the darkness fell, a strange sense of calm came over her. That was what her mother had been trying to tell her. In the house, she grabbed her car keys, stopping only to apply a quick swipe of lipstick, pull on a better cardigan, grab a small chocolate bar from the pantry and swap her garden boots for a pair of slip-on loafers. She was still in her gardening pants, but they were her best pair, and it was only Sylvia anyway. She would see no one else out that way at night.
She drove down the main road, then took the turn-off to the beach road, her headlights cutting bright swathes through the blackness. The road narrowed as she approached the top of the incline that hugged the hill. Stars were sprinkled through the sky like powdery gems, and out to her right, the ocean was a black mass of nothingness. It was now completely dark, and Sylvia’s long, potholed driveway had no lighting at all and hardly any space to turn the car around when you got to the house – unless you were an excellent driver or owned a Mini. Annabelle had a very nice Lexus. Mid-sized. And she sometimes misjudged things, which meant she had already had two scrapes this year. Dan would be furious if she got a third one. She would park in the little lookout parking bay further along the road and walk back.
The more she thought about Sylvia’s herbal cures as she sat looking out over the black ocean, the more the lump began receding as a problem in her mind. She turned on her phone torch as she got out of the car and listened to the scramble of something close by in the bushes. She swung the torch around to the noise and two bright red eyes glared at her from a low-hanging eucalyptus branch. A little possum.
The Daughter's Promise (ARC) Page 11
