Gravity Well

by Melanie Joosten

  Will you at least promise me you’ll bring Vin down to stay? Her eyes opened, showing a tiny spark of eagerness. He shouldn’t be up there all alone.

  Okay, Mum.

  Good. Helen smiled. Now, tell me about your new project. How many exoplanets do you hope to find?

  We’re not sure. It’s hard to find them; they’ve only found two with this new technology. It relies on the Doppler effect — a planet’s gravity will have an effect on its host star, making it wobble. So we watch the stars, and when we detect that movement from their wavelength, we know there’s a planet nearby.

  I would have thought you had a much fancier way of finding them these days. It seems so old-fashioned.

  No need to reinvent the wheel, Mum.

  And what do you do when you find them?

  We calculate their size and mass by measuring the eccentricity of their orbits: the tilt of their orbital plane, and their resonance, or how they move in time with others in their system. There’s a lot to consider.

  It’s like scoring ballroom dancing, Helen pointed out, delighted. You’re awarding points for measurements that could seem arbitrary, but are vital to those in the know.

  Lotte laughed at her mother’s version: Helen could always make the most complicated scientific concepts graspable. She had a habit of using astronomy metaphors to explain things that had nothing to do with astronomy, and while it had bugged Lotte in the past — it was too whimsical, too quixotic — increasingly, she had found herself doing it. Watching her mother’s decline over the last few months, her desperate lurching from one effort to another, had made Lotte think of planets, greedily grabbing at anything that came near — a satellite, a comet, a space shuttle — and turning it into a moon to keep them company. As she became more unwell, Helen dropped and picked up projects at random. She told Lotte that there were certain books she just had to read, but then they would be discarded by the bed when her mother picked up her knitting, needles furiously clacking until they, too, were put aside. She was the same with her friends: asking them to come and visit, and then having nothing to say, making it obvious she was impatient for them to leave. Lotte watched with sympathy and despair, unable to change her mother’s trajectory, knowing what all these attempts at diversion were trying to conceal.

  This would be Helen’s last visit to the hospital. They all knew it.

  You don’t need to be here all the time, Helen said after a long silence. You should be back at the observatory. It makes me feel like you’re waiting for something.

  Even now, her mother managed to look formidable. She stared at Lotte defiantly, daring her to say it. Since the cancer had returned, it had refused to respond to any treatments. The palliative-care team had come to do their assessment yesterday; they were at the house now, installing a hospital bed and drawing up schedules with Lotte’s father.

  I am waiting. Lotte forced down her annoyance, tossing the empty pudding container into the bin. Waiting for you not to be so bloody difficult.

  This, at least, drew a smile; her mother could only ever take ‘difficult’ as a compliment.

  Go on, Lotte. Go outside, enjoy some sun. For me at least. I’ll still be here when you get back.

  They both ignored the fact that she wouldn’t be able to say that for much longer.

  •

  Sitting in the hotel lobby, Lotte looked at her watch. It was only late morning; she had hours to fill before her appointment. Four years since her mother’s death, and what had Lotte achieved? A bounty of publications, but nothing truly extraordinary — that’s why she needed to go to Chile. All her work, years of it, would come to nothing if she couldn’t discover proof of the planets her research pointed to. To be part of something so big — Vin would understand. And time might be running out. She pulled herself up from the couch and walked back out into the fray.

  2

  EVE

  AUGUST 2015

  She doesn’t remember if it’s closer to Lorne or Apollo Bay. Each time the bus eases around a headland, Eve looks for the familiar dip of the road where cliff gives way to sandy beach. Traffic is sluggish, the road slippery with rain; the bus climbs steep hills in low gear, negotiating hairpin turns almost too tight for its long body. Eve steals another glance out the window, not wanting to invite conversation from the woman across the aisle but unable to ignore the mesmeric pull of the ocean. The afternoon sea is a sink of dishwater, the sky dangling above like limp grey curtains. Last time she’d been here it was summer: the sky was crayon cerulean, the midday sun stripping the landscape of depth, pulling every part of the view onto the same plane.

  Makes you feel alive, doesn’t it?

  The elderly woman directs her comment to the window. She sucks noisily on a mint and offers the bag of them without looking at Eve. She likes her, this woman. Just for that — the not-looking.

  I’ve been watching the waves churning over themselves down there; they’d swallow you up in an instant, says the woman.

  How cold it would be: how numbing. The winter sea pulling itself through Antarctic ice floes to eventually pound onto the shore. In the bag of powdery mints, Eve feels the broken edge of one and drops it for another.

  Thank you, she says, putting the mint in her mouth.

  Soldiers built this road, you know, says the woman. My father, he worked on it awhile before he got his land. Thirty acres out near Korumburra.

  Scrabbling for another mint, the woman’s arthritic knuckles fight each other. In the seats ahead, adolescent legs cantilever the aisle; backpacks spill boxes of Barbecue Shapes and soft-drink bottles. Teenagers pass headphones over the seats, yelping accusations at one another, pouting at mobile phones.

  They’re a bit of a handful, aren’t they?

  The woman is expecting conversation. Eve has avoided looking at the teens since they boarded the bus back at the station. The prickly sideburns of the boys, new to shaving, angry bumps of acne crowding their necks and cheeks. The girls are slick of any body hair, their ankles decorated with charm bracelets and rainbow-coloured bands, feet bare in thongs despite the season, toes stubby beneath chipped nail polish. There is so much wrong about them, so much still to grow.

  Ah, kids, the woman says, still struggling with the mints, the plastic bag crackling at her fist. They’d all have rough lives, those ones; this is probably the only holiday they’re likely to get, and it’s not their parents who are taking them.

  She finally succeeds in extracting a mint from the bag and pops it in her mouth.

  A woman wearing a lanyard is kneeling on a seat at the front of the bus, passing a clipboard across the aisle to her colleague. They’d ticked off each child as they entered the bus, friendly demeanours keeping their authority at the ready. Youth workers. How do they do it? Their charges talk too loudly, aware the whole bus can hear them, refusing to censor their crass conversation, seemingly revelling in the discomfort they unload on the other passengers. The boys cram chips into their mouths; the girls loll against one another, stroking each other’s arms. Eve hates them. The unfairness of these children. Their loud, obnoxious freedom to do as they please. To be the age they are. She pulls her gaze back to the window, risking encouraging the woman in further conversation, but the woman says nothing for a while. They both stare out to sea. Eve takes another mint without asking; the first has been ground to sugary spit in her mouth.

  Most kids have got no chance these days, the woman says eventually. Not going to be able to afford university, and what can they do without that? Can’t buy a house, can’t get a job.

  It’s not that bad, is it? asks Eve.

  She marvels at this woman’s ability to care for others, these children she doesn’t even know. How old must she be? Seventy, at least, maybe eighty. Twice Eve’s age. Is that what happens when you get older? You get more time for other people?

  It’s all relative, I suppose, says the woman. Better
like this than sending them off to war. My dad, he signed up when he wasn’t even twenty, and when he came back, he was never the same. Well, not that I remember — I was born well after all that. But they all said it later: my aunties and my grandparents. My mum. Said he came back different.

  When the woman sucks on her mint her lips purse and release with a sloppy sound; a toddler with a lollipop. Shut that thought away.

  But they built this road, they did. A couple of miles a month, and livin’ in tents. He used to tell us kids that there was a shipwreck one night. Hundreds of barrels of beer and whiskey bobbing about in the ocean and theirs for the taking. I don’t know whether to believe him or not, he was a storyteller, he was. But he reckons they stopped work for two weeks then, couldn’t get any of the boys off the grog long enough to lift a shovel until it was all drunk.

  A murmur of encouragement, and the woman talks on. Her words block Eve’s thoughts, like insulation batts squashed into place. It is easy, this listening. A noise here and there. A nod. She tells Eve how cold it could be getting up to milk on a Korumburra morning, the only heat coming from the cows’ udders, warm and pliable in her hands, toes cultivating chilblains in her shoes. She tells of picking straw out of her hair before dressing for church, and trying not to fall asleep while jammed in next to her sisters in the front pew. She tells of scorching the back of her school dress while standing in front of the Aga. She tells of fibbing about sunning her legs on the parish tennis court with the other girls when she’d been sent into town to the shops.

  Dunes build between the road and the ocean, and the cliffs flatten out. The bus swoops into Lorne, and there is a scramble amongst the teens to pack up their belongings: clothes stuffed in plastic bags, sleeping bags that have seen better days. Eve softens towards them, just a little. Their loud bravado is excitement, not an attempt to annoy her, or to remind her she is no longer so young and carefree.

  Are you getting off here, love?

  The woman stares. One of her eyes is the colour of milky tea; the other so brown it’s almost black.

  No. Eve hugs her tote bag to her chest. It fills the gap between her and everything else. Sorry, are you? She stands to help the woman with her bags.

  Nope. I’m going on to Apollo Bay. My daughter has a holiday house there. Well, not quite Apollo Bay – Skenes Creek. Do you know it? It’s just a little way before.

  Eve shakes her head, relaxes back into her seat. A kind daughter to provide such refuge. The bus starts up again, almost empty.

  A nice wood fire, a cup of tea, and a good book, says the woman. That’s about all you need to be happy. They don’t tell you that when you’re young though, do they?

  It’s not always so simple. Eve tries to snap, but the words slide out of her mouth, softer than she wants them to be.

  The woman turns to look at her, and nods slowly. Milky tea. Browny black.

  Right you are, love. Right you are.

  The bus crawls out of Lorne, between the pier and the pub. Eve closes her eyes. Light leaks in around the edges, a world of dark red. This is what it would have been like. Not awake, not asleep. The bus sways; her thighs tense to correct the rocking and keep herself upright. How is it that her body wants something she does not? She wills herself to collapse, but her body remains seated; it won’t slump. The bus slows again, jolts her awake.

  Cumberland River? calls out the bus driver.

  Eve recognises these words; she waits for her body to respond.

  Oh shit, sorry. This is me.

  Pulling herself from the seat, she stretches to tug her sleeping bag down from the parcel shelf.

  Take care, love.

  This from the woman. She is facing the window, talking again to the sea.

  Eve shuffles off the bus, arms full and catching at the headrests. Her skin tingles in the cold, unwilling to leave the heated bus behind. The bus driver is standing by the luggage doors, socks pulled up on calves the size of roadside bollards.

  Which one is it?

  I don’t have any bags, she says, turning to leave.

  I put your bags on the bus, lady. Now I’ll take them off. Which ones?

  The door is lifted above his head like a verandah. Eve wants to climb into the compartment and pull the door closed after her. It is dark in there, amongst people’s precious things. She points out her bag and tent, and he pulls them free, drops them to the ground by her feet. Then he grabs a small blue esky with a Red Cross sticker on the side, and puts it down beside her bag.

  That’s not mine, she says, accusatory — sharp and sour. She already has more than she should.

  Of course it’s not. It’s for Len’s kid. He waits for her response before prompting. The caravan park owner?

  Right.

  They both wait to see if she will say any more. She doesn’t.

  See ya then.

  The bus eases off down the road. Why did she bring so many things? A family — mum, dad, and three kids rugged up in polar fleeces and beanies — wait to cross the road to the beach. Eve lifts the bag to her back and tries to gather the sleeping bag and esky in one hand, but her finger-span isn’t big enough.

  Wait up!

  The family has crossed the road; the father jogs to her.

  Let me give you a hand.

  No, it’s alright, really.

  He takes the biggest bag, picking up the tent in his other hand.

  No worries. I’ll just help you across and leave you to it.

  The three children watch, open-faced stares. The wife smiles with her mouth, but her eyes warn. Yes, I am dangerous, thinks Eve. She crosses the road, walks through the car park to the reception.

  Bit cold for camping, isn’t it?

  When he puts down the bags, the tent poles clatter against each other.

  She shrugs. He doesn’t see it.

  Fair enough, then. Well, stay warm.

  The door to reception is locked, though the sign is flipped to Open. Leaning into the glass, Eve can make out a deserted desk, a bell to ring if it’s unattended. She slumps to the steps, jamming her hands in her pockets. Coming here wasn’t such a good idea. Running away will only ever be a cliché, not an answer.

  We’re all booked out.

  A bald man comes around the side of the office, black eyebrows like caterpillars clinging to his forehead. He is struggling to pull his right arm into a down vest — he can’t seem to bend it enough.

  I took a tumble on the pier two weeks ago, the man says.

  He gives all of his words to her as though she wants to hear them.

  Slid on a pile of fish guts, and landed on my arse. I snapped my rod in two; Jordie cacked himself. My arm hasn’t been the same since.

  The caterpillars gently nudge up against each other until the arm is through the opening, and he smiles widely.

  Did you say you’re booked out? says Eve. She looks past him to the camping ground. There are no tents; the lawns are bare, green and lush until they fall away to the swollen river.

  Just kidding. We’ve got plenty of cabins available. Pretty quiet over winter.

  He steps around her and unlocks the sliding door, opening it with a flourish.

  You’re off the bus?

  He points at her luggage, and the esky sitting next to it.

  Yes.

  She gets to her feet and passes him the esky.

  Thanks for that, he says. Will keep the little monster going.

  He puts it on the counter.

  So, how many nights do you want? All the cabins have hot water, a shower, toilet, and TV. Just the regular channels, not Foxtel.

  I’m just after a campsite. I’ve got a tent.

  The man sucks air through his front teeth, looking at her properly.

  Bit cold for that, isn’t it? And the river … well, if we get more rain, I don’t know, it might
flood.

  Tent, sleeping bag, and foam mat — she’d bought them all at once, not listening to the salesman’s patter. It was the only way, the only kind of space to be in: small and enclosed, with no view and no comfort.

  Is it going to rain?

  Well, it’s not forecast today. But that doesn’t mean much. If it’s the price, I can give you a discount on one of the cabins. Not like there’s a huge demand just now.

  It’s not money. I just wanted to camp. I’ll be fine — it’ll just be a couple of days.

  Pause.

  Well, fair enough. Until Thursday, then?

  Yes. I think.

  Thursday must not be tomorrow; maybe it’s the day after. Her body lurches, reaching for the counter. Both Eve and the man look at her hand, clinging there like a lost sea animal.

  Well, is it just you?

  What do you mean?

  Are you by yourself? Is there anyone else with you?

  Just me.

  Still not used to saying those words.

  There’s a spot tucked up the back, it’s a little bit higher than the rest, he says.

  They watch her hand unclench.

  It’s a fair hike from the facilities, but it won’t flood. And it’s not under the trees, so I won’t have to worry about them dropping their branches on you.

  Thanks.

  She signs her name in the register, paying three days in advance, and he leads her past cabins with their blinds drawn, gas bottles beneath tarpaulin shrouds, to a grassy patch at the pointy end of the park. Here the hills steeply fold in on each other, leaving just enough space for the river to pass down below. The trees skirt the campsite uneasily, huddled up against the sheer rock face, which goes straight up like a theatre backdrop.

  She is back at the reception desk within ten minutes.

  You’re after a hammer, aren’t you?

  Beckoned by the bell, he stands again behind the counter. She nods. The hammer is already in his hand; he passes it, and she takes it by its head.