Gravity Well

by Melanie Joosten

  Eve listened to Mina and tried to render her sounds in phonetic language, cataloguing the forms as one might birdcalls. She remembered hearing that disease and parasites could affect a bird’s song rate and pitch, and so she tried to listen out for any such clues in Mina’s cries. She called the maternal health and child nurse to explain, holding the receiver up to Mina’s mouth.

  She just wants some attention, the nurse told Eve, the exasperation in her voice as clear as the anguish in Mina’s.

  You’ve not been giving her enough attention. You don’t deserve her, and she knows it.

  At least, this was what Eve thought the nurse had said, because this is what she knew was really the matter.

  The maternal health centre had no appointments that day, so Eve took Mina to a doctor. In the waiting room, she faced the pram towards herself, so that no one could see Mina’s flushed and scratched face, her own hand having angrily marked her cheek. The other people in the waiting room tried not to look at her, but the crying drew them back.

  Perhaps you should pick him up, love, said one man. He smiled encouragingly, and Eve obliged, knowing it would make it worse. It did.

  Jig him around, said another patient.

  Or swoop him a little, like this. A woman cradled her magazine, showing Eve what to do, crooning to its cover of a harried Jennifer Aniston.

  Her regular doctor was on holidays, and the replacement was a man she hadn’t seen before. His bald head was comfortingly round, as though it had been smoothed by years of use, and he beamed with expectation when she carried Mina into the room.

  A baby!

  She chose to ignore the way his exclamation suggested novelty, and let him take Mina from her arms, her wailing momentarily stilled. Laying her on the examination table, the doctor gently pushed at Mina’s tummy, prodded fingers around her mouth. Eve demonstrated how Mina’s upset exacerbated when she was picked up, subsided when she was put down, but never quietened, except for short moments of feeding, her teeth chomping at Eve’s nipples and bringing tears to her eyes. She wanted the doctor to tell her she was doing something wrong, to demonstrate the way things should be done, but he only stood back, watching.

  There’s nothing medically wrong with your daughter, the doctor said. All Eve could hear was that there was something wrong, something the doctor refused to take responsibility for.

  There is a checklist, though, he said. Hang on, let me find it.

  He shuffled the papers on his desk, eventually pulling a laminated sheet from his inbox.

  We’re supposed to ask all new mothers about this sort of thing, though I suppose it’s your daughter who’s upset, not you.

  He spoke increasingly loudly, throwing his voice above Mina’s cries.

  We don’t need to ask every question, it’s a bit dry … let’s see …

  He cast his eye down the page.

  Okay, well, what about this one? Are you feeling a bit overwhelmed?

  He looked at her hopefully.

  A little, she said.

  Right. Are you feeling like you have little energy?

  She was exhausted, but everyone kept telling her that was normal.

  I feel like I’ve got too much energy sometimes, Eve said. Somewhere deep inside me. I’m not doing enough, I’m not stretching myself; it’s like I can’t reach anything.

  He consulted his list, shaking his head.

  No, no, I don’t think so. Look, why don’t you take this list, have a think about all the things it asks, and get back to me?

  He brightened at this idea, ushering her out the door.

  She took the baby home and eventually, just before Tom returned, Mina stopped crying. Eve started crying herself then, the minute Tom walked in the door, salty tears that ran to the corner of her mouth as though they didn’t want to stray too far. The next day was the same, and the next. The short hours when Mina used to sleep and Eve would do the same, or hang and fold the endless laundry, were memories. She wrote a series of unsent emails to Lotte, headphones clamped in her ears to block Mina’s cries, the words unfurling across the screen. She’s an absolute dream most of the time. So interested in the world around her, her big eyes just taking everything in. And she laughs a lot; she does this funny little giggle that’s more like a snort.

  She wanted to be angry with her daughter, but she felt nothing. After all, this is what she deserved. She wasn’t cut out to be a mother — even Nate had seen that — and she had let herself become pregnant to Tom before he could uncover the same. Mina’s screams were stupidly loud, and Eve took to wearing her headphones constantly, the cord dangling at her waist or tucked into her belt, the silicon buds blocking her ears and making her own swallows audible. The cries morphed into long wailing sobs when Mina was held, harried spurts of indignity when left alone in her cot. And all the while, those focused eyes. The slightly furrowed brow as if to say, what was so difficult? What didn’t Eve understand?

  Everything was noise, and Eve, who used to seek sounds out, became desperate for silence. Not quiet, but silence. She would lie on her bed in the afternoon, in the short periods after feeding when Mina actually did sleep, and listen. The tick of her watch — she would unstrap it and close it in her underwear drawer. Cars passing outside — approaching and then driving away. The whoosh of water running into the washing machine; the click of the air-conditioning turned on in response to the thermostat. The dull hiss of the electricity climbing up the cord to the clock radio. Was it even audible, or was it only a slight vibration of industry as the little unit went about its task of telling the time? Eve switched it off at the wall, and the hiss stopped. For a moment such relief flooded her, until she heard a repetitive tapping. What was it? She haunted the bedroom, listening for the culprit. There — water dripping from the tap in the en suite, no matter how tightly it was turned off.

  She took the stack of minidisks she’d been keeping in the garage and burrowed in a plastic tub until she found the player itself. She had listened to those recordings so often that every sound was familiar. The wind beneath the pier at Merimbula. Trains shunting up against each other at Central Station. The call of an oil barge waiting to dock. In this way, she was able to block the endless drone of Mina’s crying: walking her around the lake, headphones on, ignoring the disgusted looks of passers-by and the swans haughty with annoyance at the noise.

  There, right next to Lotte’s image on her computer screen, was a green tick: she was online. Eve pressed the button to connect and waited as the familiar Skype ringtone bubbled away. She had no idea what time it was in Chile.

  Hi, Eve.

  Lotte appeared on screen. Her eyes darted about as though she was scanning Eve’s room, and then she forced a smile.

  How are you? Lotte asked. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail; her face looked thinner than it used to be.

  I’m good. Really good, said Eve. How are you? How’s work?

  You know, same old. It’s a really busy place. Lots to do.

  Then silence. Neither sure what to say.

  How’s the baby? asked Lotte eventually. Mina?

  She’s good; she’s asleep at the moment. She doesn’t sleep much, she was up every few hours last night ...

  That’s a shame, that she’s asleep. I would have liked to see her.

  I could go get her.

  No, that’s alright.

  Again, the silence.

  It’s so nice to talk to you, Lotte. I’m sorry it’s been so long. Things have been pretty crazy with Mina and all, you can’t really imagine.

  No, I probably can’t.

  Lotte smiled.

  I didn’t mean—

  That’s okay, I understand. Look, I have to go. My shift’s about to start.

  Okay, well, maybe we can make another time, said Eve, near pleading.

  Sure. That would be nice. Okay. Sorry, got to go. Bye.


  And with a little whooshing sound, Lotte was gone, and Eve could hear Mina wailing from the bedroom.

  Later, she would not remember whether Mina had really cried all this time or whether it just felt that way. Logic suggested one thing, memory another. The days lengthened. Tom seemed to always be there. Checking emails as he piled things in the washing machine, cooking dinner while Eve lay in the bath. She tried to draw from him his memories of his first daughter as a baby. How similar was she to Mina? Had she ever behaved in this way? She tried to disguise her questions as those of a curious mother, hunting for tips that would make life easier. But she worried that Tom wouldn’t love Mina in the way he must his first daughter. An adult, a woman of the world, while Mina was such a helpless creature. An encumbrance on them both.

  It was Tom who took her back to her own doctor, and then to the psychologist. Tom who never once said, you’re the one who wanted a baby, why are you acting like this? Tom who delighted in every moment that Mina gave him.

  I’ve never been so happy, and you’ve never been so unhappy, Tom said.

  He had come into the bathroom, where she sat in the bath, and was pouring jugs of water down her back, as though her hair was long and soapy. A lone duck bobbed in front of her, refusing to be upended no matter how many times she tipped it over.

  Was your wife ever like this?

  He paused in his water pouring.

  My first wife, he said. You’re my wife.

  Yes.

  A little. Some days. But not so much.

  It must have been better with her then. Having a child? Marriage?

  Eve counted the seconds until he answered. Three.

  No, it wasn’t, said Tom. She found it easy, much easier than you. But it wasn’t better with her. None of it was.

  She leaned her damp hair against his chest, her arm hard up against the cool of the porcelain tub.

  Thank you, she said.

  It will get better, Tom said, shuffling forward on the bath mat until she could see his face, his body awkward in its manoeuvres, looking for comfort on the tiled floor and not finding it.

  You’re getting there; it will pass.

  Will it? Really? I feel like I will pass.

  She tried to smile at him and found that she could not.

  I feel like I’m a fleeting moment. A leaf in a river, just rushing along, and you’re everything else: the river, the banks, the trees. I’ve come into your life, but you’ve been here a long time. You’ve done marriage. You’ve already had a child.

  What about if we moved? asked Tom. We don’t have to stay here — we can sell the house, go somewhere else.

  It’s not that.

  She thought of his friends, so welcoming of her, all of them with their unvoiced memories of his first wife, with their grandchildren the same age as Mina.

  What makes you think it can’t be done again? Differently? Better?

  He reached into the tub, flicking the rubber duck on its beak so that it did a nosedive before bobbing up again.

  I wasn’t a very good father the first time around, you know that. But with Mina, I can be. You’ve given me another chance.

  That’s exactly what I mean. We’re your second chance.

  And I’m thankful for it. This … — he gestured at the tiled bathroom, the mirror fogged and dripping condensation, taking it all in as though it was his kingdom — This is a good thing, he said. You, me, Mina. It will get better; the psychologist said it would. It’s not your fault; it happens to a lot of mothers.

  I’m sorry. I feel so ungrateful—

  What do you have to be grateful for? Tom cut her off. I should be thanking you, Eve. You’ve given me so much. Where would I be otherwise? Alone. And turning into an old man, no doubt.

  I miss her, Eve said. She doesn’t have to tell him who she is talking about.

  I know you do, he said.

  And he stood up, knees cracking, and pulled a towel from the rails, waiting for her to step into his outstretched arms.

  But I miss you.

  The following day Mina’s eyes were closed, her cries high and thin, as though she was calling for help yet knowing it was not going to come. Eve opened the sliding door and slunk through the heat to the garage. Her three bikes were lined up against the wall; Tom’s was hanging from a hook. It was like seeing old friends. She wheeled her road bike into the lounge room, the flat tyres leaving dull marks on the floorboards. She found the bike pump on a garage shelf, beside it the stationery trainer, and took both inside. Eve set Mina in her bouncer so they were facing off against each other, and then she locked the bike into the trainer, breathing heavily as she pumped up the tyres. She was so unfit; sweat was already forming across her neck, and she’d not even gotten on the bike yet.

  When she clicked into the pedals she felt light for the first time in months. She found her rhythm quickly, the trainer whirring with the effort of holding her in place. At the noise, Mina’s cries stopped. Of course they did. She watched Eve, curious at the way she was all head and arms, soothed by the rhythmic whirr of the back wheel. Sweat soon dripped onto the floor, making it slippery, and the trainer slid forward in short bursts. Eve pedalled, and Mina’s eyes began to close. Eve slowed. Mina’s eyes opened. Eve pedalled again.

  Things improved slowly. Mina began to eat more, and cry less. Eve graduated from cycling in the lounge room with the trainer to coasting along country roads, the asphalt rough under her wheels, cars swerving out wide around her. Eve let herself forget that this was the second time for Tom.

  When Mina was one year old, Eve went back to work. The sound-and-light show had been a success, and, chasing the tourist dollar as factories closed down and abattoirs made way for new suburbs of McMansions, the town wanted to leverage its history as the ‘birthplace of democracy’. Eve was commissioned to create a soundscape for a new museum, so that as visitors traversed the room they would be enveloped in the moment of the period being documented, its sound raining down on them from overhead speakers positioned like so many shower roses. The clank of wagons and horses in the streets; rattling tramcars and first-generation motorcars; the schoolyard chants of children engaged in skipping and marbles. Eve spent hours in the library archives, going through old radio programs and annotating background noises, so she could figure out how to recreate them when the recordings were not of good enough quality. By the end of the afternoon she would be eager to get to childcare, restless for Mina’s energy, her circular play, her repeated words.

  Baby! Baby! She would exclaim from her seat at the front of Eve’s bike as they rode through town, her little finger pointing at a far-off pram.

  Up! Up! She would cry as they passed the playground. Woof! Woof! For every dog that scampered past.

  Apogee! She called at the octopus that was perched above the carwash, each one of its tentacles clutching a sponge.

  And Eve allowed her happiness to bloom.

  •

  The air in the tent is dead. Lifeless. Finished. There is no movement; everything is still, and the damp is trapped in the folds of the sleeping bag, in the piles of clothes. Eve pulled her shoes off at the door, but the sand that had clung to them had also kept hold of her jeans, and it follows her into the tent, scratching at her ankles, elbows; anywhere her body touches another surface, there seems to be sand. She feels but cannot hear her own deep breaths above the rain and the wind that whips at the tent walls, snapping them to dull notes. She tries to shake away the wavering that has taken hold by pretending she has just finished a ride: legs jittery and hands to knees, trying to open her lungs to the possibility of air. Square, uneven breaths — she tells herself they are something other than what they are: the result of exercise, perhaps, of pushing too far. Her bicycle rides have a beginning and an end — there is a particular outfit to be worn, road rules to obey. There is sense.

  There had been one abo
rted ride, sometime after; clipping shoes into the pedals and pushing off down the street, ignoring her shaky breath, arms of jelly, telling herself that once she got into a rhythm everything would return to normal. Got to get back on your bike. Tears had filled her eyes unbidden and skated across her cheeks, as they would on a frosty morning coming down the old volcano road, fingertips numb in her gloves, eyes streaming. She wavered as she came to the intersection, unable to judge the speed of the car trundling ahead. Would it see her? Would it slow down in time? Did she want it to? She released her foot from the pedal, unable to balance, and limped her bike across to the footpath. Unlocking the other foot, she walked home — that place she didn’t want to be or to leave, shoes clacking on the ground. For so many years cycling had been the one thing that kept her sane. Long rides on country roads, cars giving her a wide berth, tooting with impatience or encouragement, she could never tell which. Never cared. Legs pumping up and down, a slow burn in her thighs, handlebars loose in her grip.

  The last time she went for a proper ride was before everything went wrong. Lying in the tent, Eve’s thoughts bang into a rut. Legs shake, arms convulse at her side, hands clench into fists. She thinks of the road, the white line of the shoulder unfurling in front. Tells herself to breathe. The panic subsides.

  She wills herself to sleep, but she cannot ignore the gnawing at her stomach so she rummages through the bags: bread, a packet of two-minute noodles. Running through the rain toward the kitchen, she lands deep in a puddle as she leaps to avoid another, water soaking in through shoe and sock, squelching as she makes it inside. She eats the two-minute noodles without tasting them. The fluorescent tubes of the campsite kitchen emit a soft buzz along with their flat light, interrupted only by the clunk of the water pipes from the shower block next door. What is she doing here? She imagines her tent fading from years of sun, its nylon walls drooping to the ground. How long before she started making small adjustments to make herself more comfortable? A chair; a reading lamp; a thicker mattress. Determined to make each day just a little bit easier. The coast would be swarming with families in the school holidays, traffic blocked on weekends for marathons and cycle races and swim meets — it would be like living in Ballarat again, as faces became familiar and social expectations were laid down. If she wants to be alone, she will need to be on the move; it will be the only way to grant Tom the distance he deserves.