It might, said Eve.
She had been surprised by her own yearning, which only grew over the years. Her envy for Nate, and everything he had with Katie. Was he really willing to throw that away? That’s what it would amount to, if he chose Eve. The children relegated to weekend visits and sleepovers; Eve cast in the role of stepmother.
Lotte shrugged.
I guess, she said. But no. I don’t think it will.
She stretched her arms up to the sky, lacing her fingers and pushing into the emptiness, as though a weight had literally been lifted from her shoulders.
I know it’s what Vin wants, said Lotte. I keep telling myself that should be reason enough. But what if it isn’t?
You have to talk about it with him.
Lotte slowly nodded. I know, I know.
She twirled one of the fuchsia blooms in her fingers. Tomorrow. I’ll go back to Canberra tomorrow. Lotte stood, and began gathering glasses from the table. I feel bad that you came all the way down here, just for one night.
Eve recognised the closure in Lotte’s tone. Already the discussion had been packed neatly away into the past, her mind switched to the next task.
That’s okay, said Eve. I’ll take the camper down the coast. I’ve got my bike with me, and it won’t be as hot down there.
You can stay a couple of days, said Lotte. Dad won’t be back until the end of the week. You could check out the mountain-biking trails out Sebastopol way. I think there’s all these hills that are actually mullock heaps from the gold mines. Or come up and stay with us — anything to keep you away from Sydney and Nate. Lotte waggled her finger at Eve as she headed to the kitchen door.
And following her inside, Eve did her own bit of friendly mothering. And you get your results, she said. She waited until Lotte put down the glasses on the kitchen bench before grabbing her arm and pulling her into a hug. I mean it, she whispered, not letting go until she felt Lotte’s nod.
You’re not Lotte.
His voice jerked her out of drowsy complacency. Late morning. When the window’s blind billowed in the breeze, light charged forward in strong lines, touching a water glass on the bedside table before landing as a rainbow across the wall. When the open window inhaled, the light dimmed.
It’s Eve, isn’t it? Lotte’s Eve. There was amusement in his voice, and Eve turned toward the sound. A man leant against the doorframe, arms crossed.
Eve edged away from sleep, wondering where she was, letting the room fall into place. Lotte’s house. Lotte’s childhood house.
Yes.
I’m Tom. Lotte’s father. I don’t think we’ve met, not properly.
They had met, at Helen’s funeral. The memories surfaced, one by one, like a jury sidling into the dock. Outside the church, Eve had shaken his hand, but then, feeling she had been too formal, she had leaned in to kiss his cheek, immediately becoming embarrassed that she had been too forward. During the service he had been ashen and composed. His thumb had stroked the head of the wooden pew continually, as if it were a reminder there were still things that were real and could be touched.
I don’t suppose you know where Lotte is?
Tom took a step back, into the hallway, looking left then right as though his daughter might come around the corner.
She’s gone back to Canberra, said Eve. She left at about six this morning. She said I could sleep here, that you wouldn’t be back for a few more days.
Eve’s embarrassment, lethargic with sleep, caught up with her. She was in this man’s house. His bed. She clutched at the sheet, pulling it up to cover her chest even though she was clothed.
It’s okay. I don’t mind that you’re here. And I don’t bite.
A friendliness in his voice; a want to put her at ease.
I came back early, Tom said. Things weren’t exactly working out down the coast. So I thought I might as well spend some time with my daughter. Who doesn’t seem to be here.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Eve could make out Tom’s features. A high forehead; slightly beaked nose; black-framed glasses.
She went back home, since you weren’t here.
Well, sorry to disturb you. I’ll let you get back to sleep. Tom pushed himself away from the doorframe, made as if to walk away and then paused. Though I’m about to make some coffee, if you’d like some?
Yes, sure. I’ll join you. I … Her voice trailed off even as it sounded like she was going to say something more; the hesitation, the intake of breath at the end of her sentence. Tom waited; Eve waited.
Right, well, he said. I’ll just be in the kitchen.
When he closed the door it slammed heavily, plunging the room back into dark. In response, the blind tapped gently at the windowsill, and Eve got out of bed, pulling on shorts and fastening a bra under her singlet. What must he think of her, sleeping in his bed like some kind of Goldilocks? She wished she had slept on the couch, but Lotte had insisted. She stuffed her clothes in her bag, looking around to make sure she was leaving nothing behind. Running her tongue over her teeth, she contemplated a shower, toothpaste. But she couldn’t stand there in his en suite while he was waiting.
Opening the bedroom door, she thought about just slipping down the hallway and escaping. The front door was open, only a flyscreen door between her and the bright morning. Her camper van was parked just out the front, and she could simply disappear; she didn’t want to be a nuisance. Nevertheless, she carried her bag into the living area: there would be too many explanations to make later if she just left. Lotte would think her ridiculous.
How do you have it? White? Black? Sugar? He had his back to her, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders; he was a man at ease in his own space, and she could only feel she was intruding.
Black, please.
Eve went red: she usually took her coffee with milk, but, already feeling like she was imposing, she didn’t want to be demanding.
Tom passed her a mug.
At least she ate the pineapple, he said, seeming pleased.
The what?
I left her a pineapple. It’s something Vin does, for guests. I thought it might make her feel at home.
Eve nodded, not sure what this conversation required from her.
I guess you won’t see her again before she goes? said Eve.
To Chile? I guess not. I don’t see her all that much anyway.
I suppose she lives quite far away. It must be hard to make the time.
When Tom didn’t say anything, Eve kept talking into the silence: For both of you, I mean. You must both be busy, very busy and both live far away — from one another — it would take time … She tumbled from one word to another, making little sense.
The relationship between time and distance? said Tom, amused. I’m sure Lotte has a very complicated equation for that, and I can tell you now it doesn’t involve speed. Certainly she’s never in any hurry to see me. She was always closer to her mother. As you know.
Tom’s eyes seemed to take her in then, measuring her against something known.
Eve laughed. Well, she’s about to ditch her husband for a year, so I wouldn’t take it too personally.
She felt a stab of shame, making fun of Lotte in her absence, but something told her that Tom understood.
Anyway, I really should get going. Eve stood, gulping her coffee, and the legs of the stool scraped rudely on the floorboards, leaving a long mark.
Shit, sorry.
Don’t worry about it. I keep meaning to replace the little rubber stoppers on the feet, but I never get around to it. Too busy, I guess.
Eve heard the tease in his voice. They both contemplated the scratch on the floor.
Is that your van out front? The camper?
She nodded, seeing immediately the familiar powder-blue paint, seats of navy-and-cream vinyl plaid, the gear stick that poked out from the wheel co
lumn. A sticky reverse that you had to push up into. And then she remembered the clunk of the engine as she’d pulled in last night. Without some serious mechanical attention, it wasn’t going to get her far today.
So that’s your bike in the back? asked Tom.
Yeah?
You know a bit about them then, do you? Bikes? I’ve got this frame, see, an old bike I haven’t ridden in years. Not since I was your age, probably.
They both blushed into the pause.
Anyway, I was thinking of doing it up, said Tom. New gear set, new seat, wheels, that kind of thing. The guys down at the shop told me it wasn’t worth it, but I don’t know if they’re just trying to make a sale, make me buy something new. Or maybe they’re right. Maybe it isn’t worth it.
Show me.
Eve followed him out the sliding door, the house casting long morning shadows across the back garden and the vegetable patch. She almost ran up against him when he paused to unlock the garage’s back door, and she had to jump back hurriedly, almost tripping on the hose she’d left lying across the path when she’d watered the night before.
Bloody Lotte. Never putting anything away. Just like her mother.
He bent to wind the hose back onto its bracket.
Sorry, that was me. I watered the garden last night, and I guess I just left it lying there.
He paused, grinning. Bloody Eve, then?
She followed him into the garage. And it was there, crouched on the oil-stained floor of the garage, dust motes lingering in the angular light that wedged the door open, that she felt it. Familiarity. It wasn’t déjà vu; there was no feeling that she had been there before, enclosed within that small moment. It was more that she would be there again: the two of them intent on something, on each other. It was the beginning of what seemed to have always been.
When Eve started her camper van, the clunking sound of something wrong was impossible to ignore. She and Tom lifted the bench seat to look at the engine, but the problem was not apparent. Eve drove the van slowly into town, Tom giving directions, Eve noticing how hot the engine was running beneath the seat, and trying not to panic.
I’ll take a look this arvo, said the mechanic. Or maybe tomorrow. Sorry, got a lot on.
Eve looked around the almost empty garage.
You’re lucky I’m even open, said the mechanic. Being holidays.
Tom and Eve walked back toward the house, Eve pushing her bike, Tom carrying a bag of her clothes, some books.
I can stay in a hotel, Eve offered. It could be a while — he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.
It’s really no problem, said Tom. The house is near empty with just me rattling around in it. Don’t waste your money. He smiled at her. Though I will want my bed back.
Back at the house, Tom made sandwiches. After lunch, he planned to spend some time in the garden. Unless there was something she wanted to do? They could go to a movie, perhaps? He offered the suggestion like an apology.
I’ll take a walk, said Eve. I haven’t seen much of the town before.
Make the most of it, said Tom, laughing. I can’t imagine you having reason to come back any time soon.
As the sun retreated, they sat on the back deck drinking white wine, the condensation making rings on the table. Tom told Eve about his job as a cartographer, the way maps were both exacting and imprecise.
To map something is to simplify it, he said. You can only include what is necessary. You know the London tube map?
Eve nodded.
It’s become the model for all metro maps. It doesn’t show you where any of the stations are; it only shows you where to begin and end your journey, and the scale is irrelevant. The man who drew it was an electrical draftsman. He mapped the tube as though it was the passage of electricity through a circuit: it can go only forward, or be stopped and redirected. So he mapped the stations in relation to one another and the lines they were on, rather than in regard to the city above.
I once tried to map Canberra using only sound, said Eve. But I couldn’t think outside of the geographic — where the sounds were located on an actual map. I didn’t know how to let the sounds create their own landscape.
They talked long into the night, both of them conscious of time passing, neither of them making a move to bring the day to a close.
The next afternoon they walked around the lake, hands in pockets, conversation easy. After forty minutes, when they had completed one lap, they set out again. And then again.
Tom was nothing like Lotte, and yet he was strangely known, as if all their conversation had already happened long ago and was simply being revisited. That night, Tom opened a second bottle of wine. He said later it was because he wanted to have an excuse: something to take the decision out of his hands. But in the end, it was Eve who decided.
They were sitting on the steps of the deck, the cement of the path beneath their bare feet still warm from the day.
I’m getting bitten, said Eve. She could hear the mosquitos hovering near the fuchsia bushes, the occasional one dive-bombing her with a whine, but always lifting too quickly to be slapped.
Time to call it a night, said Tom.
Eve pushed herself up off the steps, but before she got to standing, she paused. Sat back down. Their arms were touching now, their thighs, their knees.
Or we could stay up a little longer, said Eve. She kissed him, and then kissed him again, noting his lack of hesitation, as though he had been expecting this all along. She did not want to think about what she was doing. For as soon as she did, she pulled away.
I’m sorry; we shouldn’t do this.
Foreheads touching, hands clasped.
Because of Lotte, said Tom. It was not quite a question.
Yes.
But she’s not here.
This wouldn’t happen if she was.
No.
Eve watched Tom’s thumb stroke hers. She didn’t want to let go.
How would we explain? said Eve.
She’s not here, said Tom. She’s never here, but we are.
And he took her hand, pulling her to her feet and into his arms.
Four months later she was back in Ballarat for the interview for the sound-and-light show. By the end of the year, a small wedding, at which they were each other’s only family, Lotte’s presence promised but not delivered. And Mina. Then there was Mina for them both to be intent upon, with her captivating and naive guile, her endless noise, laughter and demands, buoying them through the monotonous storms of daily life.
•
Eve stands alone on the beach. At this hour, and in this near night, it’s uninhabited. Like one of those planets that Lotte spoke of: an Earth double, with a sci-fi sounding name and hope for the future. Do they know, these planets? As they’re happily spinning about in outer space, are they aware of the peering intensity of Earth’s inhabitants, all so willing to run away from past mistakes?
Eve remembers Lotte popping the unopened blooms of the fuchsia bush, an action Mina would make her own years later. A sisterly trait? She pushes the thought away and trudges through the soft sand, her calves complaining at the effort. Five years had passed before Eve saw Lotte again, their friendship a direct casualty of Eve’s happiness with Tom and Mina. Five years she has always promised she wouldn’t regret, and yet here she is without a thing to show for it.
7
LOTTE
JANUARY 2015
The fox lets out a short squeal, its yellow eyes narrowing as it advances towards her, and Lotte takes another step backwards. She’s reluctant to break eye contact in case the creature takes it as some kind of affront. Darting forward, the fox lunges, and then Lotte is slipping, her feet fleeing beneath her, her knee screaming pain as loose rocks cascade down the ridge. She lands on her back, wheezing, the wind knocked out of her, her lungs seizing up, and as she gapes at the air, mouth opening and clo
sing, she thinks she might never breathe again.
It is probably less than a minute, but it seems like much longer before her lungs manage to draw in air. She is eight years old and flat on her back beneath the playground monkey bars, Mr Wilson running across the chip bark and kneeling by her side: just breathe, just breathe, it will come back. She draws in small coughs of air and then greedy longer drags. No one knows she is out here: as far as the observatory is concerned she is no longer an employee; she might have left the base already. Her breath dodges just out of reach, heart hammering. What time would it be back home? Early evening: Vin will be heading home from his office — she can picture him locking his door, crossing the campus as the streetlights come on. Dusk hanging high above the city, the kind unwillingness of summer to cede the day to night; a trail of red tail-lights as he drives out of the city. And that is it; she cannot picture any more. She had visited his new house once, back when he still referred to it as ‘theirs’. Sorting things out, they had called it, newly awkward with each other.
Her breaths are coming slower now, each one longer than the last. Her knee is still pounding, jerking its pain along her leg, and the realisation lifts slowly into her conscious. She has dislocated her kneecap. Shit. She must have twisted too fast as she tried to back away from the fox, the ligaments giving way as easily as they had once done on the high school netball court, another time on a dance floor late at night. Both times a trip in an ambulance, painkillers as a doctor pulled her leg straight, popping the kneecap back into place and then holding it fast with a splint. Lotte tries to wriggle her toes, and groans at the shooting pain. She lifts herself onto her elbows and looks down at her leg. In the moonlight she sees her foot pointing left where it should go straight up. Already her body is giving up on her, setting out on its own course.
Trying not to panic, she concentrates on taking long, slow breaths, rolling her shoulders, twisting at the waist. Every other part of her is fine, and if she holds still her knee settles into a dull, bearable pain. Maybe this isn’t too bad. Maybe if she just waits a while, lets her body relax, she will find the audacity to override the pain, straighten her leg, and pop the kneecap back into place herself. She lies down slowly, cursing herself for coming so far alone; she’d been unable to sleep earlier that night, playing out the next few days in her head. The checking in of her luggage; the long flight. And then what? Where will she go?
Gravity Well Page 15
