Tom took a sip of wine, stretching out his toes to the fire.
No, what I meant to say is that we weren’t perfect. Helen and me. We almost split up, a couple of times, actually.
Really?
Eve couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
Helen left me, said Tom, shrugging at the simplicity of the confession. She was having an affair.
As he went on, he avoided Eve’s gaze. He got up from the armchair and moved to the fireplace, where he shifted the ember guard aside and shoved one of the logs further back into the grate with his foot.
When was this?
He gave the log another shove, sparks flying up the flue.
It went on for a long time, actually. Years. I suppose it was more than an affair. A relationship, perhaps. Around the time Lotte went to uni. Empty nest syndrome, I suppose the magazines would call it. Though to be fair, it had felt empty for a long time before that.
He picked up a poker from where it hung, weighing it in his hand before leaning over the fire and giving the logs a shove.
Helen was enthusiastic. She was intoxicating, for want of a better word. Though maybe that is the right word, because there was a hangover, eventually. When her focus was on you, it was incredible: it was like you were at the centre of the universe. But as soon as her attention was caught by someone else …
Tom leaned the poker against the fireplace and came back across to where Eve sat on the floor, sitting down behind her on the couch.
That’s what it was like, actually, he laughed. When you stand in front of the fire and it’s beautiful and warm, but then it gets too hot, so you step away. And then you’re cold, far colder than you were before.
Just like Nate, thought Eve, staring into the flames, wondering if he wanted her to speak, not knowing at all what to say. Lotte had never mentioned the affair; she had always given the impression that her parents were made for each other. Doting and devoted, even.
I doubt it was the only affair she had, said Tom. I remember when I realised that’s what was happening. I’d come home early with Lotte — one of the few times we actually did anything together, just the two of us — but when we got home, Helen wasn’t there. And I just knew that she was seeing someone. She told me as much, towards the end, but I didn’t want to know the details. It was a man she volunteered with, at the observatory. The strangest thing was, he was a nice bloke. Not that he wouldn’t be.
Tom seemed to stumble around in his words, frustrated when they weren’t quite right.
He was ordinary. Like me. He was no one special. Which made it all the worse. I always thought that Helen would leave me one day; I knew I could never match her, be what she was. But I always thought it would be for some … charmer. I don’t know, an artist, a musician or someone. A performer. That’s what she was; always on. But he was just this regular bloke, quiet almost, and they both had this thing about astronomy. They were obsessed with it.
Like Lotte.
Like Lotte. She always wanted to be just like Helen, even when she was little. Two peas in a pod. She was never much interested in me; I couldn’t compete with Helen. No one could.
Every time he paused, Eve wondered if he would go on. Wondered if she wanted him to.
Anyway, this man. She was seeing him for months. I knew for a long time before I said anything to her, because I knew that would be it: once it was out there, she’d leave me, and I wasn’t ready for that. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t been such a coward. That I’d said something earlier, saved us all the trouble. But back then, I just couldn’t imagine life without her. We met when we were so young — we were nineteen.
Eventually, it just became ridiculous, a pantomime being acted out. Me pretending I didn’t know where she was going every night; her pretending to still be interested in me. And one night, after Lotte had moved away for uni, we sat down and talked about it, and we decided we would go our separate ways. It was a relief, really. I knew she had stopped feeling anything for me years before. And while I still loved her, I knew that wasn’t going to be returned. God, it sounds so sad.
Tom laughed, the sound hovering above her head like a cloud, and Eve turned to look up at him.
But it didn’t feel that way, he said. We’d had a good run, and I didn’t regret that. And I knew it would be better for both of us if she left. So she did. And then she found out about the cancer.
That must have been awful.
Eve went to lift herself off the floor and sit beside him, but Tom’s hands lay heavy on her shoulders.
She was only with him for a few weeks, said Tom. I mean, actually living with him. But it was me she called when it happened. To go with her to the appointments, talk about treatment, that sort of thing. And she asked if she could come back. If I would help her get through it. I didn’t even think twice about it: of course I said yes. And she never saw him again, not properly. He came to visit a few times, over the years, but it was obvious he was uncomfortable.
Was it his choice or hers? That she go back to you?
I never asked, said Tom, laughing. I’m making myself sound so pathetic. But it just didn’t seem to matter at the time. I think it was her decision, though. I think she just thought it would be too hard, that they didn’t know each other well enough. Maybe he just didn’t deal well with illness, I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want him to see her like that: twenty-five years of marriage takes away any sense of pride you might have. Perhaps she should have given him a chance and she didn’t.
But she went into remission, didn’t she? Did she think about leaving then? Once she was better?
I don’t think she ever did, said Tom. We knew that the remission probably wouldn’t last for long, and we were right. It was a strange period, but it was nice, really. It was just a friendship by then, not really a relationship, but I suppose most long marriages are similar. The thing was, we were both happy enough with what it was. Rattling around in the house, just the two of us — each doing our own thing and enjoying each other’s company.
Does Lotte know about the affair? She never mentioned it.
No, Tom said, pulling Eve in close to him. I don’t think Helen would have told her. Helen would have hated Lotte to think she had failed at something. She would have waited until the last possible moment to tell her about it. And then she didn’t need to.
They sat in silence for a while, the wood popping and spluttering in the grate.
Do you think Lotte will forgive us eventually? asked Eve, her head on Tom’s shoulder.
Do you think we need her to? replied Tom.
•
Her hands are too numb to keep combing at the seaweed. They ache, they won’t bend as they should. Eve stares at them, at the colour drained away so that her nails are moons of pale violet at the ends of her fingers. She’s not sure what part of her is shaking. Her jaw is clenched tight, and she hugs her legs, but still she shakes. Where clothes cling to her, they are cold and then burning hot; her heart is beating too fast, too loudly. She knows that she must unfold, let go, stand up. Knows that she must breathe. A panic attack, but it can’t be: there is nothing left for her to panic over. Just breathe — that’s what the psychologist used to tell her when Mina was a baby, when she felt the anxiety building, when her body would freeze, the edges of her vision blurring and darkening as though saving her from seeing too much.
Back then she’d wanted to breathe. When the panic would take hold, she wanted to regain her calm as soon as possible, to rid herself of the heaviness that tagged along behind. Wanted to be light and deft for Mina; wanted to be herself. But now? Now she doesn’t want any of it. Not to breathe, not to regain her calm, not to survive this heaviness. Because to do even one of those things would be to forgive.
9
LOTTE
JANUARY 2015
The first night Lotte spends at her father and Eve’s feels like she has landed i
n an alternate universe. Why did she think it was a good idea to come back here? But where else could she go?
Evening falls, and the light from the kitchen picks out a child’s bicycle on the backyard lawn. Moths dip and sway in the beam. The ordinariness of it all. Lotte tries to imagine herself out of the room; what would they be doing if she weren’t here? Sitting in front of the television? Laughing? Instead, the dining table serves as a life raft they can all hold onto, a barrier to stop them from accidentally touching one another, or jumping ship.
Sorry, it’s not very exciting. Eve apologises again for the steak and salad, and in every comment Lotte hears reproach: If we knew you were coming …
Eve’s hand on Lotte’s dad’s back as she passes him in the kitchen; him grabbing her about the waist. The conversation bucks and twists between polite questions of work and circumstance, but every innocent sentence points at the oddness of the situation; how little they now know of one another. There is refuge in talk of movies and travel, Lotte blindly reaching for amusing anecdotes from the endless hours of her flight, which had been spent muffled by painkillers to dull her aching knee. All three dote on Mina rather than talk to one another. A gorgeous child, this sister of hers. How carefully she speaks her words, looking people in the eye to check they understand. Whenever Mina says Lotte’s name, she stretches it out, calling for attention, unexpectedly tripping up her heart. When Mina goes off to bed, the conversation keeps falling into silence.
Excuse me.
In the bathroom, Lotte unclasps her bag and checks her phone. No messages. But who would contact her? Not a single person has her number; she’d only picked up the SIM card at the airport. Her email inbox has only newsletters and recruitment emails. She slowly washes her hands, inspecting the unfamiliar moisturiser and soaps that line the bathroom bench. Plastic toys laze in the tub, cartoonish eyes watching her.
I’m sorry, I’m quite tired. I think I’m probably jet-lagged. Do you mind …? Pausing in the kitchen, Lotte shrugs her shoulders at Eve and Tom, miming apology. Eve jumps to her feet.
Of course. I’ll set up the bed in the study.
She hurries past Lotte into the spare room.
Sorry it’s been so long, Dad.
I understand, he replies. It can’t have been easy, these last few years. For you.
She thinks about telling him then, about her illness and everything that lies ahead. It’s not the sympathy she fears, but the apprehension he might feel at having to watch, for a second time, someone go through all it entails.
You seem happy, she says instead, offering an olive branch.
Her father nods. And you?
Eve appears from the hallway. Do you want to bring your suitcase in? she asks. You can unpack while I make up the bed.
Night, Dad. Lotte steps forward, about to cross the room and kiss him on the cheek like she so often had. But things were different now, somehow.
Night, Lotte.
In the spare room, Lotte and Eve move carefully around one another. Eve apologises for nothing being quite right: the house not tidy enough; the room set up as a study rather than a guest room; the sofa bed being uncomfortable. While she fusses, Lotte looks at the photos crowding the pin board above the desk. Mina as a baby, a toddler, a little girl. On the floor; in a highchair; dragging a tiny suitcase through an airport. But the one that she cannot look away from is slightly blurred, taken too close. A selfie of her father, Eve, and Mina. Tom kissing Eve’s cheek, Mina looking up at her parents, desperate to be included.
I’m sorry, says Eve, sitting down on the bed she has just made and looking directly at Lotte. It must all seem very strange to you. Me living here, Mina ...
It’s fine, says Lotte. Really. She stands by her suitcase, holding Eve’s gaze but saying nothing more.
I’ve really missed you, says Eve. There’re so many times I’ve wished you were here to talk to.
Well, I’ve had a lot going on; it’s been a really busy time. Lotte goes to crouch down at her suitcase but her knee twinges. Shall we talk in the morning?
Okay.
Eve stops next to her on the way to the door, but Lotte doesn’t look up, and Eve closes the door behind her without another word.
Lotte contemplates her suitcase, but cannot bear to open it and be reminded of how little she has. There are some things in storage in Canberra, but this suitcase is the sum total of her life of the last few years. They must think her pathetic.
Lotte quietly opens the door of the study, listening out for the clank and scrape of Eve and Tom clearing up in the kitchen. She closes the door behind her and is down the hallway, through the front door and onto the street, walking towards the town centre. The urge to sob drops upon her from above, suffocating any other sense. Teeth clenched, she fights back, but the tears come anyway — deep, shuddering breaths as she refuses to slow her pace.
She turns into the next street, then doubles back in the direction she had come. Walking, stumbling, the roads quietly empty as though no cars have ever driven here. Her knee twinges again when she catches a foot on the uneven ground; it is as though the desert fox is stalking her even here.
The gates of the cemetery are locked. A brick fence surrounds the perimeter, too high. Following the fence line, she comes to the original allotment, fenced by a row of wrought-iron fleur-de-lis spikes. She cannot climb that, not with her knee still stiff and swollen. But she cannot leave without trying.
She hasn’t scaled a fence like this since she was a child. She steps onto the bluestone foundation, boosting herself up, ready to swing her leg over the top. But her legs refuse to lift and pull, her feet too wide to get a footing, her knee wincing with apprehension. She can’t do it. And she sits on the grass, leaning against the bluestone, more alone in her hometown than she has ever been in the desert.
Two days later, and she feels jittery in this fast-moving family who all seem to have things to do: Mina corralling her dolls, Tom in the garden, Eve moving things about the house, a bee to pollen. There is no in, no opening for Lotte. A dwarf planet, that’s what Pluto was in the end. Orbiting the sun with enough mass to form a sphere, but lacking the gravitational field to pull objects into orbit; instead, lumpen rocks and astral debris cloud the air around it like regrets. The loneliest planet of them all, her mother used to call it, with no purpose of its own.
Watching Mina, arms and legs seemingly interchangeable as she flops onto the furniture and sprawls herself upon the floor, Lotte cannot tear her eyes away. Rhyming songs mixed with Christmas carols are sung to dolls and teddy bears, deep breaths and long pauses at the commencement, and a rushing at the end, all the words tripping over each other without regard for tune. She rushes from one activity to another, toys abandoned in her wake and then reclaimed without reason. She is the most observant and rude of conversationalists, listening intently as she pursues a pointed line of inquiry then breaking into giggling laughter, blatant surprise at the stupidity of adults.
Seahorses don’t have feet, she tells Tom as he noses his way through the living room, eyes bulging and arms tucked in by his sides.
He jumps a little, feet together.
Now you’re a kangaroo! She cackles at his ridiculousness, kicking her feet up in the air.
This is what Lotte is missing out on. She thinks of calling Vin to let him know she is back, but then she would have to decide what to tell him next.
Instead, she excuses herself from the animal antics and calls the hospital in Sydney. She books in to see a specialist the following week. The appointment sits there in the future, a small point of control and certainty, after which there is only confusion. Lotte finds herself reaching for her breasts every time she is alone, feeling for the lump and being oddly reassured by its presence. Like a mathematical proof, it confirms that she had no choice but to be back in Australia: she needs to get her health taken care of. And yet.
Conversa
tion with her father and Eve is not easy; she is unpractised at its ease and flow, her instinct for direct question and answers not allowing room for comfort let alone intimacy. In the afternoons it becomes worse: the feeling of being an encumbrance, someone to be looked after and entertained. Twice, Lotte walks into town in the early evening and installs herself at one of the bars that has popped up in the last few years. The music is too loud for anyone to try and talk to her, and most of the clientele is too young to bother. She is left with her own thoughts, chasing each other about her mind.
•
Vin came to visit her twice in the first year she was working at the IAO. As autumn fell, they spent their holiday hiking in Patagonia, Lotte’s enthusiasm for the expedition faultless and unusual. Towards the end of the year, Vin visited again, and Lotte took leave, flying down to Buenos Aires for the first time. Waiting at the airport to greet him, she was strangely nervous, as if on a first date rather than seeing her husband after months of absence (the hiccupping and dwindling of their Skype calls notwithstanding).
That afternoon, Lotte disentangled herself from Vin’s arms and left him sleeping. She strolled the streets of Buenos Aires with no endpoint in mind, crossing to walk in the sun where it filtered between the tall buildings, surprised to find herself in a place so European. The same slate-grey mansard roofs of Parisian apartment buildings; small balconies overlooking wide boulevards. After twenty minutes of walking through streets littered with the imprudent purple of jacaranda trees in full bloom, the streets opened up into a square, and the palm trees bobbing above the geometric flowerbeds were the only reminder she was in the southern hemisphere. At one end of the plaza was a rose-pink building, like a child’s drawing of a princess’s castle, with the Argentinian flag flying from its roof. Lotte dodged the heaving buses to walk towards it, only to find it was undergoing renovation, surrounded by placards and scaffolding. In the forecourt was a maze of display boards, an outdoor exhibition of world press photographs from the year before, current affairs moved swiftly to history. Barack Obama, eyes closed and standing like a pillar in his black wool coat and leather gloves moments before his inauguration; a giraffe collapsed in a Kenyan ditch, felled by drought; women shouting dissent from a Tehran rooftop. Should she know more about each of these things? Murderous drought in Africa, vote rigging in Iran — yet what use was it to know?
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