Gravity Well

by Melanie Joosten

How many times would she utter that phrase to him in the coming days? Comprehending that it had no meaning, accepting that his eyes would scoot away from hers before she could finish speaking.

  She didn’t see Mina. She thought she was in the backyard; she had sent her out to Tom.

  I thought she was with you. Eve whispered the words.

  Eve had opened the sliding door, combed Mina’s hair with her fingers, and sent her out into the backyard to Tom. Mina needs a haircut, thought Eve, recalling how her fingers had snagged at Mina’s hair and her daughter’s head had tossed impatiently. The morning struggles to comb her curls — why didn’t they just chop it off? They could go to the hairdresser’s on Tuesday, before story time at the library. The thought registered, then fled.

  No, she wasn’t with me, Tom said. I thought she was inside, watching TV.

  But I sent her out. To you. You waved at me.

  He had waved at her, at them, she was sure of it, his hand high as she had pulled Mina’s hair back from her face then let her go, hearing the door of the study opening, steeling herself for Lotte’s presence. But maybe Tom hadn’t been waving. Maybe it was twine in his hands, pulling it back as he tied the stakes together.

  Mr and Mrs Wren?

  Two police officers, a man and a woman were standing in the doorway. Eve felt a rush of thanks. They were the picture of authority; they could help.

  We’re very sorry for your loss.

  She did not know what they were talking about. Yet she did. She was glad when they went on.

  We need to ask you a few questions. It’s just a matter of policy.

  Of course, said Tom. He took hold of Eve’s hand and she melted toward him, seeking the comfort he offered. But it wasn’t comfort. He was making sure she did not run away. It made Eve want to run away.

  The police officers stared at their pads. They took notes, asking questions that Tom answered in his calm and certain voice. Eve hoped they were writing down the right answers. The ones that would make sense.

  Mrs Wren, can you come with us a minute, please? The woman’s ponytail bounced as she looked toward Eve then back to her partner. You’ll be able to come back; it won’t take long.

  Tom let go of her hand, and Eve followed the policewoman down the corridor, into a room that had been divided into cubicles by plastic curtains. The officer whisked each one aside. Only one cubicle held a bed and they sat down next to it.

  From her belt, the policewoman took a small unit, then reached to a pocket of her trousers and withdrew a straw. She ripped the plastic from the straw and attached it to the unit. It was as if she was giving Eve a juice box.

  Can you take a deep breath and slowly breathe into this?

  Eve did as she was told, eyes closed. There was a droning bleep from the machine, and the policewoman nodded.

  No reading. You hadn’t been drinking, Mrs Wren?

  No. It’s the morning. Eve was incredulous.

  Yes.

  The policewoman took a deep breath. She was sitting on a chair that had small wheels, and it nudged backwards when she shuffled about.

  Now, can you tell us briefly what happened, Mrs Wren?

  Eve waited for the thoughts to arrange themselves, but all she could see were Mina’s eyes.

  I don’t know. I was just … Her voice trailed off. The big, dark pupils of Mina’s eyes.

  Can you tell me what happened? What you saw.

  Eve looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock. Exactly. Precisely. It was not any other time. She should have been cutting up an apple for Mina, adding a scoop of yoghurt. Sultanas dropped on top like skiers sliding down a mountain. Mina had always wanted to go skiing.

  Mrs Wren. Please, take your time.

  The officer’s leg was bouncing up and down; she was crouched forward as if to protect herself from what she might hear.

  What did you see, just before the accident? Where was your daughter?

  One past eleven. It was impossible that a minute had passed. An hour, almost two. That she was not back in the living room, just after breakfast, fuming with Lotte.

  I didn’t see anything.

  Dark. Then light. Then nothing at all, until right now. The officer was writing. She didn’t stop writing when she asked the next question.

  So you didn’t see your daughter come out of the house?

  No.

  And you didn’t know where your daughter was at the time?

  At the time. Back then, two hours ago. But what does it matter, because now we are here? All that mattered was now.

  Where is she now?

  The officer looked at her.

  Your daughter is just in the other room. With your husband. The officer swallowed. Eve could see her throat contract. She licked her lip. Mrs Wren? You do know your daughter has died, don’t you?

  Eve let the words lay between them. She waited for the officer to smile, to show that she was joking. But she was not joking.

  Yes.

  I’m sorry.

  They sat in silence for a moment, and then the officer tried again.

  Mrs Wren. I know this is difficult. We just need to ask you these questions while the events are still fresh in your mind.

  In the days to come, Eve would learn that there was no urgency because ‘the events’ would only grow fresher, like time-lapse photography of fruit ripening on a vine, of flowers opening for the sun. That her brain would seemingly split: she would be in two places at once, the then and the now. That time would roll forward and back into that moment when Eve got in the van. There was the dark of the garage, and then the light of outside. Again and again, she would see her own hand reach up to the handle above the door, pulling her weight into the driver’s seat. The familiar feel of the vinyl of the passenger seat under her hand as she reversed. Then nothing. The questions continued, Eve astounded at her inability to answer them, feeling that she was failing the officer in a way that could not be redeemed, until finally the woman led her back to the other room. To Tom, to Mina.

  In the corridor, Eve looked at her feet. She had thongs on; when did she put those on? She had kicked them off in the footwell of the van. She never drove in thongs — it was too dangerous. You couldn’t have enough control; you couldn’t stop in time. Lotte had put them on the ground in front of her, told her to put them on before she led her to the front door of the ambulance. But Mina, Mina was in the back. With Tom. She was safer with Tom. Eve watched her feet, her thongs, one, two, one, two, on the shiny linoleum of the corridor. Yet she was sure she was not touching the floor, she seemed to be too high up. Above the head of the officer; she could see the part in her own hair.

  Her daughter is dead. She killed her daughter. Eve experienced every moment twice. First, accompanied by the realisation that Mina was dead. Then by the knowledge that she was responsible. When they arrived home, she saw the door to Mina’s room was closed. She wondered what her daughter was doing in there. It was a beautiful, sunny day; why wasn’t she outside playing? Mina is dead. She killed her daughter.

  The day passed or it didn’t. Eve and Tom lay in bed, and he curled against her back, his face at her neck. Or she fell asleep on the couch, her arms wrapped about a cushion. At some stage, Lotte was there, sitting at the kitchen table. Lotte, who should have been driving away in the camper van. Whose fault it was. Whose fault it wasn’t.

  Morning.

  The next day, Eve made her face look towards Lotte’s face. She made her head nod. She made it look away. She did not see Lotte. Did not see the camisole strap looping her upper arm, a red mark where the elastic waist of her boxer shorts had pressed too tight in her sleep. All these signs that she was alive. She was the daughter who had not died. Eve saw, and she did not want to see.

  I think you should leave, said Eve.

  Yes. I’ll go this morning.

  Eve sat down. Tom came in
to the room.

  I’m going to go, said Lotte.

  Eve watched Tom’s face when Lotte said this. His face did not do anything. All of their faces had forgotten how to do things.

  Yes, he said. He pulled out a chair. He sat. They all waited. They wanted something to happen. Eve looked at Tom; he looked at the table. Lotte looked at the table. They had all forgotten their lines.

  But where will you go? Tom asked Lotte.

  Their vocabulary had been broken down into small pieces. Children’s building blocks. There were no children.

  I’ll go to a hotel. I’ll stay there. Until …

  Finish it. Finish what you’re saying. It’s what Eve would say to Mina when her daughter’s words trailed away and neglected to make a sentence. Lotte waited for one of them to nod, to murmur over the top of her. To do anything that meant she did not have to say it. No one said anything.

  The funeral.

  There was only this one thing to talk about, and no one wanted to talk about it.

  No, said Tom.

  Eve looked at him. His eyes were sunken. She had never understood that expression before now. His eyes were deep in his face — his skull circled them like the edges of a volcano. Nothing was spewing forth; he was spent. His face was ashen.

  No, you can’t go to a hotel. You will stay here.

  Eve knew this was right. The alive daughter can stay. She was family. This is her family, the only one she had. Lotte was looking at her. She was beseeching.

  Yes, Eve said. She was benevolence. She had so much to give because she had nothing to care about. She was for everyone except herself. Yes, you must stay.

  It was too late to send her away. No one could remember any more of their lines. They stood from the table but they had nowhere to go.

  I’m sorry.

  Lotte in the doorway. Eve lying on Mina’s bed. She was wrapped in the doona, but she kicked it off.

  For what?

  For everything, said Lotte. For being here.

  It’s not your fault, said Eve.

  I feel like it is. If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have tried to get rid of me. You wouldn’t have been driving the van.

  It is exactly what Eve has been thinking. How dare Lotte be right? How dare she know?

  It’s not your fault, said Eve. But Lotte continued talking. She wanted a part of this, thought Eve, that was all.

  It’s no one’s fault. Eve repeated the words of the grief counsellor who had arrived at the house earlier that afternoon, sent by the hospital. Eve had put the kettle on. The counsellor was the only one who drank his tea. He was in his forties. He was wearing sandals, the sporting ones made of black rubber and velcro. While he sipped his tea he reached down and pulled the velcro tab open. Sand sprinkled on the floorboards. He had been called back from his holiday at the beach for this emergency. It was very important to attend to the bereaved while the trauma was fresh, before things got too settled. Did he tell them that? He smelled like sunscreen. He spoke very softly, so Eve had to lean in closely to hear him. She didn’t want to hear him, so she got up and put the kettle on again. He waited until she sat down again before he continued speaking.

  No one can understand what you’re going through right now. It’s probably very difficult to process. But that’s okay.

  He waited for her to nod: go on. He waited for her to process. He slurped his tea.

  There is no right way to mourn, he said. Whatever you feel is the right thing to feel.

  He paused again, ripped open the other velcro sandal.

  Tom coughed.

  Thank you, that’s very helpful.

  Everyone nodded. Lotte was sitting at the end of the table. She shouldn’t be there; she knew that. So she sat at the end, as though she wasn’t there. Eve couldn’t stop looking at her.

  Sunlight tickled at her hair. She would be feeling it, warm on her bare shoulders. There were freckles there, from incidental moments in the sun over the years.

  You’re probably feeling a whole range of emotions right now, said the counsellor. It might be hard to know what to preference.

  He didn’t use words like ‘loved one’ or ‘happier place’. He said ‘your daughter’ and ‘Mina’. He didn’t tell them what Mina would have wanted, because it was obvious that no one wanted any of this.

  I don’t feel anything, said Eve.

  She would not be that person. The difficult mother who refused to acknowledge what was happening around her. She would not be in denial. But it just could not have happened. There must be options, avenues of recourse. She wanted the grief counsellor to have all of the answers, and she would listen to them, take them in. If she followed the rules, everything would be okay. She only wanted for there to be one way to feel, and she would make herself feel that way.

  That’s understandable, said the counsellor. He went to drink his tea, but then realised nobody else was touching theirs. Or saying anything. He was expected to go on saying something. He toyed with staying silent, with letting them fill the void.

  You’re probably still in shock.

  Silence.

  No, said Eve.

  She was not in shock. She hated herself. She was revolted by what she had done.

  I am disgusted at myself.

  It wasn’t your fault.

  He said it with such conviction that she wondered whether he had been there when it happened. But then he would know. It was her fault. She was driving the van. The van killed Mina. Mina was not driving. Tom was not. Lotte was not. Mina was dead. Eve was not. Tom was not. Lotte most certainly was not. It was Eve’s fault.

  It was an accident, the counsellor said. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s no one’s fault.

  I killed my daughter. Don’t you think that’s wrong?

  The counsellor looked down at his hands. He was probably wishing he was back at the beach. That if he left within the hour, he could get there while it was still light. She should tell him this.

  Yes. It’s not the way things should be. But it’s no one’s fault.

  No one would let her take responsibility. Not out loud. She would be the same, if she were in their situation. These were things she would say to Tom if he’d been the one driving. And she would be right to say those things. And yet it was wrong. She was responsible.

  The grief counsellor told them not to clam up. Not to be afraid of anger or tears. He spoke about emotions as though they were places to be visited. Holiday destinations with guidebooks, recommended lengths of stay, and things to do while you’re there.

  When he stood to leave, Tom stayed seated. So did Lotte. It was Eve who led him to the door and let him clasp her arm in a professional hug. She wondered if they were instructed to touch their clients to transfer their shared humanity and warmth. The poor woman, he was thinking. That’s what he would say to his wife when he got back to the beach and their children played totem tennis on the lawn. She would pass him a beer, give him an understanding look. What was she like? she would ask. The mother? She would be thinking how glad she was that it was not her. But also that it would never happen to her because she was very careful.

  When Eve closed the front door, she went to Mina’s room and lay down on the bed.

  It can’t be no one’s fault, Lotte.

  Eve’s voice is stripped of emotion. That must be because there was no emotion to be voiced. It did not even sound like herself. She wondered what it would be like to be mute, to never say anything again.

  Later, they would pick out clothes for Mina to wear. The funeral director would come to the house, and Eve would sit in the back yard, eyes on the abandoned snow-pea pyramids. One lay flat on the lawn, another leaned against the railway sleeper border of the garden, looking as though it was ready for take-off. Terrifyingly, those days would be the easiest, as if such a word still existed. Later, Tom would put together a
slide show of photographs, which Eve could not watch. The doorbell would ring, again and again, with the delivery of flowers. Lilies, gerberas, tulips, sunflowers. The damp smell of green florist’s brick, the crackle of plastic cellophane. Later, they would brown and wither. The lily stamens would sprinkle fetid orange powder on the table. She would have to tell Mina not to touch, that it would stain her clothes. She would not have to tell Mina.

  Later, Eve unrolled the newspaper from its plastic wrapping as if she was going to read it. Mina’s face was on the front page. It was an old photograph, taken on her third birthday, and she proudly smiled with her teeth, her chin thrust forward. Eve knew the photograph well, because it decorated the header of her own Facebook page. She wondered if the newspaper had phoned her to ask permission to use the photograph. She wondered if she’d given it. The newspaper report was breathless. The journalist seemed to think he was there in the front garden, standing on the driveway. It was a beautiful summer day, wrote the journalist. He got that right, thought Eve. A little girl had chosen her favourite dress to wear to that afternoon’s birthday party. Her mother had wrapped the present. But the present hadn’t been wrapped, thought Eve. It still wasn’t. What followed was a call to action. Comments from a child-safety expert. We must be more careful. There must be a new policy. Eve put down the newspaper and went inside.

  The easiest days. Later, she put on clothes; she went to the funeral. There was no gathering afterwards, or at least if there was, Eve did not go. She did not want to eat, or sleep, but she did both of those things. The police visited, the same officers. There will be no charges, they told her. It was an accident. Yes, she told them. It was an accident. She thought that there still should be charges. Later, Tom would call the childcare centre, the kindergarten, and the gymnastics club. Later, he would water his garden for hours, the water turning the lawn to slush. Later, they would lie beside each other in bed, holding hands. Later, she would roll over to reach for him, and his pillow would be wet, and he would not be there.

  •

  There is a knock on the door, and light from the kitchen floods the room.

  Jordie, just wait in there a minute.