by Nicole Trope
‘Yes, thank you,’ she says and flashes a small smile at him. He has obviously not mentioned their conversation to Detective Sappington and she’s grateful to him for that. She feels like he may be on her side.
‘Okay, Caro, can we get back to it?’ says Susan, clearly impatient to be finished. ‘Sarah will bring in some sandwiches soon. You were telling us about how you and Anna became friends.’
Caro shakes her head, ‘Oh God, that feels like an entire lifetime ago. You know what phrase keeps going through my head? “How did I land up here? How the fuck did I land up here?” Not that I haven’t thought that before this happened. It’s something that runs through my head a lot.’
Susan looks at Brian and gives her head a small shake.
‘Okay, I can see I’m boring you,’ says Caro. ‘I’ll get back on track.
‘Anna and I clicked immediately. It was as though she’d been waiting for someone like me and I’d been waiting for someone like her. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a friend like that?’
‘I have; I mean, I do have friends like that,’ says Susan. Caro wonders if this is the truth. She cannot imagine Susan out of her pantsuit and in a pair of jeans at the weekend. She cannot see her having a drink with friends or sitting through a bad movie.
‘I think being new mothers made it even more intense, especially with all that she was going through with Maya.’
‘You keep mentioning that. What exactly was wrong with Maya?’
‘I feel like I shouldn’t say anything. She wasn’t my child. It isn’t my story to tell.’
‘I think we’re past that, Caroline, don’t you? We need to understand what happened that evening, so you can move on with your life, and so Anna can begin to move on with hers.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. You don’t have children, so you may not understand this, but there is no moving on from the death of a child. Your life feels like it stops, right there and then, and while you carry on doing all the things that you need to do to survive, you never really move on. Part of you is always stuck right there, waiting, wildly hoping, bargaining for the whole thing to have been a huge mistake.’
‘I didn’t realise you’d lost a child, Caro. I’m sorry.’
‘I haven’t lost a child, Detective. Technically, I’ve lost many, many children.’
‘Technically?’
‘Yes, technically. I’ve had six miscarriages. Of those, five were early, so that, really, they aren’t even referred to as children by the medical professionals. They’re called foetuses, as though that helps to lessen your attachment. As though you didn’t name the group of dividing cells inside you, and imagine what they would look like and think about how nice a sibling would be for your living child. As if you just went, “Oh, I’m pregnant—good luck, foetus.” And then got on with your day.’
Both detectives are silent. It’s obvious neither of them knows what to say. Even Brian, with his psychology degree, has no idea of the correct words. Over the years, people have tried to find the right words to comfort her but they have all failed. They have all failed because the only words she ever wanted to hear were ‘You will get what you want.’ And no one could say those words, because no one knew what would happen.
After her third miscarriage, she had coffee with her mother and sister, and her mother was trying, really trying, to find the right words. ‘It’s nature’s way,’ she said, and when Caro hadn’t responded, she had added, ‘It’s your body’s way of getting rid of something that wasn’t right. Imagine how much worse it would have been if you’d had a child that was deformed or disabled. It’s a good thing.’
‘Really, Mum,’ Caro’s sister, Melissa, said, incredulous.
‘I’ve lost my baby, Mum,’ said Caro. ‘Do you understand that I’ve lost my child?’
‘Of course I do, Caroline. Of course I do.’
Caro realises she hasn’t said anything for a minute or two. She hates the way the memories all crowd together to wash over her. A drink always stops them from drowning her. This has been the case for years. Susan takes a look at her watch and Caro can tell that she had other plans for today. The detective has no desire to listen to Caro talk about her lost babies, but if she has to sit here and explain herself to them, then they’re going to have to listen.
‘I lost one baby who was old enough to be viable—do you know what that means?’
‘I think so.’
‘I do, Caro. It means that he or she was old enough to survive outside the womb,’ says Brian.
‘He,’ says Caro, and she smiles at him and sits on her hands again. It amazes her that she can just say these things openly. That she can form the sentences and explain this horrifying phase of her life without the world shifting even slightly. How can there not be a sound of thunder? How can the world not crack in two?
It is a truism that time heals all wounds, and Caro supposes that the saying must be correct in some way because, otherwise, how could she sit here and talk about the babies who broke her heart and her soul? How can she mention them without everything turning dark? The thing is, time doesn’t really heal, it just gives you distance. Anna screaming at her flashes through her mind. How much distance would Anna need? Would the distance of a month, a year, a decade, be enough? Would it ever be enough?
‘You did that to her,’ she says to herself but doesn’t let the thought take hold. She breathes deeply, and talks about her loss and her grief because it has been many, many years and now she can.
‘I lost a little boy at eight months. His name was Gideon. He should have been fine. We were so close to the end and he should have been fine, and when they placed him on my chest, I couldn’t believe that he wasn’t going to just take a breath. I stared at him, willing his little chest to move even a fraction. He was completely perfect and absolutely still. I wouldn’t let him go. I think I thought that if I held on long enough, he would open his eyes for me. Eventually, after about a day, they had to sedate me to get him away from me. Geoff made them. He says he thought I was going a little crazy, but I think he just wanted me home, so he could go back to work and pretend it had never happened.’
‘I am so sorry,’ says Susan. Caro nods and looks at her. She can see the discomfort in the woman’s face. She wishes she hadn’t said anything now. The grief is too dark, too private. She shouldn’t have shared it.
Every day, every single day, she did her best not to think about those years of darkness and every single day she failed. She wonders how many times she heard the word ‘sorry’ in the five years she had tried to have another child. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said her doctor. ‘We’re so sorry,’ said her friends. ‘Sorry the baby died, Mummy,’ said Lex. Sorry, sorry, sorry. It means fuck all.
There is no reason for her to talk about her lost children, no reason at all, and she is sure that the two detectives have no desire to hear it, but she talks anyway. Geoff prefers not to discuss it, and even Anna, who is—was?—her best friend, could only take part in the conversation so many times.
‘I shouldn’t say that about Geoff,’ she says, ‘it’s probably not fair of me. He would say that it’s not fair of me. Gideon would have survived if he’d been taken out of my body but somehow he died, for no apparent reason. That was the only thing the doctors could tell me. They use a word, “idiopathic”. And you know what that means? It means “We don’t have a fucking clue.” God, I’m thirsty.’
‘What do you mean?’ Geoff had yelled at the obstetrician when he told them they had no idea why Gideon had died. ‘Just one of those things,’ the obstetrician said and he looked at his watch. Maybe he hadn’t looked at his watch. Maybe he had been kind and understanding and sympathetic, but in Caro’s mind, he is heartless. It suits her better.
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ Geoff had said, standing up and leaning over the large desk towards the doctor.
‘Just leave it,’ Caro had said, and stood up and pulled his arm, pulled him away and out of the office.
&n
bsp; ‘I can’t do it ever again,’ she had said to Geoff in the car on the way home.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘It’s too hard. We have Lex, let’s be grateful for her.’
Caro had stared out of the car window with her fist in her mouth. She had wanted him to tell her that they would try again. She had wanted him to say that, next time, they would get it right.
At home, she had crawled into bed and slept. She had woken in the evening and Geoff had come into her room with a large drink. ‘Here you go—vodka and orange, it will help and you might as well, now that . . .’
‘Now that I’ll never be pregnant again,’ she said.
‘I’ll give Lex dinner,’ he said. ‘You relax.’
And she had relaxed—oh, how she had relaxed. The alcohol had gone straight to her brain, making her feel loose and liquid. She hadn’t had a drink for years by then, afraid that even the tiniest drop of alcohol would make her question if the next miscarriage could have been prevented. That night, she had managed to get out of bed in time to put Lex to sleep, and she’d had a glass of wine with dinner and managed to feel grateful for all that she did have. ‘From such small beginnings,’ she thinks, shaking her head.
Caro realises that Susan is speaking.
‘I’ll get some more water and I’m sure Sarah has the sandwiches by now,’ says Susan and looks meaningfully at Brian. He gets up and leaves the room.
‘I don’t think I can eat.’
‘You should, Caro, you should try. It will help a little.’
‘A drink would help a lot.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Could you get me one if I said yes?
‘It’s not something we would want to do, but if it becomes medically necessary and will allow us to finish the interview, then I could do it. I would have to get permission but it could be done.’
‘I’ll try to get by without it, but it’s good to know I have the option.’
They sit in silence until Brian comes back into the room, followed by a young woman Caro can only describe to herself as ‘perky’. Her hair is in a high ponytail and it swings with each happy step she takes. Her grin is a mile wide.
‘Oh, here we go; thanks, Sarah,’ says Susan. The girl puts the sandwiches on the table, along with some paper plates and serviettes. The sandwiches are standard fare. Caro can see a cheese and salad one, and a ham and cheese, and even a vegemite sandwich, as though they are children. Susan stands up and looks the platter over, and then wrinkles her nose.
‘I’m not sure if any of these are to your taste, Caro, but try to eat a little. I’m going to make a few calls, then I’ll be back.’
When she is gone, Brian says, ‘You should try to eat, Caro. It will help to settle your stomach.’
‘How do you know I’m nauseous, Brian?’
Brian laughs as though Caro has asked an absurd question, which she realises she has. She has not managed to conceal the level of her distress; not even slightly.
‘I know that you’re going through withdrawal, Caro. Susan knows it and you know it too. How long has it been since your last drink?’
‘I had something with breakfast.’
‘I thought you said you hadn’t had anything to drink today?’
Caro shrugs her shoulders. ‘I lied, sue me.’
‘It will get really bad tonight—the symptoms usually set in about five to ten hours after the last drink.’
‘Fuck, don’t you just love saying that? Aren’t you just so pleased to be able to tell me exactly when I’m going to start feeling really shitty!’
‘I’m not trying to—’
‘To upset me, Brian? I know you’re not trying to upset me. Is that in some book you people have all read? No matter how intense things get, just tell the person you’re interviewing that you’re not trying to upset them and everything will be just fine.’
‘Feeling irritable is part of the process. If you eat something, it may help. I’m going to eat a sandwich; why don’t you have one too?’
‘You sound like you’re talking to a child.’
‘You’re not a child.’
Caro feels some of the fight go out of her, leaving her drained. ‘I’m really tired,’ she says but she leans forward and takes the vegemite sandwich, hoping that the salt will help her stomach. She takes a bite, chews and swallows while Brian watches her. ‘See, I took a bite and now I feel better. God, that’s fairly horrible. I wish I was anywhere but here.’
‘I know, but we just need to get through this and you can go home.’
‘I’m not sure about that, Detective, not sure about that at all.’
‘You’re not sure about going home? Do you think you may not be allowed to go home?’
‘Oh, Brian, I’m not stupid. I’m not afraid that I’m going to say something so that you arrest me and stick me in a cell . . . If I thought that, I would have refused to come in here without a lawyer. I know that I did nothing wrong. I know that, but when you talk about going home again, I feel like I have no real idea about where or what my home is. Sounds dramatic, I realise, but in two weeks, everything has changed. I mean, my life was no picnic to begin with, but now . . .’
‘Now?’
‘Now it’s just . . . I don’t know—just over. I had a best friend and now I don’t. I had a child who trusted me and now I don’t, and I had a husband who loved and supported me, and even though I suspected before all this that he was pulling away, that he has been pulling away for years, now I know for sure that he is.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I really am.’
‘You’re sorry to hear what?’ says Susan, returning to the room. Caro catches the faint whiff of chocolate. None of the sandwiches were to Susan’s taste, obviously.
‘Nothing, Suze, we were just talking. Did you get all your calls done?’
‘Yes, all done. I got some Diet Coke for you, Caro. I’m not sure if you drink it. I could get something else.’
‘No, that’s fine. It’s really cold; that’s great.’
‘Are you ready to get back to it?’
‘As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.’
‘Do you think we can discuss the accident?’
‘The accident,’ says Caro and she rubs her hand across her forehead, ‘when you call it an accident it sounds so trivial, so small. It doesn’t sound like what it was, like it was the end of Maya’s life.’ She takes a tissue from the box sitting on the table and blows her nose.
‘We know it isn’t small or trivial Caro,’ says Brian, ‘and we know how you felt about Maya.’
Caro pictures Maya’s face, sees one of her rare smiles, and feels her throat constrict. She has cried for many reasons in the last two weeks. There is a gap somewhere between her first and fourth drink of the day where she allows emotion to overwhelm her and gives into tears. The tears are for Geoff, who is bewildered by his wife, and Lex, who hates her mother, and Anna and Keith, who are so sad, and for herself because of how unfair she feels it all is, but she has never shed tears for Maya. Those tears would bring it all back, and before they come, she takes the next drink and steps away from the accident. But now she cannot take a drink, cannot make it all go away.
‘Maya, poor Maya, poor kid,’ she says. She sees Maya at four, when she first got her iPad, standing at the front door and pushing the ‘hello’ button again and again to greet Caro. She was so proud of herself, so happy that she could finally say something.
‘Hello, hello, hello to you too,’ Caro had said and had been rewarded by a rare giggle from Maya.
‘I’m sorry; I don’t mean to get stupid and weepy. She wasn’t my child but I did love her—kind of. She was hard to love. I think she was very hard to love.’
‘Even for Anna?’ asks Susan.
‘Especially for Anna. Especially for her.’
Chapter Nine
Anna swallows, forcing the last mouthful of sandwich down. It has been an uncomfortable few minutes as she and the detectives watch each other eat. It
feels like they should all have gone to different parts of the station so they could eat in peace. The sound of chewing and swallowing is starting to drive Anna a little crazy but what can she say to the detectives? ‘What are your plans for Saturday night?’ They are all trapped in the stifling little room together and she’s telling them . . . she’s telling them everything about herself and her life and her child, and yet, they are complete strangers.
‘Are you okay to start again, Anna? Have you had enough to eat?’ asks Walt. Cynthia picks up the platter of sandwiches and their plates, and leaves the room.
‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine; well, not fine, but fine.’
‘Are you ready to talk about the night of the accident?’
Anna sighs. ‘I don’t know if I can ever be ready for that. How can anyone ever be ready for such a thing?’
‘Anna,’ says Walt, ‘I want to tell you again that we can leave this and do it in a week or so, when you’ve had more time.’
‘No, no, I want to do it now,’ says Anna. ‘I want to get it done. I wish it was over already. I wish I was a month into the future. A decade into the future. I wish I didn’t have to feel like this for even one more hour.’
‘I understand,’ says Walt.
‘No, you don’t, because you can’t,’ Anna wants to say.
‘Two days ago,’ she says instead, ‘I went into her room and someone, I don’t know if it was my mother or my mother-in-law or Keith, but someone had tidied it. They’d tidied it so completely that any trace of who she was is gone. Like they wanted to make sure that when you walked into the room, it looked like it had belonged to any other eleven-year-old girl, as if that could make the memory of her easier to stand. They’d pushed her beanbag in front of the holes she kicked in the wall and they’d put all her clothes on the shelves, even though Maya preferred them to be in coloured piles on the floor. I used to tidy up her cupboard once a week, and every time I did it, I hoped that she would leave her clothes where I’d put them but she never did. She would come home and go into her room and then she’d come out and touch the words ‘no’ and ‘mum’ on her iPad and yank everything off the shelves again. “Just leave it like that,” Keith said to me. “Do you want to cause a meltdown because you’re a neat freak?”
