by Kris Webb
I wondered if Anita had done this every night with Jack – given him a kiss and wished him goodnight like I did. He looked so warm and cuddly I was tempted for a moment to bring him into bed with me, but thought better of it. After covering him, I headed for bed, trying not to picture the glamorous and exciting woman Tony was probably squiring around the town at that very moment.
SIXTEEN
When I first opened my eyes two mornings later, I couldn’t figure out what was so strange. And then it hit me. My bedroom was full of light. Not just grey pre-dawn light, but blinding yellow light.
I felt the confusion that usually came from waking in an unfamiliar bed. Looking around blankly, I tried to figure out what was going on. My eyes fell on the digits 9.45 on the clock radio beside the bed.
My God. What had happened? There was no way Jack could have slept until now.
Throwing the sheet back I dashed across the room and out of the door. I registered that Jack’s door was open even as I threw myself inside. The cot was empty. I tried to think rationally as I stared at where he should be. The chances of someone breaking into the house and stealing Jack without waking either Patrick or me were remote, weren’t they? At the thought of Patrick, hope flared.
‘Patrick,’ I yelled, belting down the stairs to his room. He wasn’t there.
I climbed the stairs slowly.
All right, Patrick and Jack were both missing. The most logical and least paranoid scenario was that they were together. But this had to be balanced against the fact that Patrick had never ventured out of the house with Jack. I speculated wildly – maybe Jennifer had broken in to abduct Patrick and Jack had witnessed the event.
My eyes fell on a piece of paper taped to the glass doors leading to the deck, presumably in an attempt to differentiate it from the surrounding mess.
Stepping over several damp towels and Maggie’s truck, which had mercifully run out of batteries, I pulled it down. Jack and I have gone for a walk. Back about 11.
I had no idea how I could have missed either Jack waking, or the pandemonium that must have been associated with Patrick and him leaving the house together. Although my chronic lack of sleep might have had something to do with it.
Almost eight hours uninterrupted sleep. And – I took a look at the kitchen clock – sixty-eight minutes more of Sunday morning freedom. Patrick had definitely earned himself some major brownie points with this effort.
What should I do? I eyed the room I was standing in. There was hardly a surface that wasn’t covered. Pots and dishes were stacked precariously in the sink and there was a puddle of what I hoped was water in the corner.
I was frozen with indecision. The house could never have been described as neat while Patrick and I had lived together, but since Jack’s arrival it had been bordering on disgusting.
But the fleeting thought of doing a whirlwind clean was banished almost immediately, as was the idea of finishing off the letter of advice I’d been preparing last night. The weekend paper was sitting on the bench, fat and enticing. Feeling vaguely guilty, I pulled the terrace doors open and settled myself in a reclining chair.
Ignoring the news section, I skipped straight to the colour magazine. Even those lightweight articles couldn’t hold my attention, though, and I flicked through it vaguely, starting when I thought I heard a noise at the front door.
I strode to the door and opened it, to find no one there. Returning to the deck, I paced its width in agitation. What was wrong with me? Had I lost the ability to relax like a normal human being?
I checked the clock again. Sixty-five minutes.
An idea struck me. Even allowing for being home ten minutes early and for a five-minute drive each way, I could have forty minutes at the New Farm Deli.
Leaping into action, I ran into my bedroom, shedding pyjamas as I went. On went yesterday’s clothes – a definite advantage to leaving them lying on the floor – and two minutes later I was out the front door.
I had deliberately never even walked past New Farm Deli with Jack. The previous day’s coffee with Tanya, while not a complete disaster, had well and truly confirmed that coffee with Jack was not a relaxing experience for anyone within earshot, and I wasn’t going to compromise the place that made the best lattes in Brisbane.
As I crossed the footpath a couple left my favourite table. Settling into a chair, I looked around in something approaching ecstasy. A cup of coffee in a cool cafe on Sunday morning, with no one systematically demolishing the place. It didn’t get much better than this. I couldn’t believe that this state of nirvana was something to which I’d once given little thought.
‘Morning.’ The waiter looked at me questioningly.
‘A latte, please.’ I decided food was an optional extra that could only complicate my tight time frame.
The newspaper I’d brought from home sat on the table in front of me. But these fleeting minutes of peace seemed too precious to spend on world events. I walked over to the pile of magazines in the corner, suppressing my impulse to skip.
The one on top was a recent copy of my favourite women’s magazine. Absolutely perfect. I picked it up and returned to my table where a sensational-looking cup of coffee was sitting waiting for me.
Settling myself into the chair, I sneaked a look at my watch. It was only 10.20.
As I flipped through the first twenty pages of ads, my elation evaporated. How could I sit here getting excited about some time to myself when Anita was dead? She’d never have the chance to see her son again and here I was treating his presence like a millstone around my neck.
I was starting to get used to this emotional seesaw. When I was at work or running around after Jack, I managed not to think much about Anita. But at quiet moments like now, or when I was lying in bed, all I’d be able to think about was her death. I found myself wanting to tell her what was happening and then realising I couldn’t.
I bit my lip. Feeling guilty every time I was happy wasn’t going to achieve anything. Anita was dead, but my not enjoying living wasn’t going to bring her back.
Deliberately I took a slow sip of coffee and turned to the first article. It was a regular piece called ‘A Day in the Life of . . .’
This edition featured a woman called Angie Dawson. She was glammy, thirty-fiveish, in head-to-toe designer gear and surrounded by three children. The bold type under the heading read:
When she’s not jetting off to the States for important pow-wows with clients, management consultant Angie bakes cakes, plays backyard cricket and throws fabulous dinner parties for her friends.
I hated her already.
I hated her even more after I read the next two pages, which followed her day from 6.30 a.m. (I should be so lucky) until 12 p.m., when she no doubt engaged in bed-spring-rattling sex with her movie-star handsome husband. Thankfully, that part was left to the imagination.
6.30 a.m. had her getting up with her youngest child (gorgeous husband and she took turns) and then waking her older two children an hour later. I stared sightlessly into the middle distance, picturing the sheer bliss of having to wake Jack. Although it seemed a somewhat unlikely scenario, having to kick him out of bed at eleven in the morning and tell him he was a lazy sod was something I longed for with every fibre of my body.
At 8.30 a.m. Angie left for work in a stunning suit on which, despite close examination, I couldn’t spot one Vegemite smear. The morning saw her flitting from desk to conference room, saving companies with her insight. 1 p.m. saw her eating a salad for lunch at a trendy new restaurant with a bunch of friends who all look similarly superwomanish. 2 p.m. – who ever did lunch in an hour? – saw her back at her desk, printer churning out inspirational reports all afternoon. 6 p.m. and she was leaving the office, walking in her front door at 6.30 p.m. to a house full of fed, clean and pyjamaed offspring. 7.30 p.m. and they all tootled off to bed in Von Trapp family high spirits, leaving Angie and divine-looking husband entertaining a table full of fabulous and witty guests until midnight.
Where were the midnight wakings, dirty nappies, whining children and food throwing? Where was Harold, for God’s sake?
10.40. Reluctantly I drained the last of my coffee and stood up. Maybe I just needed to be more efficient. What I needed was to take control. Time management, that was the key. Lists, priorities, goals, objectives . . . If Angie could do it with three kids, I could do it with one.
The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door.
Instantly I imagined it was Patrick ringing to say something terrible had happened to Jack.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi.’
‘Tanya . . .’ I sighed with relief. ‘So you made it home okay?’
Greg had called to apologise and Tanya had flown home the previous afternoon.
‘Sure did. And I brought back a suitcase full of exotic ingredients. I’m going to teach Greg about good food even if it kills me. If I have to cook steak and chips once more, I’m simply going to have to chop off my own ear.’
I laughed. ‘God, you really do love a challenge, don’t you? Why didn’t you marry that chef you used to go out with? You could have saved yourself all this bother.’
‘Well, for starters he was addicted to cocaine, and secondly he was a total dick.’
‘Ah yes,’ I agreed. ‘There is that.’
‘Have you heard from Maggie?’ she asked.
‘No. You?’
‘Uh-uh. I called the pub, but the guy I spoke to said no one had seen her since Friday. I assume she’s still with Marcus.’
I sighed. ‘Ah well. She’s a grown-up. She knows what she’s doing.’
‘I guess so. I just know how bad she’s going to feel when it’s over again.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Hey, guess what?’ Tanya brightened. ‘I had an email from Black Label Press while I was in Brisbane. I pitched them an idea of a series of books set in the outback and they seem keen.’
‘Really?’ I asked doubtfully. The times I’d visited Tanya I’d spent most of the time covered in dust. The most intimate male conversation I’d had out there was with a sixty-year-old station hand who’d insisted on telling me about his haemorrhoids.
‘Yeah, there’s some fantastic material,’ Tanya enthused. ‘Taut thighs gripping saddles, midnight trysts in the shearing shed . . .’
I burst out laughing. ‘You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?’
‘It’s fantastic – best job I’ve ever had. How’s Jack going? Still in love with Maggie’s truck?’
‘Yep – he insisted on sleeping with it again last night. I reckon Hideous Harold’s days are numbered.’
‘You should be so lucky. Anyway, I must go. Let me know if you hear from Maggie.’
We said our goodbyes and I put the phone down. Taking a long look around the kitchen, I decided that if I left cleaning it any longer, the health department would be knocking at the door.
I had just about managed to clear the floor when I heard Patrick’s key in the lock. He walked in, carrying two large plastic bags, followed by Jack who had been transformed into a rather baggy, but very cute, Spiderman. He was wearing a webbed costume that was at least two sizes too big – the web-launching wristbands looking like bangles on his little wrists.
Clutching what looked like a Batman mask in one hand and Harold in the other, he stood in the doorway beaming at me. He’d obviously had a great time and showed no signs of needing his normal morning sleep.
Assuming that a dramatic reaction was required, I screamed and ducked behind the sofa, much to Jack’s delight.
Patrick interrupted as I pretended to cower in terror at the sight of an advancing Jack.
‘Julia, where’ve you been? Spiderman is one of the good guys.’
‘Oh.’ I shrugged and stood up.
‘You know this being poor thing isn’t all bad. Check out what we found at a garage sale down the road.’ He opened the bags to reveal a collection of clearly second-hand trucks, diggers and footballs. ‘All this for fifty bucks.’
‘But I’ve already bought him toys. I spent a fortune.’
‘Nope,’ Patrick declared with certainty. ‘All wrong. This morning Jack spent nearly half an hour tucking that bloody toad into the pram, putting a hand towel over him like it was a sheet.’ He looked at me accusingly, clearly expecting me to be as mortified as he was.
‘So?’
‘So? What do you mean so? He’s a boy. He’s supposed to be running trucks up and down the walls, not making up beds. I can’t believe you bought him a pram – he’d never have been able to show his face on the street again if the neighbours’ kids had seen him with it.’
I shook my head. ‘Babies and Toddlers magazine says it’s wrong to gender stereotype kids and that they should be exposed to different kinds of toys. You’re lucky that I didn’t buy him a doll.’ I wasn’t sure I really believed this theory, but the pram had been on sale and it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Patrick looked mortified at the thought.
I reminded myself that Patrick had kept Jack occupied all morning. He could buy him guns if he kept this up.
‘Thanks for giving me a sleep-in. I really appreciate it. I feel better than I have in weeks.’
Patrick waved my thanks away. ‘I actually wanted to test something one of the guys at work said – ex-work,’ he corrected himself. ‘He reckoned that having a baby was a great way to pick up women.’
I tried not to feel disappointed that my brother’s motives hadn’t been more honourable. ‘And did it work?’
‘Ah – no. I took him to the park – nothing. I even got him to run up to a woman who was sitting on a bench reading. But she just smiled at him and went back to her book.’
I tried not to laugh. ‘I thought you were over women.’
‘Oh, trust me, I am. It was just a sociological experiment.’
Jack was fully occupied making satisfied male noises with his new machinery.
Patrick, apparently pleased that he’d saved Jack from a fate worse than death, decided that his next task was to teach him to shake hands. ‘Firm grip, that’s the key,’ he proclaimed.
I opened my mouth to comment, about to suggest that learning to feed himself might come slightly ahead of handshaking, but stopped as I saw Maggie walk in the door.
‘Hi there. You’re just in time to learn how to shake hands.’
When she barely managed a smile, I looked at her carefully. I knew from past experience that she was likely to be fragile. She was dressed in old jeans and a baggy T-shirt – a clear sign that she was suffering. Hair pulled back into a clip at the back of her neck, she smiled wanly.
‘Have a good time?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘But it’s Sunday again, isn’t it. It’s funny, every time we do this, I think the weekend will last forever. But Sunday always comes. You’d think I’d learn.’
‘How’s Marcus?’
‘Just the same. Heaps of fun, getting chased by groupies. You know . . . He was seeing someone for a few months but they broke up. I shouldn’t be glad but I am.’
She looked so sad I couldn’t bring myself to say any of the meaningless platitudes that sprang to mind. ‘You know, I don’t think it’s going to end for you guys until one of you falls in love with someone else.’
‘Which I’m perfectly happy to do.’ Maggie threw her hands up. ‘It’s just that every single man I meet is a complete dufus.’
Patrick put on an offended face and Maggie held a hand up apologetically.
‘Sorry, Patrick, I should have qualified that. I meant every single man who started high school before I left. Although maybe cradle-snatching isn’t an option I can afford to ignore any more . . .’
‘Oh come on, Maggie,’ Patrick tried half-he
artedly, then gave up. ‘Ah – I’ve got to make some calls. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’ He escaped the discussion of female emotions with patently obvious relief.
Maggie sat down on the sofa and made an effort to distract herself.
‘Hello Jack. Cool outfit!’
Jack beamed at her before heading purposefully towards his bedroom.
‘So have you heard from the beautiful Tony?’
‘Not a word. Mind you, he didn’t call me for ten days before we went to the movies, so who knows? Maybe he’s just the forgetful type.’
‘Mmm. Told you he had issues. Listen, maybe one of us should give the text-messaging man another go?’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Yeah, all right. I’m just depressed.’ She looked up at the ceiling and then back at me. ‘Does finding someone you want to be with really have to be this hard?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answered honestly.
‘Whatever happened to the fairytales?’ she asked. ‘I’m over the love at first sight stuff, but I could definitely do with the living happily ever after bit.’
I hadn’t seen Jack since he’d headed to his room and I was just about to check on him when he reappeared, Maggie’s truck in hand. He came up beside her, making determined ‘brmm brmm’ noises.
Maggie’s face softened. ‘Ah, so you like the truck, Jack?’
‘Like it?’ I answered. ‘I think you might have made a friend for life with that present. Unfortunately the batteries have run out though, so he can only push it around.’ I tried my hardest to look sad.
‘I remember that from when I was a kid,’ Maggie said. ‘You’d get a great present, it would work for a couple of hours and that was it. So . . .’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘I bought a few extra batteries.’ She brandished a handful of packets that looked like they would keep the truck in business for a year or more.
Taking the truck from Jack, she ripped open a packet and replaced the batteries. She flicked the on switch and the familiar noise ripped through the air. Jack gave Maggie a look of adoration and followed the truck as it took off towards the kitchen.
