Elena placed her arm on his shoulder and waited. She was calm, as if she had expected this.
‘I’m not asking you to be responsible, Adam. I’m only telling you because he is your son. I knew what I was doing back then. I wanted a baby. It was really nothing to do with you. But here he is, and he’s yours. And Judy wrote to me when she got the invitation and told me what had happened and, well, it seemed you had a right to know.’
Chapter Twenty-four
He walked back across the Darling Harbour bridge. This morning he had walked across it as father to a dead four-year-old son named Michael; this afternoon he was father to a fully grown adult son named Michael. He thought of Ness and Frankie, their delight at having a brother. He wondered what Judy thought — really thought. He wondered what Louise would think. He walked to The Rocks through crowded streets of commuters leaving work and tourists clasping shopping bags and he saw nothing, felt nothing, just walked and walked, and then caught the Manly ferry from Circular Quay with no plan to do so, but simply because he could. The ferry was crowded with workers heading home, and he stood at the front urging the boat to cross the harbour, as if going forward was all he knew. Halfway across the harbour, a text arrived from Louise.
Where r u? :-)
Shit, they were supposed to be going for a romantic drink before the reunion dinner. He looked at his watch. It was half past five. He had to get to Manly and catch the ferry back immediately.
RNNG L8.
He didn’t have an explanation for running late, so he didn’t offer one. Texts could convey everything and nothing. He switched his phone off, just in case Louise decided to phone him.
Contact with Louise (even just a text) had stabilised him somewhat. Returning on the ferry, he sat and savoured the idea of the young man in the forest as his son. It grew on him. A rush of good will dispersed throughout him and he knew that if had been a religious man, it would be one of those epiphanies they wrote about — or perhaps something simpler, like the footballer on his knees skidding across the grass, having just sunk the final and winning goal in a penalty shoot-out. He might have even raised his own arms in the air, he wasn’t sure. A woman across from him was looking at him strangely, so perhaps he had.
Back at the apartment, Louise was showered and dangerous. She had taken the top off a bottle of duty-free Bollinger and was still in her bathrobe.
The contract was sewn up and included work for Hagen. They toasted Louise, they toasted Hagen, and Adam tried to find words that might fit the occasion. He surprised himself, made all the right noises, and Louise was so pleased with herself that she didn’t even complain or enquire about his lateness. He rapidly showered and changed (tonight was a formal dinner). Louise had purchased a new and definitely expensive dress. Adam didn’t complain or enquire about this. They hailed a cab because they were running late, and arrived at the hall conspicuously, midway through announcements about the evening’s format.
The night was ordinary in so many ways: people, dancing, good food, expectations, lame jokes, connections, reconnections, introductions — but none of it really mattered. It was one night only, and impressions wouldn’t last. People rose to the occasion, remembered inconsequential details about each other, laughed more than was warranted and urged each other to have fun. All because they’d once shared an Overland Adventure. Most of the people Adam met, he’d known for eight weeks, twenty-something years earlier, and now they were treating each other like long-lost friends. Of course they weren’t — it was ridiculous. Adam watched as people weighed up their own lives against the lives of others. Photographs of family, bitterness about divorces, sadness over bereavements (turned out Marlene’s daughter had died of cancer aged eleven). Others held back (as he did), unwilling to share, pretending. Louise looked stunning; he was the envy of more than one or two men, he knew. And Judy didn’t mind. She loved every minute of it, and even Phillip looked animated (as much as he could). Underlying all of it for Adam was the knowledge, the new and life-giving knowledge, that he had a son: a living, breathing, adult carrying his genes.
They woke with hangovers. Adam recalled linking arms with Phillip near the end while they sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’, remembered admiring how well Phillip sang (he’d held the tune almost perfectly). Louise had been the belle of the ball. Now she buried her head under a pillow and demanded Disprin. Adam obliged, happy to be out of bed and glad of his own sore head: it grounded him in a reality that had been absent the previous night. He’d drunk to excess (again), but this time out of unexpected joy. He hadn’t told Louise yet, but luckily this could now be delayed a little longer — until after he’d tended to her, nursed her.
The chrome and white kitchen glared at him. He swiped a glass from one of the cabinets and ran cold water from the filter tap, downed two glassfuls himself and carried one in to Louise. Into this he dropped two extra-strength Disprin. He wasn’t ready to medicate his own headache; it added balance to his perspective. Joyful disbelief and a thumping headache. He couldn’t do joy undiluted. It would have been disloyal.
Ah, but he needn’t have worried. His headache was not the only counterbalance that morning. No sooner had he brewed coffee for Louise than a text arrived from Hagen. The accompanying photograph was hardly high resolution, but the general idea was fairly clear.
Your factory on strike on overbridge! read the text.
He couldn’t make out exactly who was standing on the bridge with a placard, but he could see the blue overalls — possibly Ajax (tall enough, anyway).
Christ almighty! And then another text came through, from Heather.
PCM … URGENT.
He called Heather.
She was distraught. ‘They’ve gone out on strike!’
She kept repeating this, ignoring his questions.
‘Where the fuck is Martin?’
That got through to her. He’d never sworn at her before.
‘Martin’s not here.’
‘Where the fuck is Martin?’
Now he was repeating himself.
Louise groaned and rolled over, stuffing her head under the pillow, eloquently closing both ends of the pillow over her ears.
‘We’re on holiday.’
It was muffled, grumpy and, as usual, lacking empathy.
Heather wasn’t any use. Adam dialled Martin’s mobile and it went direct to voicemail.
He realised he had two options. Stress out, or stress out. So he did both. His stomach joined his head in painful rebellion. And then Martin called back.
‘I called their bluff.’
All of the staff (even Paris) were on the overbridge with placards — well, all except Heather and Martin.
‘Get it sorted, Martin. Get it sorted, now!’
‘You mean give in?’
He thought about it. Did he mean that? Actually, right now, he wasn’t sure he cared enough either way. He pushed end call and switched his phone off. If Martin wanted to take over the factory, then he’d need to sort out the strike before there was no factory to take over. Adam would call back tonight … maybe the weather would pack in and they’d all run for shelter. He prayed for a howling southerly (hail perhaps) and even managed a wry laugh at the idea of Martin on the overbridge under an umbrella, negotiating. The real world, instead of production schedules and spreadsheets. It might be good for him.
Louise lifted the pillow and rolled over on to her back. He needed consolation. It never failed to surprise him how good he and Louise were — mostly when he least expected it. Her hangover (his too), his impotent fury at Martin, all of this coalescing — creating harmony from discord. Louise loving him, his impotence transformed.
Chapter Twenty-five
They had agreed that two days at the reunion were more than enough. They planned to escape today, visit Manly (not just a ride there and back on the ferry like last evening), shopping for the girls (Billabong for Frankie and books for Ness).
In the shower, Adam resolved to phone Martin back before he left the a
partment. The consequences of the strike began to infiltrate all of his thoughts again. Out of the shower, he changed his mind, resolving to leave his phone off. It occurred to him that Sergio had probably instigated this, knowing Adam was away. Martin thought he’d called their bluff, but probably it was the reverse. Perhaps Adam should stay out of it — let Martin sort it out.
It was at Circular Quay, buying return tickets to Manly, that he remembered his conversation with Elena. They had planned to meet up this afternoon at the reunion, to talk more about the boy with the blue backpack.
He checked his watch. It was a quarter to eleven already … he was supposed to meet Elena by the blue couch in the foyer at three. The cynical side of him imagined a bill for twenty-three years of absentee fatherhood. All those sneakers, tennis racquets (or maybe he was a soccer player?), school fees, doctors’ bills, piano lessons (his son a musician?), maybe the guitar — no, he was an outdoor sort — tramping gear was expensive … He saw the boy with the blue backpack tumbling down a ravine … he panicked, rewound, went back to buying him tramping boots, a fleecy top (nothing but the warmest), chatted with him about the right sort of boots for the right sort of tramp (as if he knew), education — Christ — the boy was a post-graduate student: it must have cost Elena a fortune — then he imagined his boy working after school (maybe in a factory; no, that was fanciful) … what sort of job?
‘Wakey wakey.’
Louise was pushing him towards the ferry queue.
He was late for Elena. She was in the main foyer talking to the louts: Ash, Yanni and Alan. Yanni was now an overweight (as expected) restaurant owner on Lygon Street in Melbourne. He had four kids and two restaurants, one run by his wife. Alan looked much the same, only older — long straggly hair, which Adam realised was probably dyed, because it was blonde and Alan’s hair had been red; his skin up close was sweaty with open pores and he was wearing his Jesus sandals. The louts embraced Adam. There was no escape. He had to invent a palatable history of Adam that didn’t sound too contrived, inauthentic or unenthusiastic. He took a while to get into the role, but once he got going it was easy.
His factory was doing deals in Australia and China. He had a protégé lined up to take over. Louise was a mover and shaker — business world, boys, business world — Ness was a writer in the making and Frankie a champion diver (also in the making). Him and Judy — well, they were great mates. Life was pretty damn good. After a while he believed it. And after a while he saw Elena watching him and watching her watch, and he had to extricate himself just as he was really winding up … getting used to being so successful.
He had to look up to look at Elena. She had a small bubble of sweat in the channel that ran from her nose to her top lip. She smelt of body lotion rather than perfume, something practical and comforting. He noticed her hair was still blonde, lighter somehow, but he couldn’t detect any grey. She was handsome — a tad overbearing, but that might have been anxiety.
‘About Michael.’
Shoes, tennis racquets, doctors’ bills, university fees …
‘He’s leaving next week to study in Brazil. This is your last chance for some time to meet with him — that’s if you would like …’
Meet Michael.
It hadn’t even occurred to him. And why not? That he had a son was unimaginable; that he could meet him was unbelievable.
He couldn’t speak.
Elena mistook his silence for a no.
‘That’s all right. I haven’t told Michael that I’ve met up with you. It was just an idea.’
‘No, no, of course not, I mean yes, of course, of course.’
Elena swiped her finger across the gap between her nose and upper lip, collecting the small bead of sweat and breathing out. She sat on the blue couch. Now he was looking down at her, which made him awkward and her somehow vulnerable, so he sat beside her.
Mother and father — parents to the man in the photograph. They decided on a time and place: tomorrow, on the bridge, and Elena would explain to Michael, give him a chance to say no … or yes. Out in the open, so that if Michael changed his mind, they weren’t committed. They’d keep the whole thing fluid. And what if Adam changed his mind? But he wouldn’t … would he?
On the way back to the apartment, photograph in his inside top pocket, Adam invented conversations with his son.
‘Hi, I’m Adam.’
‘Hi, I’m Adam, your dad.’
‘Hi — you must be Elena’s son.’
‘Hi …’ followed by loving embraces …
Followed by a scene with only Elena on the bridge — just Adam and Elena, and Michael deciding not to show.
And then he saw Judy and his Michael on the bridge and Elena and the new Michael, and him having to choose who to embrace — trying to collect them all into his arms.
He had an argument with his son.
He had another argument with his son.
It all went haywire — it was awful.
What on earth would he say?
Walking back, he thought of George denying Frankie.
Walking back, he thought of Michael under the wheels of his car.
Walking back, he thought of Louise: what would he tell her?
Chapter Twenty-six
From the hallway, outside the door of their apartment, Adam could hear voices. Louise obviously had company. He could hear a man and a woman, and the woman sounded like Judy. He opened the door. Louise was seated with her back to him. He almost tripped over luggage as he stepped into the room. Judy was rubbing Louise’s back in a circular motion and talking to Phillip, who was on the phone and listening to Judy. None of it made any sense at all. And then he saw that Louise had been, possibly still was, crying. Nobody spoke; instead they all looked to each other, as if hoping someone would volunteer to break the silence.
Many thoughts flashed through Adam’s mind, the first and craziest that somehow Judy knew about Elena and had told Louise …
But his rational self knew that Judy wasn’t going to dob him in like that, even if she did know (and of course she didn’t), and he knew Louise well enough to know that crying was not how she would handle that kind of crisis.
It was Phillip who finally spoke. First he appeared to confirm an airline booking.
‘Yes, we’re happy to pay for an upgrade, absolutely.’
Getting tacit approval from Judy as he spoke, raising his eyebrows to ask the question, to which she nodded (still rubbing Louise’s back), her face grim, and not even looking at Adam.
Phillip motioned to Adam to follow him out through the grubby glass doors to the tiny terrace, so that they stood on a concrete ledge, screened from Louise and Judy, and warmed by the Sydney sun.
‘Brace yourself, mate. It’s bad news from home.’
How the hell did Phillip know about the strike on the overbridge?
Then he knew, terror filling him … Christ, Frankie.
Phillip filled him in simply, factually.
Ness had phoned while Adam was out. Frankie was in hospital, in a decompression chamber. Her first dive had gone wrong. Ness had been her diving buddy, but they’d become separated. Frankie had panicked and instead of resurfacing had first gone deeper and then resurfaced too quickly. That was the only news they had. Louise had phoned the convention centre looking for him, but no one knew where he was, so she’d asked for Judy.
Moments earlier, he was choosing fatherhood, based on something as abstract as a random sperm cell from a random encounter in a random tent somewhere (no, he still wasn’t absolutely certain where) in Europe. Out of that came biological fatherhood to a fully grown young man. But where was his heart in all of this? There was no biology involved in his decision, only knowledge: he was Frankie’s Dam-dad. They had a pact — he’d be there when she surfaced. And now he was here, and she had surfaced too quickly.
The boy with the blue backpack would have to wait.
Adam forgot about Elena … didn’t even think to call her and explain. He and Louise caught
a cab together, luggage everywhere (her shopping), and it was Judy who consoled her. Phillip did all the fussing about flights and browbeat the hostess when she growled about their late check-in. Adam spoke of his gratitude, and felt nothing but numbness. It was only as the plane’s g-force drew him back into the seat that he remembered Elena, Michael, the bridge at Darling Harbour. Then he forgot again as he watched Louise fighting back tears, saw her needing him — himself holding her.
Across the aisle from them, Phillip and Judy. He remembered Judy’s outburst at Nakita’s — admitting to wishing something as terrible as this on Louise and her family — and here they all were now … It was going to be all right. Not even the God he didn’t believe in could allow this. It was going to be okay.
He looked down at his hands — blood had risen to the surface, magenta under thinning skin. Louise must have gripped his hand when the plane took off, but he’d felt nothing — nothing but the g-force taking him back and his own will forcing himself forward, into the future. Frankie would be okay.
Three hours with a tail wind and an over-attentive hostess. They declined all offers of food but the hostess insisted, so they took it to appease her and left it untouched. Alcohol was another matter. Adam ordered a double brandy for Louise and sipped red wine himself. Small sips, not daring to become intoxicated, not daring to stay sober. Somewhere in between. Phillip was ordering cups of hot water for Judy and drinking whisky.
Adam reran his version of himself to the louts.
Mr Creative, Adam Factoryman, father of two girls, amicably divorced, selling seats into China, living with Louise, Mrs Why Not Wellington?
Oh, but it was so much more complicated than that.
He tried another version.
Adam, bereaved father (killer, actually), unfaithful (philanderer), absentee dad (on all counts).
Turbulence Page 23
