by Kim Lock
‘Ark, please.’
‘Honestly, Jenna, do I mean nothing to you?’
Irritated, she rolled to face him. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
He blinked. ‘So now I’m ridiculous? Yet when you want to talk about how you feel, I’m supposed to drop everything and listen? I’ve told you, I’ll look after you. You need to think of our family.’ He paused. ‘You need to resign.’
‘We’ve been through this –’
‘Why aren’t you listening to me? You don’t give one shit about me or the baby.’
She sat up. ‘I enjoy my job.’ She could hear the dangerous edge in her voice. ‘I’ll stop when –’
‘When what? You fall down from exhaustion?’
‘Ark –’
‘When you’ve forgotten about me entirely?’
‘Look –’
He pursed his lips. ‘Who is he?’
Jenna’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh my God,’ she snapped. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘It’s true, isn’t it? You stand around in the hospital tearoom with that fat black whore and swap doctor sex stories?’ His face had gone a telltale shade of crimson. ‘Yeah,’ he said, nodding. ‘Now I’m onto something.’
‘Ark, that’s crazy!’ she cried. ‘Do you even hear what you’re saying?’
He smirked. ‘Now you’re getting angry to try and hide the truth.’
Jenna didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said hotly, ‘I’ll take mat leave when the baby is due –’
‘No, you’ll resign.’
‘– and I’ll go back after a few months.’
‘So your family means nothing to you? You are such a selfish bitch.’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ she shouted, slapping her hands onto the sheets. ‘Will you listen to me?’
Jenna wanted to throw her head back and scream. She pictured the tendons straining in her neck, heard the satisfying howl of blood in her ears. She imagined the horrified white of his face as her infuriated wail pierced the night.
Ark rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t have to put up with an outburst,’ he said, reaching to snap off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness. ‘We’ll discuss this when you can talk rationally, without swearing at me.’
Chest heaving, baby fluttering in her belly to the drum of her heartbeat, Jenna sat in the dark. Eventually she laid down and pulled the sheets to her chin.
Moonlight slid sullen beams across the ceiling and she watched them for hours, her longed-for sleep now forgotten. Finally, before dawn, she felt relief in the slackened grip of her muscles, a grey shadow of sleep slinking over her, just as Ark’s alarm began to sound.
When he woke, he dissolved any chance of her sleeping as he turned to her and snapped, ‘The least you can do is apologise. If you can’t love me like I can love, maybe I’ll find someone who can.’
ix
Jenna stepped from the shower cubicle, reaching through the steam for her towel. She watched her belly in the mirror as she dried off; the enormous, round weight of it dragging the small of her back forwards. The ball of her belly had dropped low now like the baby might simply fall out at any moment. Stretch marks bloomed purple zigzags across her hips and under her navel.
Naked, Jenna waddled from the ensuite into the bedroom. A glance at the clock told her Ark would be home at any minute; his flight from Melbourne had touched down in Mount Gambier at seven, and then he’d have a forty-five minute drive home. Barely even 8 pm and she was exhausted. Her shift had been long – an elderly patient had died after a brief battle with the flu had turned into pneumonia – and her feet and back and knees ached, and she was desperate to curl up in bed and sleep. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, she reached in to pull out her favourite oversized t-shirt.
She went still.
The t-shirt was gone. All her pyjamas were gone, but the drawer was stuffed full.
Lace and gauze spilled out like soft foam as she pushed in her hand. Pink, white and black strips of glossy satin. Cool, exquisite fabrics glided between her fingers like air. Finding a thin strap, she lifted her hand, slowly, and the flimsy negligee unfolded as though breathing to life: transparent, barely there black lace cups that would contain little more than her areola; spaghetti straps with tiny crystals that glimmered in the lamplight and a body with a split right up the front, entirely transparent, with a puff of faux-fur around the hem.
NaughtyMama, read the tag. A tremor went through her as she recalled the conversation. Just because you’re getting a big belly, doesn’t mean you can’t still look gorgeous. And, I want someone I can be proud of. My sexy mama. And, You used to care about making yourself look good for me. Who are you looking good for now?
Letting the slip float back into the drawer, Jenna searched the rest of the dresser, but only dug out more lingerie. In the walk-in robe, she rifled through the baskets, searched through hanging suits and coats and dresses, sunk awkwardly to her knees and tossed aside boots, thongs, sandals. Nothing. Her pyjamas were gone. All of them.
Why? Why had he done this? Was she letting herself go? Morphing into the sexless, apathetic women who symbolised the burden of motherhood?
On the floor in the robe, Jenna panted, her belly a heavy weight on her thighs. There was a catch in her throat. Taking a firm hold of the shelves, she hauled herself carefully to her feet; the bones in her hips and sacrum crunched and popped.
In front of the dresser, she pulled open the top drawer and withdrew the first thing on the pile: a sheer black baby-doll with red satin trim, a minuscule matching G-string clipped to one of the straps. Raising her arms above her head, she let the fabric whisper down over her breasts, draping over the balloon of her belly, the cutaway front dropping open to let the baby-heavy bulge fall out.
She moved to the full-length mirror and stared at the heavy pendulum of her breasts; the black-inked elephant tattoo on pale skin; wide, hormone-darkened nipples caught in the sheer fabric. Ruffles breezed across her hips as she bent to step into the G-string, thin elastic cutting into her fingers as she stretched it over her hips and shimmied the strap into position between her buttocks.
Ripe, voluptuous, obscene. She gazed at her reflection: wisps of strategically fitted gauze and lace like gilt edging. In the mirror, she saw the outline of the fleshy folds of her vulva, waxed and stripped as requested, to show she loved him. To demonstrate her care and commitment to his needs. Milk-white, pre-pubescent, but shadowed with adult gauze.
Ridiculous. Eight months pregnant, she should be relaxed and comfortable – not trussed-up like an object to wank over in Penthouse.
A singular tear slid glistening down her cheek, trembled on her jaw, then fell to her breast and dissolved into the lace.
9
NOW
With trembling hands Fairlie picks the key up off the carpet.
Store-For-You, unit 8.
Fairlie re-reads Jenna’s letter, over and over. The envelope is postmarked for the day before Jenna’s death. Jenna mailed this knowing Fairlie wouldn’t receive it until Jenna was dead.
Her phone won’t let her open a browser and Fairlie gives an impatient squeak of anguish waiting for her laptop to boot up. When Google finally pops up she types Store-For-You into the search bar and navigates to the website. A budget, no-nonsense page boasts cheap rates and friendly service. Fairlie’s ribs feel too tight as she searches for the address: 1127 Bay Road, Mount Gambier.
Scrambling to her feet, she shoves Jenna’s key into her pocket and races through the flat, snatching up her handbag and knocking Yodel from the bench in a skitter of paws.
Then she remembers. Ark. Packing Jenna’s things. Henry. She’d promised she’d be there today.
Without thinking, she keys in a text message to Ark, apologising that she won’t be able to make it. Her phone beeps with a fail message.
Fairlie ye
lls a string of curses about Telstra and their unsavoury personal hygiene habits. Then she shoves her phone into her pocket, grabs a package from the freezer, pounds the door open and, in the car, guns the engine and peels from the car park.
*
Fairlie’s hand hovers over the front door. Struck suddenly by indecision over whether to knock or simply walk straight in like she once did, she knocks softly, pauses, looks from one end of the verandah to the other, then raps her knuckles with more certitude. From inside, footsteps thud down the hallway; the low rumble of a man’s voice sounds through the wood.
‘Hey,’ Fairlie says as brightly as she can when Ark opens the door. ‘Here –’ she holds up a bag of frozen meals ‘– it’s from my neighbour. Beef curry.’ Fairlie explains, ‘I think she’s on a quest for world peace. Through obesity.’ Her cheeks grow momentarily hot.
Ark looks uncertain, but takes the bag of food. Henry is hoisted high up on his chest, Ark’s forearm gripped around the back of his little thighs. Henry twists to look at her, a box of sultanas gripped protectively to his chest. It takes Henry a beat to recognise her but his features relax when he does, his big eyes soften and he smiles shyly.
‘Thanks for coming.’ Ark stands aside to motion her in.
‘Any time,’ she tells him, smiling at Henry and patting his back as she steps over the threshold. Her heart is still racing.
All of this? This is between you and me only, sister.
In the kitchen, Ark offers her coffee. Purple shadows like horrid bruises ring his eyes and his face is creased as though he’s slept on the pillow seams, but he still moves around the room with a casual, alpha-male ease. Not even the abrupt and tragic death of his wife could snatch that from him; Fairlie wonders if he is fighting the grief.
Inside her purse is Jenna’s mysterious and inexplicable key. Fairlie takes a burning mouthful of coffee and wonders if Ark can see it on her face. Should she ask him? Maybe she could slip it casually into conversation and gauge his reaction.
Hey, Ark, have you ever rented a storage unit?
The coffee is scalding and strong, and while Fairlie tries not to grimace as she sips at it, Ark sits opposite her and they both try not to acknowledge how tragically awkward it is. Between them, Jenna looms large.
So, Ark, I’m thinking of hiring a self-storage unit. Can you recommend a good one?
Fairlie takes a sip of her coffee. ‘How have you been?’
‘Okay.’
‘How’s Henry been?’
Ark shrugs. ‘He keeps asking where she is.’ A muscle in his jaw clenches.
‘I can help you.’
‘I’m coping.’
‘Honestly,’ she says, reaching over to touch his hand. ‘Please call on me more often. I’d like to help. Both of you.’
At that moment, Henry toddles to Fairlie and lightly pats her thighs. ‘Up,’ he says. When she lifts him into her lap he immediately begins to poke his fingers up her nose and she laughs, not bothering to remove them. He giggles with her, then moves to knead the flesh on her neck.
‘You got a skishy neck,’ he says.
‘Keeps me warm in winter,’ she replies.
She can see Jenna in the curve of his cheekbones, in his thick eyelashes.
They finish their coffee and Ark suggests they get straight to it.
Fairlie agrees hastily. Henry slides from her lap as she stands and scrapes her chair back in. What about: Ark. Storage locker. What the fuck?
Henry is subdued and sticks closely by his father as they make their way to the bedroom, but seems happy enough to occupy himself with a basket of Lego that Ark drags into the hallway outside the bedroom door.
Uncertain where to begin, Fairlie and Ark circle the bedroom warily. The bed is smartly made, the sheets smoothed out, two pillows lined up alongside each other. Does Jenna’s pillow still smell of her?
‘I’ll start with her clothes if you like?’ Fairlie says eventually.
Ark nods. ‘Okay.’ He sounds relieved.
She wants to ask him what he’s going to do, but the question sounds too ambiguous. So instead she offers him a smile, the kind that says, Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay, even though it feels disingenuous, and then she opens the door to the walk-in robe.
Jenna’s things do smell of her. Dresses and shirts and skirts fill one side of the robe; Fairlie brushes her hand over soft fabrics and releases a cloud of Jenna’s scent: milk and violets, rosemary shampoo and the basic musty undertone of skin. Living flesh that once warmed and stained the fabric.
Her heart thuds as a sense of panic whispers at her. She concentrates on taking several slow, deep breaths. As she slips Jenna’s clothes from hangers, memories flash before her. Wearing this purple knitted dress, Jenna had bartered with a salesman at an electronics store and got almost two hundred dollars off their TV. (The TV Fairlie now watches alone.) This chocolate corduroy blazer had been one dollar at an op shop. (That same day, Fairlie had bought herself six pairs of jeans, three jumpers and a t-shirt that said, ‘Beam me up, Jesus’ for twelve dollars fifty.) The rip in the knee of these jeans, the bacon-splash grease stain on these tracksuit pants: Fairlie knows it all. A longing for Jenna strikes her so hard she grabs a shelf to steady herself.
‘You can put her shoes in here.’ Ark appears with a large box.
‘Thanks,’ she says, but he’s gone before she can say anything further. A moment later, she hears the scrape of wooden drawers being yanked out, one by one. She peeps out of the robe and watches Ark dumping contents onto the bed and slinging drawers aside.
‘Hey,’ she says with a frown. ‘You okay?’
He looks up at her, his face almost as red as his hair. ‘I just want this over and done with.’ There seems to be no method to his actions; he pulls and discards, rifles and flings stuff aside.
‘Mate, is there something in particular you’re looking for?’
He doesn’t look at her. ‘No.’
‘Should I help with that?’
‘Please.’ He stops finally. ‘Please just –’ He waves at the walk-in robe.
Fairlie backs away. ‘Sure . . .’
He looks up again, suddenly. ‘But if you see anything in there that isn’t clothes . . . bring it out here, okay? I’m not looking for anything, but I . . . there’s something I haven’t seen for a while.’
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing important,’ he says, brusquely. ‘Just some books.’
‘Anything in particular?’
A beat of silence. ‘Notebooks,’ he answers finally. ‘Handwritten accounts. It’s just business stuff – boring.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out,’ Fairlie says. His frenzied movements have unsettled her. Is that what’s in the storage unit – the accounting books Ark is searching for? Why would Jenna send her a key to a unit containing boring business accounts? Fairlie wants to linger over Jenna’s shoes as she stacks them into the box, but she figures the quicker she gets this done the sooner she can go to the storage unit.
When Ark had asked if she would come over and help pack up Jenna’s stuff, Fairlie had expected to go through the dresser and put away the odd thing here and there – moisturising creams, paperbacks, old clothes – but it was quickly becoming apparent that Ark wanted to pack it all away. Absolutely everything that had once belonged to Jenna was to be boxed up and removed. As though he was erasing her entirely. He pulls underwear from the dresser and tosses it into a box on the bed. Lacy, frilly things – not at all Jenna’s taste.
‘Wow,’ Fairlie says, gesturing to the pile of expensive underwear. ‘Racy.’
Ark smirks. ‘She was pregnant and feeling frumpy. She bought these to cheer herself up. I told her she was gorgeous in her old t-shirt, didn’t need these things, but she insisted. You know how Jenna could be.’ He lifts a strap of lace and runs his thumb over it.
&nb
sp; Heat flushes up Fairlie’s throat. Jenna, always a fan of comfortable cotton, needed a lacy G-string to feel better?
‘Well, this is awkward,’ Fairlie says.
She returns to the walk-in and picks up her pace. Leaning deep into the back of the robe, Fairlie fishes out the last pair of shoes: a pair of well-worn flat sandals. The sole of one is wedged into the corner, between the back wall and the sideboard.
Huffing, Fairlie crawls further forwards on her hands and knees beneath a curtain of Jenna-scented clothes and tugs at the shoe. It comes away from the wall with the feel of something unsticking. Tilting the shoe into the light, Fairlie sees pressed onto the heel and toe are two pieces of Blu-Tack. With a frown, she peers closer at the back wall. Something glossy is sticking to the wall, tucked between the skirting and the sideboard.
Fairlie shoots a furtive glance in Ark’s direction. She can’t see him, but she can hear the sound of items being tossed into boxes.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickle as Fairlie silently pulls the small ziplock bag from where it had been tucked behind the board, tacked over with Jenna’s shoe. Fitting in the palm of her hand, the clear plastic baggie contains a handful of pills.
This is between you and me only, sister.
Quickly, Fairlie stuffs the bag into her pocket. Her knees crack in complaint as she rises to her feet.
‘Bathroom break,’ she offers to Ark as she hastens from the bedroom.
Down the hall; into the bathroom. Her mouth is dry as she locks the door. The tub where Jenna died is clean and white. For a moment, Fairlie thinks she might be sick.
Suicide through exsanguination, Fairlie knows, is monstrously messy. The average adult human body contains about five litres of blood. Severance of the major blood vessels in the forearm by slicing vertically along the limb, as Jenna had done, would result in unconsciousness in a matter of minutes, and death within the hour. Blood vessels, dilated in hot water, draining crimson over pale skin. Steam rising languidly as the colour darkens. Fairlie bites her lip hard to fight the image.
