‘Well, you sure know how to clear a table,’ Lawrence told her. ‘Where to next?’
And then, as they began to argue loudly about an array of choices, he suddenly realised he didn’t actually want to go anywhere: he wanted to stay home with Ester.
‘My wife and I are not going to join you,’ he pronounced to the table, and as Micky threw her napkin at him and booed in disgust, declaring that this was what happened to married couples, he folded his arms.
‘Everyone!’ There was silence. It was Ester shouting now. ‘This is a momentous occasion. And I’m not talking marriage.’
Lawrence had shaken his head, grinning as he did so.
‘Lawrence is staying home!’ She raised the only unbroken glass and gave out a loud wolf whistle to calls of ‘shame, shame’ from Micky, who was soon shouted down by cheers from others around the table.
‘I should’ve gone,’ he told her later. ‘We both should’ve gone.’ He looked at her warily, unsure of her response, and she rolled her eyes.
‘I don’t want to change,’ he protested, and then he’d drawn her close and kissed her. ‘You knew what you married. Who I am doesn’t mean I love you any less.’
But it wasn’t the entire truth. Part of him had wanted to change. He had thought that if he wore the clothes, he would become the man. He really had. And yet it was never going to work. The outfit was ill-fitting, the cloth and cut wrong, and he had always known that. Now here he was, the last vestiges of that suit shed with a fierce desperation, leaving him unsure, so very unsure, of the man that remained beneath.
NOW
AS THE LUNCH BELL buzzes through the silence of the classroom, the teacher looks up. It was only two years ago that they used to send a student out to ring an actual bell, the brassy clang sometimes rhythmic, sometimes jagged and unsure, depending on who was doing the honours. Now it’s electric, rung from the admin office, like a loud fire alarm. It still makes her jump, even when she’s been watching the clock at the back of the room and longing for its sound.
‘Everybody still now,’ she calls out, clapping her hands together.
One of the twins is standing, the other pulling her back down to sit.
Outside, it’s still raining, wet leaves stuck like scraps of sodden paper to the window, the sky a blank, even grey. The playground is deserted, and pools of muddy water gather in the cracks and dips in the bitumen. C playground is a complete mudbath, and, beyond that, the vegetable garden is bent low from the morning downpour.
Inside, children’s raincoats and gumboots are stacked in a riot of bright plastic, tumbling over each other in the corner, and the room smells musty, like wet wool and dirt.
‘I don’t think anyone’s going outside today,’ the teacher tells them. Both the twins have their hands up, and are only just managing to stay in their seats.
‘Can we get the lunches?’ one asks.
Strictly speaking, she hadn’t yet given either of them permission to talk, but she relents, knowing she’s been tough on them this morning, and not because she doesn’t like them, but because they chatter endlessly.
She nods, and it’s Catherine, she thinks, who runs to get the washing basket they use to collect the canteen lunches, slowing down as she sees she’s being observed.
‘Carefully,’ the teacher reminds her, the well-worn warning no doubt forgotten as soon as they leave the classroom.
ACROSS TOWN, HILARY sits in her car, hands on the steering wheel.
The key is in the ignition, but she has not yet turned it all the way. Instead, she stares at the pearling drops of rain on the windscreen, each one clinging, poised to slide away, perfectly formed, the entire world held in its translucent beauty. Winding down the window slowly, she reaches out to touch one, chill on the tip of her finger, impossible to hold.
Her head aches. Her vision bends and warps. This is a bad morning.
On the radio, a woman talks about reconciliation and forgiveness, her voice rich and deep, soothing, as she speaks of work she has done with trauma victims, studies with people in countries such as Rwanda.
‘But sometimes forgiveness isn’t enough.’ The announcer speaks in brisk, friendly tones. ‘How do you learn to forget?’
‘Ah yes,’ the woman laughs. ‘There is forgetting as well. But the point I am making is that true forgiveness changes even the memory of the event. There is no longer anger attached to the recollection.’
Hilary turns the radio off. Attempts to simplify human behaviour, to rub it smooth, have always irritated her. But she had listened for longer than she normally would have because this is her anxiety, the frayed edge that threatens to unpick her plans. The lack of reconciliation between Ester and April makes her anxious, and it kicks her, hard, on these bad days. It is so easy from the outside, from the edge of a life, to see the mistakes people make and why — to see and understand. But from the midst it is different, and she knows that both her daughters are there, right in the middle, too close still to reflect.
She looks across to the blank face of Henry’s apartment building, the bricks washed in the rain, each of the windows the same and yet different: unadorned; grey curtains; crumpled venetians; a torn blind.
She wonders what made Henry turn to heroin — whether it was simply the foolish choice of someone young who wanted to experiment, or whether there was a deeper canker, a grit that had scratched and rubbed and needed to be soothed. She knew very little about him, really. His family were Queensland country people who had no understanding of who he was. ‘Maybe I was adopted,’ he’d said, a fantasy so many people hold at some stage of their life. ‘They probably regret their choice,’ he’d added, and then he’d slid away from talking about himself, turning to the music they were listening to, or the shadow of a branch on the window, remaining as private as ever.
Out the front of his building are two frangipani trees. Strange that she has never really noticed them before. The branches are bare; silvery knots streaked with rain arch over the entrance stairway, like a puzzle. Closing her eyes, she tries to recall the fragrant milkiness of a flower, peachy petals in her hands, star-like, scattered over summer pavements, bruised in the shiny sunlight.
LAWRENCE CLOSES HIS EYES. He once did a meditation course with Ester, and, although he made fun of it at every opportunity he got, he still tries to find that moment of absence he had reached. He remembers it. They were all in rows, listening to a young nun in saffron robes. She glowed with happiness. She joked and laughed as she talked to them, and around him, middle-aged women with long blonde hair wrote notes in floral cloth-covered notebooks, their silver bangles jangling as they tried to transcribe each of her words of wisdom. He hated it. But when the time came to meditate, he achieved a total absence of thought that he recalls with longing.
He has never found it since.
He has Hilary to phone back, Edmund to deal with, and then, ultimately, there is Paul, the editor. All three jostle, shove, and lay claim to his mind, a space that refuses to empty, as the rain beats against the tin walls and roof of his room.
And so he gives up, opening his eyes to the gloom as his phone rings again, Paul’s number appearing on the screen. He is out of the meeting and needs the polls ASAP.
‘This hitch — is it fixed?’ he asks.
Lawrence cuts over him, his voice soothing, fast, assured. He is a practiced liar, a man who moulds the world around him into changing shapes to suit his need. The problem doesn’t look like it’s going to be remedied as soon as he’d like. He realises this throws them out, and he couldn’t be more apologetic, but it’s out of his control. As Paul would know, nothing like this has ever happened in all their history together, and he’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. He’s also more than willing to work together in whatever way they can to — and here he is cut off.
‘There’s been a lot of discussions about the cost of the polls,’ Paul tells him. �
�I’ve been behind you as much as I can. I know the value of what you do. But those new robo polls, they’re cheap, and the amount of people you can interview is unbelievable. That’s the way management wants to go. I was hoping we could hold off for longer but …’ Paul sighs. ‘We’ve got a slip-up like this, and it’s going to be tough. I can’t stem the tide, mate. Not after this.’
‘Jesus.’ Lawrence stares at the ceiling. ‘You know how inaccurate they are. People don’t respond to a recording in the same way as they do to a person.’
Paul is silent.
‘Let’s at least talk about this face to face.’
‘Sure,’ Paul replies. ‘I’m flat out at the moment, but when I surface —’
Lawrence stops him. ‘Is my contract being terminated? Officially?’ He can hear the silence on the other end of the line.
‘That’s the way it’s looking,’ Paul eventually tells him. ‘There was only this and one more to go before we renewed — and with the data slip-up, I don’t think they’re going to be willing to pay you out. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. Joel’s putting it all in a letter.’
His voice is hushed now, difficult to hear above the sound of the rain. Lawrence just stares at the wall. This is his livelihood. But he can’t say that. To beg, to be needy — he knows it wouldn’t help. Normally, he’d have the wherewithal to try to talk Paul out of the decision, to guarantee him that if he gives the robo polls a try he’ll soon find that their inaccuracy will only be an embarrassment. He knows, he’s seen them in action: the automated calls that ask a series of questions in a robotic voice, directing respondents (or those that don’t hang up, at least) to a very limited range of answers.
He shakes his head. ‘I thought our years together would at least have given me the opportunity to come in and make my case.’ His words trail off. Does he really have any kind of case to make?
And then, as he opens the email from Edmund that has appeared on his computer screen, he realises it is only going to get worse.
AT HOME, ESTER HAS the radio on, a low hum behind her in the kitchen, and she turns it down as she hears the word therapy mentioned, and then searches through the fridge, taking out dinner leftovers for lunch.
The rain is loud in this part of the house. She glances outside, thinking it must be getting heavier again, but it has settled, monotonous in its constancy.
Sitting at the bench, absentmindedly picking through cold pasta, Ester stares out the window, her stillness at odds with her mounting nerves at the thought of this evening’s dinner.
‘I am too old to be getting date jitters,’ she tells herself, speaking out loud because this is what she does on the days she works at home alone. When Otto is here, he gets the benefit of her conversation; when he isn’t, it’s the walls and doors that have to listen.
She has booked herself a telephone appointment with her own therapist, and she is due to call in ten minutes. Because she likes to be organised, Ester has written down her fears. She glances at the list now, throwing it in the bin moments later.
Sex. That’s all it comes down to really.
It’s been so bloody long since she’s had sex.
And even longer since she’s had sex with anyone other than Lawrence.
Biting her lip, Ester stares up at the ceiling.
Gone are the days when she would get rotten drunk before taking someone home for the first time, the alcohol giving her enough courage to initiate or respond.
‘Oh good God,’ she says out loud, pushing her plate away, unable to eat any more.
Standing in front of her own reflection, she tries to draw herself a little taller, to look composed, and then she gives up, shaking her head and letting out a shrill scream to banish the nerves, just as the telephone rings.
It’s Victoria.
They never waste any time before they get down to business. Therapist to therapist.
‘It’s sex,’ Ester tells her. ‘I’m terrified.’
‘Of what?’ Victoria asks.
Oh God, Ester thinks. ‘Everything,’ she says. ‘Being naked, being a disappointment, that I won’t know how to do it anymore, I’ll fuck it up — excuse the pun — I’ll misread the situation, I’ll have to be intimate with someone again. Everything, everything, everything.’ And then she laughs. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying all this. I sound like a sixteen-year-old.’
‘It’s perfectly understandable to be nervous,’ Victoria replies. ‘But you also need to realise there’s no need to rush into anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. You can take your time with this.’
‘But I’m excited, too,’ Ester interrupts. ‘I feel happy.’
She looks around the room as she says those words — at the school notes on the fridge, the pile of washing in the corner, the clothes on the rack next to the heater, and, outside, the rain, still coming down. The joy she feels, the fizz that dances over the surface of this sheer ordinariness, makes her smile. It’s so long since she’s felt such a spark.
‘It’s been so hard,’ she says. ‘But I feel as though there’s a shift. At last. And I don’t think it’s just linked to this — to meeting someone I might like. I think it was happening anyway. It’s good.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Victoria tells her.
‘It is,’ Ester smiles.
‘Have you thought any further about whether you’re ready to make changes in relation to April?’
Ester looks at herself in the window opposite, phone in one hand. She shakes her head slowly, and when she speaks, her voice is soft, her sentiment uncertain.
‘I miss her, or I miss the idea of what family was, but when I think about letting her into my life again, I’m terrified.’
‘But you still feel this is the place you’d like to reach — a place of reconciliation?’
‘I suppose so,’ Ester replies. ‘But I’m not sure whether this is because I think I should reach that place, or because I genuinely want to.’ She looks down at her hand, resting on the kitchen bench: long fingers like her father’s, her olive skin pale, her nails always kept short. They have similar hands, she and April, but in the rest of her appearance, April takes after Hilary: fine and delicate, light and wiry, a body that never carries weight, and that sparks and flies and cracks and shimmers. She doesn’t want to talk about April today. She doesn’t want to think about her.
‘You know,’ she says to Victoria, ‘I’d rather move on. I don’t want this session to be about April.’
‘Why?’ Victoria asks.
‘Because I don’t want April in my head today. I don’t want to go out this evening, to try and trust again, thinking about her.’ She is surprised at the anger in her voice as she speaks, and she apologises before asking Victoria if they can talk about Lindsay for a moment.
‘The client I told you about last week. The one with panic attacks. I was trying to locate a group session for meditation and relaxation techniques, somewhere local. She’s willing to try this.’
Victoria listens, letting Ester jump from the personal to the need for professional assistance, although Ester knows she will want to take her back there soon, if not during this session, then at the next.
As she writes down a couple of names in her book, possible places for Lindsay to go, the phone beeps with another call, and she ignores it, knowing it won’t be a patient (they only have her mobile number) or Steven (who also doesn’t have her home number). It will probably be a poll, she realises with a grimace. Worse still, one of those new robo ones.
Outside, the rain continues, easing momentarily into a light mist, soft grey against the dull sky, sliding down the glass, the world outside a blur, and Ester listens to Victoria as she tells her about a similar case she had some months earlier, and approaches that helped.
APRIL IS THE ONE who gets the call from the school. Catherine appears to have sprained her ankle. The girls
say they are with their father this week, but he’s not answering, nor is their mother, and April is named as the second emergency contact.
They are in the sick bay when she arrives. Lara is the one with her foot up; Catherine is sitting by her side, looking suitably concerned.
‘Are you all right?’ April asks, kissing both girls, and then, holding Lara’s chin in one hand, she looks straight at her. Something is up.
‘I twisted it,’ Lara tells her, pointing to an ankle that looks remarkably unswollen. ‘It hurts to walk.’
‘I’ll take them both with me,’ April says. ‘It’s almost the end of the day.’
The administration woman glances at the clock. Her only response is to pass April a note, which she completes.
As they head out into the hall, it’s Catherine who is limping, Lara who is supporting her.
‘Have you got your raincoats?’ April asks.
‘They’re in the classroom,’ Catherine tells her. ‘Do you want me to run and get them?’
April glances from one to the other, shaking her head. ‘Are you two scamming?’
‘No!’ they protest in unison.
She looks out across the deserted playground. Rain drips from the basketball hoops, a halo of silver, and the bitumen shines, wet and slippery smooth, like a sheet of satin. The roots from the Moreton Bay figs lift up great cracks in the surface, elephantine as they snake away from the smooth trunk of those giant trees, the only shelter from the downpour.
‘Okay,’ April tells them both, ‘give me your bags. Catherine, you help Lara, or Lara, you help Catherine. We’ll stop at the trees, and then my car is out the front.’
Of course they end up running.
‘It’s not that bad,’ Lara says, pointing to Catherine’s ankle.
‘Well, that’s excellent news,’ April replies, winking at them. ‘So no need for X-rays?’
Lara considers the offer for a moment. She doesn’t mind a trip to hospital.
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