Suitcases again — dress-up clothes tumbling out across the floor, and the images melt into carefully folded pants and shirts, jackets, ties and sweaters, shoes in rows, socks curled into each other, underpants; the sadness of clothes without flesh. Hilary puts them all into garbage bags, talking to the camera the whole time, saying that this is not what she wants to hold onto. Not at all. And then she sits there on the empty bed, her hands open on her lap. She has nothing she can grasp.
The footage shifts now to other tales, memento mori, keepsakes — dandelion wisps of hair in lockets, pressed flowers, jewellery, even a clipping about a woman who kept fur from each of her cats. Slowly, these images dissolve to the floor of the river shack, belongings spread out across the bare boards.
Hilary has filmed herself packing up.
She glances across at Ester now, who is still watching, chin cupped in one hand, eyes focused. Hilary knows Ester has not been there since she learnt about April and Lawrence. But she does not flinch at the footage.
The camera flickers off and then on again, the images blurred by the rain that had fallen on the lens, the focus now on the swollen river seizing debris with its furious pace, the swirl and then the stillness as all the force of that water rushed up against a small dam, everything left behind as the flow moved on.
Hilary reaches for the light and then stops.
Ester has her head in her hands.
‘Has it upset you?’ Hilary eventually asks.
‘No.’ Ester looks at her mother. ‘It’s a beautiful film. The best you’ve made. You should be very proud of it.’ She picks up her empty glass and turns it around in her hands. ‘You’re not really elderly.’ Her words are slow, considered. ‘You’re only seventy — and look at your work.’
In the darkness of the studio, Hilary doesn’t move.
Ester turns on the desk lamp, a pale pool of golden light spilling across the room. She has on that face, Hilary thinks, that therapist face.
‘Is everything all right?’ Ester asks.
Hilary stands up briskly and comes over to the computer, leaning forward to log off. ‘Absolutely fine.’
‘I know it’s been some time since Maurie died.’ Ester’s words are hesitant. ‘But you know people can be depressed after the loss of a partner … well, for many years.’
Her head hurts and she does not want to snap, each word slapping the next towards an argument. ‘I’m not depressed,’ she replies. And then she tells Ester that they should get inside to the warmth. ‘You’ll need to get going. For your date.’
Fortunately, this is enough to distract Ester from the conversation she has been attempting.
‘I’m glad you showed me,’ she tells Hilary.
The air is sweet outside, damp and cool, a scattering of crushed leaves and twigs and petals covering the path from the front door. Hilary throws her head back. ‘Sometimes I think how extraordinary it would be to be a dog — to be led by scent.’ She picks up a small branch of red-and-gold eucalyptus, astringent and cold, and inhales deeply.
‘I’m fine,’ she tells Ester, who is still looking at her.
Ester’s gaze stays fixed for a moment longer, and then she lets it go. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘I wish you all the luck and wonder and beauty in the world.’ Hilary holds her close, breathing her in, warm and soft, the dampness of her hair, the faint perfume of her lipstick, the musty smell of rain on clothes, all of it, and then because she is terrified of letting go, she laughs with a little too much gaiety, and steps back into the emptiness of her house. ‘I love you,’ she tells Ester. ‘With all of my heart.’
Her declaration floats off into the night, unheard by her daughter who is already out on the street.
Ester raises her hand. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’
‘Look forward to it,’ Hilary replies.
It was an ordinary hour together, she thinks. Which is what it had to be.
All of her is stretched, taut. She looks down at her arm, the flesh and muscle, the living, breathing being that she is, warm blood pumping, pumping. Her own heart too loud. Her head thumping. And so she closes the front door, standing pressed against the wall until she is steady again, steely inside and out, focusing only on the alternative, because the horror of not doing what she has resolved to do is all she has left to propel her forward.
IT IS TEN O’CLOCK.
April was right. There are so many ways in which Lawrence could respond. He could fight, lie, and cheat, wait until Edmund has written to Paul and then deny everything, say that Edmund is going through a personal crisis, perhaps a mental illness. He could go public, be loud about all that is wrong with surveys, polls, focus groups, be the rebel she laughingly urged him to be. Or he could just confess in an email to Paul. A message that isn’t long or difficult to compose. He altered the results. Not significantly. But the fact remained that he had done this. There were a number of reasons why. He was happy to explain, if Paul were interested in hearing, but at this stage all he wanted to do was tell him the truth. He wished him luck with the robo polls. He had enjoyed the work they had done together.
Perhaps not that last sentence. He won’t lie. He deletes it, writing his name before raising his glass to his own reflection. ‘To Hilary,’ he whispers, pressing ‘send’ before he can change his mind.
And so he is done. Ruined. Fucked.
Tomorrow, Paul will ring him and ask him what in God’s name he thought he was doing. Perhaps he will think Lawrence’s email is some kind of drunken joke in response to his contract ending, perhaps he’ll delete it before he even reads it.
He forwards a copy to Edmund with one word in the subject line: Done.
The response is almost immediate: Edmund is glad Lawrence has confessed, he hopes this will represent a fresh start in his life, the first steps towards being a better person. He has every confidence it will.
Lawrence deletes it.
Outside, it is silent, quiet after hours and hours of rain. The peace wraps around, soft and heavy, and Lawrence sits with it, the bottle of whiskey by his side. Somewhere in the distance, he hears a car alarm, and then a harsh beep, followed by voices, the sound of people saying farewell, laughter, and a door slamming shut. He wonders about topping himself — isn’t this what people do, professional suicide followed by the real thing? He contemplates the quietness of this moment: he hasn’t lied to cover it up, or gone down screaming dragging others with him, he hasn’t been a rebel. He has simply confessed and said he is sorry. And he feels nothing.
Paul will bury it. No one will know. And life will carry on, with him doing shitty jobs for not much money, never quite becoming the better person he could be. That’s the truth of it, he thinks, and he reaches for his glass, warm to the hold now, all the ice long since melted, and drinks — water with just an insipid touch of alcohol. And so he stands to pour himself another, surprised that he is slightly unsteady on his feet because he usually holds his booze with the practiced skill of a seasoned drinker.
The bottle is empty.
Outside the girls’ room, he presses his ear to the door, wanting to hear their breathing, and then he slowly turns the handle.
They lie side by side in the bottom bunk, pale hair knotted, cheeks waxy, Lara’s eyes closed, Catherine’s open. She does this sometimes — sleeping like she is wide awake — and he bends down and shuts her eyelids gently, fingers light on the smooth skin, not looking because he has always found it disconcerting, too like the sleep of the dead.
‘I love you,’ he whispers, but she doesn’t stir.
She hasn’t spoken to him all night. And he knows he is going to have to talk to her about the kiss with April, somehow resolve it in her mind, make it seem like nothing and yet also make her realise she shouldn’t tell Ester. How, he doesn’t know.
Back in the lounge room, he shuts his laptop. Lawrence the pollster is done. Tom
orrow he will be Lawrence the guardian of the dead, the keeper of a promise. Hungover on the job, but true to his word.
How can she bear it? Will she be lying there awake, knowing that this is it?
Against this, all the rest is just noise.
He has had too much alcohol. He knows that, but in the midst of the haze there is a clarity, and he acts on impulse, picking up his phone and ringing Ester, the switch to message bank quick.
No need to call me, he texts. Girls are fine. Just thinking of you, and wanting all the best for you.
She will think he is drunk — which he is — but he is glad he sent it. Tomorrow he will call her, and his heart sinks with the weight of the news he will bear.
THE RESTAURANT THEY are in is crowded, their table right at the back, out of the worst of the noise but still loud enough for them to need to lean close. Ester’s knee occasionally touches his, and she can see the veins on the inside of his wrist as he reaches for the water.
Can I just kiss you? This is what she’d like to say. Can I just take you home now?
But of course she doesn’t; she is telling Steven about her mother’s films, the strange, ordered chaos of them, the beauty of the images she chooses, the way in which she weaves a story from a seemingly random selection of ideas, and, as she speaks, she is enjoying this moment of being new to someone, a whole lifetime of tales that have not been told, each one shiny and unsullied, ready to be unwrapped and marvelled at.
‘I’ll have to look at them,’ he tells her, and he offers her some of his meal.
She shakes her head, too nervous to trust herself with the simple act of taking his fork and getting it to her mouth without spilling the lot. It is ridiculous. And then she knocks her knife to the ground, only just managing to stop her wine from toppling in the process. She laughs as she looks at him.
‘I’m a klutz when I’m nervous,’ she confesses. ‘It’s my curse. You’ll just have to excuse me in advance for the many accidents that may occur before dinner is finished.’
He grins. ‘Fortunately, I’m a sucker for slapstick.’
It is then that she feels her phone in her pocket, and she apologises for quickly checking. ‘Just in case it’s the kids.’
But it isn’t. It’s Lawrence.
She shakes her head in wonder at his timing.
And then puts the phone away immediately.
‘It’s nothing,’ she says.
Steven is asking her about her sister now, and it takes a moment before Ester answers. ‘I have a complicated relationship with her,’ she eventually says. ‘It’s not great.’ She looks at him, grimacing slightly. ‘You might have to wait a while before I go into the details.’
He tells her he had a brother. ‘My twin.’ He pauses for a moment here. ‘We’re identical, but there was an accident during the birth. For some reason, he didn’t breathe for a while. He was on life support. And there was some trauma. In any event, he had a lot of problems.’
Ester is not sure if he is going to continue. She sits back a little.
‘He killed someone.’
He utters the words without stumbling, his voice remaining even, but as he swallows, she can see how hard it was to say out loud.
‘So I guess I know about complex sibling relationships.’ His smile is tight.
She asks whether he ever sees this brother, if they have stayed in touch.
He shakes his head. ‘I did for a while. He’s in a psych ward. It’s so difficult. I used to try and tell myself he couldn’t be held completely accountable for his actions. He’s struggled with psychosis and addiction — but in the end I just didn’t know what I thought. I still don’t. And I stopped seeing him.’
She is about to speak, but he cuts over her.
‘It was a brutal crime.’ He narrows his eyes in shame, and then meets her gaze. ‘And I guess I just don’t know if he has ever felt that what he did was wrong. Not that I am his judge.’ He looks down at the table. ‘We had a difficult history, and it was just too painful.’
She waits for a moment longer, but he is finished now.
‘I can’t imagine,’ she eventually says.
He waves his hand. ‘Maybe we should move on from siblings. I’m sorry if I was clumsy in telling you this. I suppose I felt it was important for you to know.’ Steven nods as the waiter offers him another glass of wine. ‘Perhaps there’s something about him being my twin that makes me feel responsible.’
Ester puts her hand over her glass as the waiter offers her the bottle.
‘I’m a cheap drunk,’ she tells Steven. ‘Particularly after a day of clients.’ She shifts slightly in her chair, awkward now. ‘I appreciate you telling me,’ she says. She looks at him directly. Her mouth is dry, but she wants to speak. ‘I’ve been by myself for a while now — and I mean really by myself.’ She bites on her top lip, barely daring to keep her gaze fixed on him. ‘I don’t want to drink any more because I fear I’ll just make a fool of myself. I have a tendency to just crash out on alcohol.’
‘We can’t have that,’ he winks.
She picks up her napkin and glances across to where the waiter stands, ready to come over and ask if they want desert. ‘Can we skip the next course?’ she asks.
‘And go home together?’
She nods.
And he leans across the table and kisses her, red wine lips, his hand on hers.
APRIL SITS UNDER the open window, face turned to the night sky, and plays her guitar softly, teasing out a combination of other people’s melodies and her own.
On the wall behind her, she has tacked up Catherine’s drawing: a deep swirl of black, streaked with colour.
‘It’s called “Joy”,’ she’d said when she’d finished. ‘It’s for you.’
She has never regretted not having children, and supposes she still could if the urge overwhelmed her, but the truth is she’s never wanted it enough.
But she loves those girls.
She remembers Lara singing this afternoon, and she smiles.
Picking up the phone, April calls Hilary without checking the time. She does this often, oblivious to the fact that it may be late.
Hilary answers, wide awake. ‘I knew it was you,’ she says. ‘You do realise it’s almost eleven?’
April apologises.
‘It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t sleep,’ Hilary confesses.
‘I saw the twins today,’ April tells her. ‘It was so lovely. Like there’d been no time apart. They’re beautiful girls.’
Surprisingly, Hilary doesn’t ask if Ester knew, or how the visit came to pass. She doesn’t want details, she just agrees. ‘They look like you did when you were their age,’ she says. ‘Golden, a streak of sunlight. You were such a treasure.’
‘Not always,’ April adds.
‘Nobody said anything about always,’ Hilary agrees.
‘I’m going to talk to Ester,’ April tells her. ‘I miss them, I miss her, I hate that we can’t all be together. It’s enough. Surely there has to be an end to punishment.’
Hilary is silent for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is soft. ‘Oh, my brave one,’ she says.
The slight slur in Hilary’s voice makes April wonder whether she has been drinking. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
Hilary tells her it is the painkillers she takes. ‘I’ve been getting headaches, I haven’t been well …’
‘Have you been to a doctor?’
‘I’ve been,’ Hilary says.
April switches back to Ester. ‘I’ve decided I’m just going to go round there. Maybe tomorrow. I will stay at the door until she talks to me. I’ll camp there,’ she laughs. ‘Maybe even take placards and a tent. A camp cooker and a stool.’
Hilary is silent.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ April says.
‘I’m going to the river,’ Hil
ary reminds her.
‘When you get back. I’ll let you know how I went. Sleep well,’ she adds, hanging up and standing by the open window.
She thinks about going out. She can see the first of the stars, a smattering in the one patch of clear sky. She could walk down to the wine bar on the corner, she might see someone she knows. She looks around the lounge room, wondering where she left her bag, and then she changes her mind. She will try to sleep. Face Ester tomorrow with a clear head.
She stands tall, breathes in deeply, and wishes herself good night, her voice clear and sweet as she replies with a grin. ‘A very good night to you, too,’ she says. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
But it is just her and her reflection in the darkness of the glass doors that divide the living room.
THE DAY AFTER
THIS IS IT.
Hilary drives with complete focus on the road, aware that the painkillers have made her slow, her vision slightly blurred. She has all the windows down, the freshness of the afternoon streaming in, each leaf, each blade of grass, each particle of air washed clean and new.
She does not stop until she reaches the turn-off that leads to the top of the river, pulling over where the orchard flats stretch under the sunlight, rows and rows of glossy-leaved orange trees pressed close to each other.
This is what she wants. To smell an orange.
Leaning over the fence, she reaches into one of the branches, through the mass of foliage, and plucks a perfectly formed navel. The peel is waxy, its scent sweet and sharp. She closes her eyes and breathes it in, breaking through the rind with her thumb, the juice cold.
‘This is private property.’
The harshness of the voice makes her jump, and she apologises. ‘They just looked so beautiful.’
He continues to glare at her.
She holds the orange out to him, but he doesn’t take it.
‘I’m dying, you know.’ She utters the words without thinking. ‘I wanted to smell one of these before I …’ At a loss for words, she shrugs. ‘Get to the other side.’
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