Please Don't Leave Me Here

by Tania Chandler

  Nana holds out the baby, and the rug unravels. There’s no baby inside — just a metal iron. Nana passes the iron and says to run. Brigitte holds the dog collar and the key, but the iron is too heavy and slippery. She looks down; it’s dripping with blood, and she drops it. What happened to the baby?

  ‘Hurry. The tram’s nearly here,’ Kurt says. ‘Run faster this time.’

  She wakes on the porch couch, head pounding. It’s freezing, silver frost icing the grass; a few birds start to twitter. She goes inside. It’s nearly four, according to the clock above the sink. She pulls on a pair of socks, and squashes into bed between Sam and the twins.

  ***

  Ryan, Rosie, and Georgia come down on the third day. They unpack their things in the back bedroom. The house feels happy now: it needs lots of people.

  Sam and Ryan take the kids across to Paynesville for ice-creams. Brigitte makes herbal tea, and puts out a plate of biscuits on the breakfast bar.

  ‘Wow, you’ve lost a lot of weight, Rosie.’

  Rosie pushes the biscuits away. ‘Thanks. I’m taking good care of myself these days.’

  The short haircut, cropped around her face, accentuates her huge brown eyes. Ryan was right: she does look like a stick insect. ‘It’s important to be healthy as we get older.’ Rosie’s eyes flick down and up Brigitte’s body. Assessing her?

  ‘Yes. Apparently all sorts of things start to change when you get to forty.’ Brigitte takes a biscuit. ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘I wish Ryan would do something healthy. He’s really packing on the weight.’

  ‘He walks a lot. He’s OK.’ And quite a bit younger than you.

  Rosie raises her eyebrows. There’s an awkward silence.

  ‘How’s Georgia going at kinder this year?’

  ‘Well, you know — Georgia’s always going to be difficult. Ryan lets her get away with too much.’ She waves a hand dismissively. ‘I seriously don’t know how you can stand staying home looking after kids all day, Brigitte.’

  ‘I work, too.’

  Rosie ignores her; writing is not a real job to Rosie. ‘In some ways, it’s lucky Ryan’s unemployed — so he can do it.’

  ‘He’s not unemployed,’ Brigitte says. ‘He’s got some work on. And auditions.’

  Rosie laughs — a fake laugh — and pretends to choke on her tea. She leaves her half-empty cup on the breakfast bar, and goes to her room. Brigitte has another biscuit, and loads the dishwasher.

  Rosie comes out in her lycra gear and trainers, ready for a run around the island. ‘You should come, Brigitte.’ She fills a water bottle at the sink.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot you can’t …’ she says, with a look that’s not quite pity.

  Rosie jogs off, and Brigitte takes a book out to read on the porch couch — the book Rosie gave her last Christmas: Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. She can’t concentrate, and keeps reading the same page. She thinks about opening the wine in the fridge.

  Where are the boys and the kids? Rosie gets back before they do. She showers, and stays in her room with the door shut.

  Sam and Ryan come back with alcohol on their breath; the kids have ice-cream all over their faces and T-shirts. Ryan holds a slab of beer under his arm. Brigitte closes her book and follows them inside.

  ‘What’s for dinner, Little Sis?’ Ryan jokes, putting the slab on the breakfast bar and an arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Go away. You’ve been at the pub. You stink of beer. Both of you.’

  ‘Just kidding. Sam and I’ll go back across and get fish and chips.’ He hiccups. ‘Where’s Rosie?’

  ‘In your room.’

  He goes to her. Sam puts the beers in the fridge. ‘Want one?’

  ‘OK.’

  They take their drinks outside. The kids are riding bikes around the yard. Sam kisses Brigitte against a pole on the porch, his hand up under her T-shirt. She turns her face, and looks around his shoulder.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Ryan,’ she whispers. He’s standing in the doorway, clearing his throat. Brigitte pushes Sam away and straightens her T-shirt.

  ‘Everything OK?’ she says.

  ‘Yep. Rosie’s resting.’ He takes the plastic cover off the pool table, and plugs in the ancient yellow-and-aqua CD player that nobody can remember bringing here. Every time they come down, they speculate about where it came from. Ryan reckons Nana and Papa left it as a gift for the ‘young people’. Brigitte knows where it came from, but says Joan must have brought a boyfriend down for a dirty weekend and left it here.

  Rosie comes out an hour or so later, and screws up her nose at the fish and chips on the porch, the grease soaking into the paper. Sam and Ryan are playing pool, and Brigitte’s watching the kids dance with glow sticks on the grass.

  ‘Hey, Rosie, want a beer?’ Ryan says.

  ‘You know I don’t drink beer, Ryan.’

  ‘There’s a bottle of vegan wine in the fridge,’ Brigitte says.

  ‘I’ll have a glass when the kids go to bed.’ Rosie puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head when she sees Georgia’s dirty face. ‘Georgia — bedtime.’

  ‘I’m not tired, Mummy,’ Georgia says, pouting.

  ‘Let her go a bit longer, Rosie,’ Ryan says.

  ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock, Ryan.’

  ‘We’re on holiday.’

  ‘Georgia. Come now, please.’ Rosie glances at Brigitte. ‘You can do what you like with your kids, Brigitte, but Georgia has to go to bed now. Or she’ll be very grumpy in the morning, won’t you?’ She frowns at Georgia, grabs her hand, and drags her inside.

  ‘Suppose I’d better put the twins to bed, too.’ Brigitte sighs.

  When the kids are asleep Rosie helps herself to a glass of wine, and Brigitte gets another beer.

  ‘Wanna play doubles? Girls versus men,’ Ryan says as they come back outside.

  ‘No, thanks. And we’re not girls, Ryan.’

  ‘Sorry, Rosie. Women.’ He ejects Paul Kelly and looks through the pile of CDs on the shelf next to the barbeque. ‘What do you want to listen to?’

  ‘Foo Fighters,’ Sam says.

  ‘Haven’t got it. Tom Waits, The White Stripes … Nick Cave — for Brigi.’ He puts on the CD, takes her hand, and they dance. Sam sits back on the couch, laughing, his feet up on the table.

  Rosie glares at Brigitte. ‘Why don’t you get up on the pool table? Just like the old days, Brigitte.’

  Brigitte freezes.

  ‘Shut up, Rosie.’ Brigitte’s never heard Ryan speak like that to her before. They stop dancing. Sam stops laughing, and takes his feet off the table.

  ‘Oh, that’s right. You don’t remember, do you?’ Rosie says.

  ‘What’s she talking about, Ryan?’ Brigitte looks at him; he’s walking towards Rosie.

  ‘Just don’t get on the wrong side of her when she’s angry, hey, Sam?’

  Brigitte looks at Sam, then back to Ryan.

  ‘It’s amazing what some people can get away with.’

  ‘I said shut up, Rosie.’ Ryan’s angry. He never gets angry.

  Rosie slams her glass on the table — the stem snaps — and she monsters off down the driveway.

  ‘What was that about?’ Brigitte says, her heart pounding. What has Ryan told her?

  Ryan shrugs. ‘Rosie shouldn’t drink.’

  ‘Want me to go after her?’ Sam says.

  ‘No, let her go.’

  Brigitte and Sam clean up the broken glass without speaking, and Ryan turns up Nick Cave.

  ***

  Brigitte’s sitting on the porch couch in the morning sun — a cushion in the small of her back, her laptop on her knees, writing an article — when Sam comes out with his mobi
le in hand. She knows what he’s going to say before he says it.

  ‘Sorry, babe. I have to go back.’

  She doesn’t look at him.

  ‘We fucked up big time — arrested the wrong bloke.’

  So Finn and Phoebe will have another holiday without their dad. She’s learned a trick: if you tickle the roof of your mouth with your tongue, it stops the tears from reaching your eyes. A three-year-old at the twins’ kinder taught her that — how to be brave when something hurts.

  ‘Sorry. You stay. And Ryan. No reason to ruin your holiday as well.’

  She keeps her eyes focused on the keyboard as Sam takes the twins’ child restraints out of the station wagon and fits them into Ryan’s car. He reluctantly agrees to give Rosie a lift back to Melbourne, kisses his family, and throws his bag on the back seat.

  Ryan’s on the couch, kids bouncing all over him, as Sam and Rosie drive off. ‘Don’t be too pissed off, Brigi.’

  She goes inside, and slams the screen door behind her.

  ***

  A drunk woman upends a white plastic table as she falls over in the beer garden at The Old Pub. A bowl-full of cigarette butts scatters across the ground.

  Brigitte and Ryan try the bar instead. A big plastic fish hangs on the wall above bottles mirrored on dusty shelves. Happy hour 5–7 is scrawled in yellow chalk on a blackboard. Young Shannon greets Ryan like an old friend. ‘Where’s your mate?’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘Yeah, the copper.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Always can tell, mate.’

  ‘Had to go home this morning. Those murders in Melbourne.’

  ‘Dreadful business.’ Shannon shakes his head and clicks his tongue. ‘This ya missus?’

  ‘No, my sister, Brigitte.’

  Shannon kisses her hand, then goes back to talking to old Jim about his ancestors who own castles in Ireland. One of them was the first aviator to circumnavigate the world, according to Shannon. Jim tells them he’s lived here for forty years, fishing. He buys them beers, and gives the kids coins to play with the machine-gun video game in the corner.

  When Shannon’s and Jim’s conversation turns to boar hunting, Brigitte and Ryan rack up a game of pool.

  ‘Anything happen the other night?’ Ryan pockets one of the smalls on the break. She feels her cheeks redden.

  ‘After the twins’ birthday?’

  She looks at him with wide eyes, innocently — she has no idea what he’s talking about.

  ‘Watch yourself, Brigi.’

  She nods, and chalks her cue. He leans across the table to take another shot.

  ‘Only allowed one shot on the break,’ she says.

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Brigitte takes her shot, and the ball just misses the pocket. ‘Do you know what Rosie was talking about last night?’

  ‘No. She totally lost it, didn’t she?’ Ryan pots three balls in a row. ‘She’s jealous of you.’

  She sips her beer and laughs. ‘Why on earth would Rosie be jealous of me?’

  ‘Because you’re cute and funny, and everybody loves you.’

  ‘Rosie doesn’t.’ She flukes two balls in one shot.

  ‘No, but I reckon Aidan does.’

  She miscues, and pots one of Ryan’s balls. ‘Stop it, Ryan.’

  ‘And those local blokes do. Not one of them hasn’t had his eye on you since we walked in.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ She looks over her shoulder. Shannon waves and points at the drink he’s bought for her. Ryan shrugs — Told you so.

  ‘Rosie thinks I spend more time with you than I do with her.’

  ‘You do.’

  He cleans up the table, and pots the black.

  The ferry is at the landing when they leave the pub. Ryan throws Finn up onto his shoulders and takes Georgia’s hand. Brigitte drags Phoebe along as they hurry across the road.

  Finn’s sneakers slap on the steel floor of the pedestrian shelter as Ryan, out of breath, lifts him down.

  ‘Look — water lights.’ Phoebe sticks her head between the bottom rails and points at the shimmer of red, blue, and silver: the café’s neon sign reflecting on the inky water. ‘Pretty.’

  ‘Maybe I could move down here, buy a boat.’ Ryan leans against the top rail and inhales a deep breath of salty air.

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Am not. You are. I could be a fisherman, grow a beard …’ He strokes his smooth chin.

  ‘And what would Rosie do?’

  ‘Dunno. Be a fish wife.’ He hiccups.

  They laugh, and Ryan sings ‘Don’t Pay the Ferryman’.

  ‘What the hell are you singing?’ Brigitte grips the rail so tightly that her knuckles whiten. The ferry groans and starts to chug across the strait.

  ‘Don’t you remember that song? What was the guy’s name who sang it? Christopher somebody? Chris—’

  ‘Oh my God, where’s Finn?’ Brigitte looks around, and then rushes to the front of the ferry. He’s not there. Ryan scoops up Phoebe, grabs Georgia’s hand, checks the back.

  ‘Is he there?’ Brigitte yells.

  Ryan shakes his head. She calls Finn’s name.

  There’s only one car on board, so the view of the vehicle section is clear, and he’s not there. And he’s not playing on the rails or the steel stairs leading to the ferry operator’s compartment. There’s nowhere else he could be hiding. He’s not here. This can’t be happening. Brigitte turns around and around. Everything rushes past and blurs, but slows down at the same time — the glow of the public phone box on the island, the lights of Paynesville on the other side, moonlight on the water. She remembers doing something like this before, and quickly pushes away the memory.

  ‘It’s OK, love, your boy’s here.’ An old man with a red face is holding Finn’s hand. ‘He was sittin’ right up the front.’

  How could she have not seen him there? She snatches him from the man, lifts him, and hugs him as tightly as she can. Her back twists. Ryan takes Finn as Brigitte collapses onto the wooden bench seat.

  ‘Please don’t tell Sam about this.’ She puts her head between her knees and takes short, shallow breaths.

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘Yes, it did.’

  Ryan bends to rub her back and Finn says, ‘Sorry, Mummy. Sorry, Mummy …’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Ryan says.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She leans towards Ryan and lowers her voice so Finn can’t hear. ‘I slept with him — Aidan.’

  8

  The cigarette-smoking man waves and coughs as Brigitte keys in the security code.

  Papa’s sitting in the Chesterfield, stroking Tiger and arguing with the talkback host on his transistor radio.

  ‘Brigi.’ He grins — brown teeth, several missing — when he sees her in the doorway. ‘Ya look bloody awful.’ He pushes the cat off his lap and turns down the radio. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Just tired.’ She smiles thinly, kisses him, and takes a chair by the window.

  ‘Where’s the twins?’

  ‘Kinder.’

  ‘They go to school now?’

  ‘No.’ She speaks louder, ‘Kindergarten.’

  They sit in silence for a while.

  Papa clears his throat. ‘Detective bloke was in here a coupla days ago.’

  ‘What?’ She looks at him and frowns.

  He looks at his hands, clenches them together, his bony knuckles and ropey veins popping out. ‘Tall — some eyetalian name.’

  ‘Not Serra?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Her back hurts, but she sits up straighter and leans forward.

  ‘Didn’t look real eyetie. Askin’ questions bout some low-life music bloke g
ot killed same time you had …’ he looks up and swallows, his Adams apple stretching the thin, wrinkly skin across his throat, ‘… the accident. Don’t remember that, do ya?’

  She shakes her head slowly.

  ‘Was in the papers, on telly. You were home with me and Nana when it happened. She had to go to hospital with her heart attack, remember?’

  He knows she doesn’t remember.

  ‘Bloody bastard got what he deserved anyway.’ Papa’s getting agitated, tapping his fingertips together. Maybe he hasn’t been taking his pills. ‘Detective said some other bloke reckons you were with him that night. But he’s lyin’, right? Cause you were with me and Nana, right?’

  ‘Right.’ Brigitte nods and looks out the window at the Pelaco sign.

  Petula pokes her head in the doorway. ‘Coming on the bus trip this afternoon, Eddie?’

  ‘No thanks, love.’ He dismisses her with a wave of his hand and looks at Brigitte. ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘Are you going on the bus trip?’

  ‘Won’t bloody leave me alone. Bus trips, tai chi, bloody aromatherapy.’

  ‘Aromatherapy is good.’

  He scoffs.

  ‘Might go make a cuppa. Want one?’ Brigitte says.

  ‘Nah, just had one thanks, love.’

  At the kitchenette she slams down a cup and drums her fingertips on the sink while she waits for the kettle to boil. Wait till she sees Aidan!

  She drinks her cup of tea quickly back in Papa’s room.

  ‘Anyway.’ He yawns. ‘Did ya see those fat people, Brigi, on — what do ya call it — Big Loser?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t understand how people can get that fat.’ He sucks his teeth, sounding like the suction device at the dentist. Brigitte grinds hers.

  ‘OK, Papa, It’s time for me to go.’ She picks up her bag and stands.

  ‘So soon?’

  ***

  Brigitte sits on the love seat watching, from behind dark sunglasses, Finn and Phoebe playing on the newly mown grass.

  She starts at the scrape of the bungalow door opening, and her eyes are drawn to his bare feet, faded jeans, and white T-shirt with Captain America emblazoned across the front in blue lettering. It’s warm in the sun, but she shivers. A black tattoo peeks from under his left sleeve: some sort of foreign script, maybe Gaelic.