‘And here, in the desert, well, you’re never more alone than when you’re out here, are you?’
Pete laughs bitterly. ‘You could say that, Gilly.’
‘My mum says that love knows where it belongs. And I thought my love would belong here. I thought it was where I was supposed to be. With you.’
Pete stares down at his hands.
‘Can I show you something?’ I reach over and touch his arm and he doesn’t flinch. He leans back and with his right hand he pulls a lever so his seat shifts back, then he stretches his legs out.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Go on, Gilly.’
My blue suitcase is on the back seat and I lean over and retrieve the cloth bag I packed with my treasures. I’ve kept it close all this time.
‘Look at these,’ I say to Pete. ‘I want you to see them.’ I prop the bag on my knees and loosen the drawstring. ‘I kept this from when I first saw you.’ I take the key and rest it on my knee. ‘You were eating from a tin, down by the river. I was in the water, behind the reeds. I’d never seen you before and I kept the key to see if anything would happen. Then when I got home you were there in the kitchen with my dad. It was like you’d been sent.’
Pete takes the key and turns it over, then replaces it on my knee.
‘And these …’ I continue. From the bag I take the toothbrush, the disposable razor, the shaving cream, the notebook. ‘I found these when you went away from our house,’ I say. ‘I was certain when you left them that you wanted me to come to you. When someone really wants to disappear, Pete, they don’t leave any traces, do you understand? If you do something and you don’t want to be found out, there are ways to do it.’
Pete stares at the items strewn across my lap. He’s silent.
‘If you meant to disappear,’ I continue, ‘you’d have left nothing. My mother told me that and I believed her. And then there was the money too.’ I take the creased filthy envelope, the last thing, from the bag. ‘She told me you left it. I was certain you wanted me to find you. You left too much, see?’
Pete’s looking over the things I’ve laid out in my lap. After the key, he takes the toothbrush and the razor. Then he picks at a bit of dried shaving cream on the outside of the tube. After he’s held each thing, turned it over and examined it, he takes the bag from me and replaces them, one by one.
When he looks at me again, it’s like he’s seeing someone else. Someone he doesn’t recognise. ‘Geez, Gilly. I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what to make of this. All these things.’
He gives the bag back to me and then passes his hand across the side of his head. The gesture seems awkward. He does it several times, palms down, so you can’t really see whether or not he touches his hair. He sighs.
‘What about you, Gilly? What did you leave?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you left the hospital, what did you leave?’
I’m silent.
‘Did you tell them where you were going?’
‘No.’
‘And do you think they knew?’
‘No.’ I begin to shake.
‘Could they have found out?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were you worried they might come for you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Gilly, look at me,’ Pete says. ‘Please look at me.’
I want to, but I can’t.
He continues anyway. ‘Why, Gilly? Why might they come for you? What did you do?’
A strange shapeless thought swells. My mouth waters a little and then goes dry and the thought evaporates.
‘You can tell me, Gilly,’ Pete says. ‘We’re here now, in all your emptiness. It’s not like I can take you back.’
He’s got my face right in his line of vision and I meet his gaze now. I can see it all – everything that happened – I can see it with my eyes open and with my eyes closed. I could say it and he would listen.
‘Tell me, Gilly,’ he says.
But I can’t.
Nora waited three days before she came to see me.
‘Someone here for you.’ The nurse flashed me a bright smile and my heart leapt thinking it might be Pete, before Nora slouched into the doorway. She looked profoundly uncomfortable. A paper bag rested in one hand, grapes spilled over the top of it and rested against her dark blue shirt. Over her shoulder was the bag I had riffled through.
‘Had to buy ’em. They’re not ready on the trellis yet,’ Nora said, depositing the grapes on the bedside table. She’d not brought anything for the baby and I was relieved. ‘You alright?’ she asked. ‘Recovering?’
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’ I felt myself blushing. It was perhaps the most intimate thing Nora had ever said to me.
She poured us both some water from the jug beside my bed and sat in the chair for visitors, which nobody had yet sat in.
She sighed. ‘You’re going to have to make some decisions, Gilly,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know what it is you want, but Pete, he’s not easy to …’ she paused and I could tell she was searching, uncharacteristically, for a sensitive way to say it. ‘He’s not easy to pin down.’
I picked at a rag of skin near my thumbnail, like I always did when I didn’t know what to say.
‘He hasn’t called, Gilly.’
‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’ I blurted, childishly adding, ‘You don’t even like me.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I think,’ Nora said. ‘Pete’s a grown man. He doesn’t need anyone to help him decide what to do.’ She leaned over and picked a grape off the bunch, rubbed her finger over its skin, polishing it. ‘But you might.’
‘Might what?’
‘Might need someone to help you.’
‘I don’t need anyone,’ I said, ‘except Pete.’
Nora put the grape in her mouth and leaned back in her seat. ‘But Gilly,’ she said, ‘it’s not just you and Pete anymore.’
There was a gaping silence and I began to worry that Nora might ask to see the baby, but after a while she spoke again.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I didn’t come here to talk in circles.’ She leaned forward. ‘Like I said, I haven’t heard anything from Pete.’
I looked down, thinking of how I went through her bag with my stomach contracting and that baby already trying to fight her way out of me. My face felt hot.
‘How long will you be in here, Gilly?’ Nora asked.
‘I think they keep us a week or so. Maybe longer.’
‘Is there anyone else you can talk to?’
‘About what?’
Nora pulled a face. ‘Do you always make people say it, Gilly? Your situation. Is there anyone you can ask, you know, for help? Friends? Family?’
‘What? Like my parents? My mother?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘My mother wanted me to find Pete.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ I scratched at my arm. ‘Did you want to make Pete leave me, Nora? Did you want it to be just you and him?’
Nora was shaking her head. ‘You have a funny way of seeing the world, Gilly,’ she said. She continued. ‘Look, it’s none of my business what’s happened with you and Pete, and to be honest with you, I’d rather keep well out of it. But Gilly, I can’t promise that he’ll be able to give you what you …’ She paused, searching. ‘What you need.’
‘I already told you, I only need Pete.’ I wanted to make her understand but I only sounded petulant.
Nora was patient though and pretended not to have heard me. ‘Not a lot of girls, even in your situation, would wait about like you have, Gilly,’ Nora said. ‘Most girls would be thinking of what else to do.’
‘I know he’ll come back,’ I said. ‘I know he won’t leave me.’
‘Is that all there is, Gilly?’
‘How can you say that? He’s made sure I’m looked after, hasn’t he?’
‘Has he?’ Nora asked. ‘Do you feel like
you’ve been looked after?’
I swung my legs over the bed. I wanted to leave the room. Nora was asking the wrong questions and I wanted her to stop. But when I stood up I felt as though my feet were sinking and my body was floating at the same time. I sat down again, thinking of how he let me stay in his house. How he didn’t send me away. Then I pictured the warped glass in the front window, the little bed and the empty days, and the baby growing in me all those long weeks.
‘Don’t you want something more than that, Gilly? I think I would.’
‘But I’m not you,’ I said. ‘And anyway, you don’t know anything about me,’ I countered.
Nora didn’t even blink. ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I could guess at a few things. Did you find what you wanted, Gilly. In my bag? I’ll hazard you found nothing at all. But you’re determined, aren’t you? To make it happen the way you want.’
I couldn’t think of what to say. I blushed furiously and wondered how she knew.
Nora continued. ‘Well, it might not work out the way you’re hoping,’ she said. ‘But you better decide what you’re doing with that baby because it won’t sit around waiting for you to make up your mind.’
Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them back.
She kept on. ‘Look Gilly, all I’m trying to do is –’
But I wouldn’t let her finish. ‘You can’t say that,’ I said. ‘You can’t say those things. Pete would’ve come if he could have,’ I said. ‘When I tell him, I’m sure he will.’
‘When you tell him what?’
I was silent and Nora sighed. ‘Well, we’ll see. And if he doesn’t, you’ll have to make up your mind on your own.’ She scribbled down her number. ‘Call me at home if you need to, Gilly. I’ll come and get you when it’s time to leave.’ Then she got up and put her address book in her bag. ‘See you soon, Gilly,’ she said.
And away she slouched.
After Nora left, a nurse came to show me how to fold the nappy, making a diamond shape with the terry cloth, pulling the fabric out to pin it so I wouldn’t pierce the baby’s skin. Then she brought the baby to me with a bottle and a nappy.
‘You really should do this,’ she said. ‘You’re okay on your feet now. And we don’t want you to go home without knowing what to do.’ She smiled but she spoke briskly. She leaned in but I couldn’t make myself take the baby from her. I jerked my body back. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not now. I can’t.’
When she stood back, still holding the bundle that was my baby, I found that I had put my arms up, as if defending myself.
I leaned forward again, but was careful not to turn my body towards her. I looked at the bedcover as I spoke. ‘I can’t hold her today,’ I said. From somewhere inside an explanation emerged. I wanted to stop speaking, but I couldn’t. ‘Just now,’ I said, ‘when Nora was here, I stood up and I felt like the floor was disappearing. Like it was dropping away and there was nothing at all under my feet.’
The nurse looked at me. I’d said too much.
‘Maybe I’ll be able to hold the baby tomorrow,’ I said.
But she was already turning and walking away.
No-one came to bother me after that. I lay in bed and watched the sky out the window, clear as a blue tiled pool. My mother loved the public baths, the luxury of all that chlorinated water. ‘It smells so clean,’ she’d say. She really believed it. She loved the bleachy whiff and how you could see right down through it to the blue, blue bottom of the pool. She loved that there could be all that water when there’d been no rain for months.
But I never liked the blood-and-bone smell the chlorine left on your skin when it dried. I’d have to shower right away and soap it off. It seemed like a lie, being so clear and smelling so strong. And whatever my mother said about that pool, water will drag you under if it can, whether it’s in a bath or a pond or a lake.
The river water was silty and dark with no pretence of transparency. In parts, it met the sandy bank so gradually it seemed layered against it, like the folded lip of an envelope. Occasionally it retreated, curling back a little and then stretching forward, so you couldn’t tell where it ended and the riverbank began. I always felt it waited for me. Even when I was very young. It beckoned with all that curling and stretching. It said, Come and I will show you. This time I will show you.
I waited until the middle of the afternoon. I counted out my change and made sure to leave some, just in case. Then I eased myself out of the hospital bed. The floor did not disappear beneath me. My feet moved easily over it, even though my steps were small. I could feel the place where I had been stitched and I thought I’d not been properly joined together again.
It was quiet, a drowsy afternoon, and in the nurses’ station they were having their afternoon tea. I heard the clink of their cups, their quiet casual banter. I kept my head down as I walked past the nursery.
The coins slipped easily from my fingers although it was not a call I’d planned to make.
My mother began to speak and then stopped, waiting for the beeps that showed it was a long distance call.
‘Hel–’ And softly, after the beeps, she tried again. ‘Hello.’ She was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘It’s you, Gilly, isn’t it?’
I didn’t talk at first, and she said nothing either. I listened to her breathing carefully, as if afraid that too deep, too loud a breath might frighten me away.
‘Gilly,’ she said, after a time. ‘Are you okay?’ She paused. ‘Has it happened yet?’
‘Yes,’ I said. She waited and I knew I should elaborate, but I didn’t want to open up the gates to all those other things. I felt them press at me. Pushing out and up. I squeezed my eyes shut and I saw the baby there. I wanted to ask my mother about that vast space inside me. When would it be empty? Would I feel better then?
‘And are you … is he looking after you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘He bought me so many things. A romper suit. One in white, and a few in yellow. The white one is knitted and the others are made of towelling. And a crocheted blanket. Some nappies and muslin cloths. And booties. All the things I need.’
There was an awkward silence.
‘Do you want to come home?’ my mother said. ‘You can come home, Gilly, if you need to.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I already told you he’s looking after me.’
‘Gilly.’ My mother took a breath. ‘You know, I thought you’d come back. I thought you’d come back with him.’ She rushed over her words. ‘It was good when he was here, wasn’t it? Everything was okay. I really thought you’d come back with him.’
‘Did you?’ A bubble of laughter escaped.
She continued. ‘But Gilly,’ she said, ‘if you need to come home now, it’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘What will be fine?’ I asked.
She was silent.
‘Why do you want me to come home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Now that I’ve gone. Now that it’s just you and Dad.’
I listened to her ragged breathing. Static peppered the silence between each breath. I wanted to say something that was real and straightforward, that my mother couldn’t question. But I couldn’t say the things we both knew.
I felt the tears then, and there was a catch in my throat too. I was somebody else now, I reminded myself. I was in another place, fresher, cleaner, and this emptiness I felt was right too. It was the way I ought to feel.
‘Look, I’ve got to go.’
‘No, don’t go, Gilly. When did you have it? That’s why you’re calling, isn’t it? To tell me how it went. Was it a boy or a girl? What did you have?’
I swallowed. I whispered. ‘I had a baby.’
My mother was silent for a moment. ‘Where can I call you?’ she asked. ‘Where are you?’
‘It was a long way away, wasn’t it?’
‘Are you still at the address we got from McGill’s, Gilly?’
‘I’m right where you want me to be,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’
&
nbsp; ‘Tell me where you are,’ she said. ‘I’ll come see you.’
‘I’ll let you know,’ I said. But I knew I wouldn’t. And if I did, she wouldn’t come anyway.
‘Don’t hang up, Gilly,’ my mother pleaded. ‘I’ll call you back.’
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘The money’s run out.’ And then I pulled at the chrome shine of the lever so that her voice grew small and fuzzed into nothing long before I replaced the handset.
thirty-three
I said I only bathed my baby once but that’s a lie. I did bathe her again. One more time.
I lay in my bed after I talked to my mother on the phone. I closed my eyes and I thought of that river and all the parts of it I knew. I used to search for the quietest spots for my father and my mother. I wanted to find the ones she’d approve of, so she wouldn’t mind going there with him. Once, only weeks after my dad finished with Yvonne Martin, I found a curved bay with a broad sweep of sand, like a beach, but in miniature. I’d turned ten by then. I wanted them to notice how I was old enough now to know the places they’d prefer. I harped on about it until they went there with me.
Upriver some teenagers were swimming and their shouts rose and echoed around the steep banks. Water glittered in the air as they splashed and kicked. Sometimes one of them would bob into the middle of the river on a rubber raft or a tyre tube. I was pleased when my father struck out into the water. I didn’t want him to be distracted. If he heard them having fun he might want to swim up to their spot. He could be like that, always wanting to be where other people were, thinking he was missing out on what they had. But he liked the place I’d found. The sand sloped so gently into the water you could wade in and glide straight into a strong stroke, and this was what he did. Beside me, my mother lay on a towel, turning every few minutes to reveal a new patch of her skin to the sun. ‘Could be a proper beach,’ she murmured, ‘if you kept your eyes closed.’ She was trying not to taste the mossy smell that hung in the air.
‘Come on, Maureen,’ my father called to her. ‘Come on in.’ Then he turned and ducked under, knowing that she would follow him.
Desert Fish Page 20
