‘Does she love you?’ she asks. ‘I mean, if you weren’t married . . .’
‘If. That word again.’ His laughter is shrapnel sharp. ‘We’ve never spoken about it, not once. At this stage, I would rather not know.’
Back in the house, her mother is preparing tea. Hands shaking, more water splashing onto the counter than into the pot and Antoinette rushes to take the kettle from her. ‘Here Mum, I’ll do it.’ Steers her away by shoulders grown thin enough to snap, more substance in all that pink wool than in what it covers and Antoinette can’t believe how much her mother has deteriorated. Three weeks, not even, and god, she should have been here, how could she not have been here?
‘I don’t need help,’ Sally Paige rasps. ‘I’m managing fine.’
‘Okay, sure, but I want to help. Please?’
A grunt, dismissive and scornful, but her mother nevertheless permits herself to be led back and resettled into her chair. Sits with knees drawn up beneath the rug that Antoinette finds in the linen closet and holds her teacup with both hands.
‘I have to work tonight,’ Antoinette tells her. ‘But after this shift, I’m taking leave until – well, for as long as you need me. And, don’t worry, I’ll be back here in time for the nurse tomorrow morning.’
Her mother smiles grimly. ‘My dutiful daughter.’
‘Mum, please. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Last time, some of the stuff you said . . .’
‘You don’t have to come and look after me. I’ll have a nurse.’
‘You’ll have a nurse for five minutes a day, Mum. You heard Dr Chiang, it’s best to have someone here full time. Just in case.’
‘Then I’ll get a full-time nurse.’
‘Your insurance won’t cover a full-time nurse, and we can’t afford–’
‘How do you know what I can afford?’
‘I looked into this a little, Mum. It’s not cheap, that kind of care.’
Her mother snorts. ‘You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t looked into this a little myself?’ She sips at her tea. ‘There’s still something left from selling your grandmother’s house, even after paying off this one. I’ve been a bookkeeper going on fifteen years now, my dear. Tricky as they are, the concepts of savings and investments haven’t eluded me completely.’
‘Okay,’ Antoinette says. ‘That’s good, that gives us options.’
Even this sick, Sally Paige can summon a glare cold enough to frost glass. ‘You don’t need to take care of me.’ But her voice cracks and she digs into the sleeve of her cardigan for a crumpled tissue, holds it to her mouth as she coughs.
‘You took care of me,’ Antoinette tells her. ‘You took care of both of us, me and Jacqueline, even though you never . . . I mean, you could have put us up for adoption or something. You could have gone on with your life.’
Her mother grimaces. ‘We make our beds. Just because I couldn’t feel like a mother, doesn’t mean I didn’t still want to be one.’ An odd kind of gentleness settles over her face, a warmth that seems almost out of place. ‘I raised two daughters, two good daughters. I did that. I can be proud of that.’
‘Yes,’ Antoinette says. ‘You did.’ Because being a Sally Paige project is better than nothing, better than being a failed experiment or, worse, the living reminder of a decision ill-made. ‘For what it’s worth, I do love you. Sometimes, especially these last few weeks, I haven’t really wanted to feel that, but, you’re still my mother. You’re the only mother I have.’
‘What about your sister?’
‘She’s, um, she’s pretty upset by all this. I don’t know if she–’
‘No, what I’m asking is, do you love Jacqueline?’
The question startles her. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Even though you know what she is.’
‘That doesn’t . . .’ Antoinette tries to shave the edge from her voice. ‘She’s my sister, is what she is. Nothing else is important. Nothing.’
‘Well then.’ Her mother winces as she reaches around to place her cup on the side table. ‘I need you to do something for me. For Jacqueline. I’ve been thinking about it and I believe it’s the right thing to do. It’s what any good mother would do, yes.’
‘What is it?’
‘I need you to take Jacqueline from me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You feel your boy, yes?’ Her mother’s fingers curl into a fist, tap lightly against her own breastbone. ‘In here?’
Antoinette nods. ‘It’s like a small weight, like a stone.’
A stone, Sally Paige agrees, although she has never thought of it quite like that, but yes. And it will always be there, the link, the connection between the two of them – Loki won’t feel it but it’s what tethers him to her. It’s what keeps him alive. Because perfections are not completely autonomous, not in the way human beings are; they’re dependent on their makers, their hosts, for an ongoing source of – energy? essence? soul? – no one has ever agreed on the terminology, let alone the precise mechanics of the process, but that doesn’t stop it from working the way it does. When the host dies, so does any perfection connected to her. Every time.
‘So when you . . .’ Antoinette swallows. ‘Jacqueline will, what? Disappear? Like the fendlies used to?’
‘That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? I’ve already told you, dear, perfections are not the same as whimsies. They’re flesh and blood, like any other living thing. And like any other living thing, they leave a corpse behind them when they go.’
‘She’s just going to die?’ No, not her sister. Not Jacqueline. No. ‘But she’s only twenty-seven. It’s not fair–’
‘Oh, grow up, child! Since when does fair hold any weight in this world?’
Antoinette fights back tears. ‘But you said I could take her from you? And that would work? She’d still be here then, after you, you know.’
‘You can say it. I’m not in any kind of denial.’ A wry smirk hooks her mouth, and she looks more like Sally Paige than she has all morning. ‘And yes, if I give her to you she will survive my death. It’s been done before.’
Relief twists fresh with doubt. ‘But if she’s my perfection, will I still love her? Or will it be like with Loki?’
The smirk doesn’t leave her mother’s face. ‘Would it matter?’
‘It’s just that I love her so much. She’s the only person left that I can love. If I lose that . . .’
‘You’d rather she die then?’
‘No! Of course not, I just . . .’
‘Stop snivelling.’ Her mother sighs. ‘This is transference, not creation. It won’t change a thing in terms of how you feel towards your sister – or how I feel, on the off chance you were wondering.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m still trying to get my head around all this.’
‘There is one thing you’ll need to give up.’
Antoinette rubs at her eyes. ‘Do I even want to know?’
‘If you take your sister, you won’t be able to hold on to that boy of yours.’
It’s impossible, Sally Paige explains: no woman can host two mature perfections of such complexity as Jacqueline and Loki, especially when one of them wasn’t even hers to begin with. Assimilating her sister will be draining enough without having to maintain Loki at the same time. Sally Paige rubs her lips back and forth, and no, she says over Antoinette’s objections, there’s no way around it. Antoinette will take her sister, and Sally will accept the boy. A swap like this is less simple than a one-way transfer, but it can be done. It will be done.
Jacqueline for Loki. Fair exchange. No refunds, no returns.
‘But what happens to him?’ Antoinette asks. ‘When you die?’
‘I told you what happens.’
‘No.’ She s
prings to her feet, paces with fast, anxious strides. ‘I can’t just let him . . . no. I can’t do that.’
‘Why not? You don’t love him.’ Her mother merely stares at her. A fish could exhibit more emotion than Sally Paige right now. ‘He was a mistake, dear. You need to fix it.’
‘But I do love him. Not in that way, sure, but it’s still love.’ Tears slide down her cheeks, and she snatches a tissue from the box on the coffee table. ‘He’s like family, Mum, he’s my family, and I’m responsible for him. You’re asking me to kill him. To let you kill him.’
‘No. I’m asking you to save your sister’s life.’
‘What if I just have them both?’
‘That’s impossible, I told you. You could never–’
‘Why?’ Antoinette shouts. ‘Why is it impossible, Mum? What happens if I have them both? You made Jacqueline and Charlie, remember? You made two perfections, so it can’t be impossible.’
‘Best case scenario?’ The words are cold and hard. ‘You get tired – more than tired; exhausted, fatigued – all the time. Every minute, every day. Your body can’t handle the stress so you get sick, maybe you get cancer, yes? You follow? Our bodies aren’t made to cope with this. Supporting lives not our own. One is bad enough, you’ll see. But two? My dear, you have no idea.’
Antoinette wipes her nose. ‘But Charlie’s been . . . gone for years.’ Her hands are shaking and she doesn’t, really does not, want to talk about any of this. Not Loki, not Charlie, not either of them.
runstopbadrunstopbad
Her stomach clenches and rolls. Bile burns at the back of her throat.
‘Who knows exactly what damage is done when they’re made,’ her mother is saying. ‘How long it takes for the rot to set in. I didn’t think about any of that when I made the twins. Or maybe I did and just decided it didn’t matter, that children would be different, less of a drain. Which, actually, they were. But, with you, we’re not talking about a couple of little babies.’
‘You – you said that was the best case scenario. What’s the worst?’
Her mother shrugs. ‘You slip into a coma, become nothing more than a life support system for them until your body finally gives up and dies. Then they die too, of course, and you tell me what the point was in all of that.’
She can’t breathe. She literally can’t breathe, can’t feel anything but the weight of the Loki-stone inside her, and oh god, she can’t just surrender him, she can’t just let him die, can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t–
‘Calm down.’ Sally Paige standing right in front of her now, claws digging into her shoulders and no sympathy in those fish-flat eyes, only disgust and something that might be envy or pity or spite. ‘Stop it, calm down.’ And Antoinette breathes at last, sucks air deep into her lungs and throws her arms around the woman who is the only mother she will ever know, god help them both, and squeezes her tight. For maybe a minute they stand there, with Sally Paige rubbing her daughter’s back and Antoinette waiting for the words she knows will never come.
I love you. Everything will be all right.
And in that silence, her stupid, hopeful heart breaks a little more.
Finally, her mother disentangles herself. Leads Antoinette over to the couch and sits her down. ‘I am sorry,’ she says. ‘But you need to make a choice. It’s your sister, or it’s that boy. You can’t keep them both.’
Becca taps on the office door. Pokes her head around. ‘There’s some guy downstairs, wants to see you. He’s a bit, um, weird.’
Lina flips to the second page of the catering quote and frowns. Expensive. Too expensive. She’ll need to do some trimming to get it past Dante. And there’s still the alcohol to consider. ‘Does weird guy have a name?’
‘He didn’t want to give it. But he said it was important.’
‘Really?’ Lina arches an eyebrow.
‘I told him you were busy, but he said he could wait. That he would wait.’ The girl fiddles with the string of red plastic beads around her neck. ‘He’s, um, kinda creeping me out, Jacqueline.’
Lina sighs. ‘All right. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.’
She’s halfway down the stairs before she sees him. Loki. In the back corner, looking at the cyborg portraits. Lina grins. Then feels bad. She hopes he hasn’t come to take her to lunch because she simply doesn’t have the time. Not today. Not for the next couple of weeks. Until Ryan’s opening night is well and truly behind her, she’ll be sending Becca out for sushi and eating it at her desk.
‘This is a surprise,’ she calls.
Loki turns and – she falters. Not Loki, no. Not with those scowling, mud-dark eyes. Not with that arrogant, fuck-you sneer.
‘Where is she?’ Paul asks, stalking across the gallery floor to meet her. ‘I know some friend of yours hooked her up with a place in St Kilda.’
Lina narrows her eyes. ‘If you say so.’
‘I just need to have a few words, that’s all.’
She pauses two steps from the ground. All the better to look down at him. ‘Why are you asking me, Paul? Just call her.’
‘Thanks, I didn’t think of that.’ He sucks air through his teeth. She’s always hated the way he does that. ‘I’ve been calling her. The phone’s always off and she doesn’t ring back, doesn’t reply to my texts. Fuck knows if she even checks her email. I dropped by Simpatico but that sour-faced bitch – what’s her name, Melissa? Melinda? – said she isn’t working there anymore. That true?’
‘I don’t know,’ Lina says carefully. ‘I’m not my sister’s keeper.’
‘Yeah, right. Like Ant doesn’t wipe her arse without telling you.’
‘If she doesn’t want to talk to you, Paul, then she doesn’t want to talk to you. What makes you think I would be on your side?’
‘I’m not asking you to be on my side. I just need to see her.’
‘I can’t help you with that. Sorry.’
‘Fuck you, Jacqueline.’ He thumps the railing. Hard. ‘Tell me where she is. I’m not mucking about here.’
Over his shoulder, she can see Becca standing behind the sales counter. The girl looks even more nervous than she did upstairs. Her hand hovers near the phone. ‘Is everything okay, Jacqueline?’
‘It’s fine,’ Lina tells her. She takes one step down. Eye level. Leans in close to a face which is so like, and yet so clearly not, the one she loves. ‘Fuck you, Paul,’ she whispers. ‘If and when my sister has anything to say to you, she knows where to go looking. Not that you should hold your breath – I don’t hear her crying herself to sleep each night.’
He glares at her, teeth clenched. The muscles on either side of his jaw twitch. She remembers Ant’s account of the night they broke up. The violence etched raw into his face and how her sister feared he might strike her. How he took his anger out on her laptop instead, smashing it to pieces. Lina suspects he would like to do much the same to her right now.
‘You should go,’ she tells him. Becca has picked up the phone now. Her eyes ask the question. Lina shakes her head. ‘It’s all right,’ she says in a loud, clear voice. ‘He’s leaving now.’
Paul follows her gaze. Steps back with his hands lifted. A mocking surrender, that same old sneer curling his mouth. ‘I’m going, I’m going. No need to call in the cavalry, ladies.’ But as the glass doors slide open before him, he stops and turns back around. ‘She’s still crashing with you, isn’t she? There is no place in St Kilda.’
Lina crosses her arms.
‘You’re still over in Port Melbourne, yeah?’
‘She’s not there, Paul.’
He chuckles. It’s not a nice sound. ‘You never did know how to lie.’
‘I’m not lying. She had something to do today. She won’t be there.’
‘That’s okay,’ he says. ‘I can wait.’
&nbs
p; After he leaves, Becca scurries to her side. ‘Who was that jerk?’
‘My sister’s ex-boyfriend. He’s having trouble adjusting.’
‘Sounds like she’s better off without him.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Lina says, then excuses herself and hastens back upstairs to the office. To her phone, waiting on the desk. The home number is picked up by the answering machine and she waits impatiently for her own voice to finish its greeting. ‘Ant? Loki? If either of you are there, can you please–’
‘Lina? What’s wrong?’
‘Loki.’ His voice sounds odd over the phone. Too high-pitched. Too nasally. Too much like the man who just stormed out of the gallery. ‘Is my sister home? We might have a bit of a problem.’
‘No, she . . .’ A pause. ‘I think she’s still up at your mother’s. Why?’
Your mother’s. Lina winces. Pushes the words aside. Because that’s good, that’s fine. ‘Loki, listen, I think Paul is on his way over to you.’ Silence. Stiff-spined and bristled. ‘Don’t do anything rash, all right? In fact, don’t even answer the door. Just pretend no one’s home.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He’s looking for Ant. I told him she wasn’t there but he didn’t believe me.’
‘I don’t want him here. This is my home, he can’t be here.’
‘I know, and I’m going to ring Ant right now. See if she can call him, head him off at the pass.’ All too clearly, she can picture the scowl on Loki’s face. His knuckles whitening around the handset. ‘Just don’t do anything stupid. Please?’
‘He can’t be here,’ Loki says again.
Before she can reply, the phone clicks in her ear. Lina swears and tries to call her sister. The old number bounces straight to voicemail. The new one rings and rings and rings before finally inviting her to press hash to leave a callback number. She scrolls through her contacts. Sally Paige. Hesitates, then presses call.
‘Hello?’ The voice is hoarse, rough as sandpaper. ‘Who is this?’
Perfections Page 26
