by Anni Taylor
“Tell me why.”
“I don’t know why. I don’t have any memory of it.”
“How could you not remember? That makes no sense. Just admit what you did. That would be a start.”
“Go to hell.” It was a broken, softly spoken go to hell. But the look in her eyes broke me inside. A look of hate.
I was tired of saving her. When she was growing up, I’d done my best to save her from her shitty life. And I’d been saving her ever since. How long could you keep on saving a person?
But like the idiot I was, I picked her up just like I had all those times she was drunk. I wrapped her in a towel and deposited her in our bed. Her hair still smelled vaguely of vomit.
Stepping back to the bathroom, I cleaned up the mess with a bunch of toilet paper.
What was I supposed to do now? Sit downstairs and watch TV? Pretend my life was some kind of normal?
Instead, I went to lay myself down beside her. She didn’t even acknowledge me. I turned to look at her, but her face was stony.
What I wanted from Phoebe was something she’d never been able to give me—a soft place to land.
Phoebe Phoebe
Not so easy
Locked up tighter
Than Ebenezer
When we were both sixteen, I used to tease her with that. Teasing her in the hope that she’d relent and fool around with me, just like Sass and Pria had already done—even Bernice. I’d felt shame years later for comparing Phoebe to Ebenezer Scrooge. But back then, when we were sixteen, I didn’t think too hard about anything. I eventually wore her down. For a couple of months that same year, we used to go upstairs at number 29 and make out. Until the day that Bernice did something so damned evil at that house that none of us ever went back there.
Turning away from me, Phoebe curled herself up.
I was an intruder. In my own room. In my own bed.
Rising, I pulled on a hoodie and returned downstairs. Now I knew even less what to do with myself. So I headed out.
The front door was deadlocked, and I made sure I had both keys with me. Phoebe couldn’t get out without the keys. And I’d changed the number sequence on the alarm. I didn’t know if I believed in the whole sleepwalking thing, but at least my conscience was clear. She couldn’t get out of the house.
Lock up your wife
She’s nothing but strife
There was a rhyme I couldn’t have anticipated back when I was sixteen and thinking Phoebe would be the girl I’d marry one day. Feeling like Peter the Pumpkin Eater, I jogged down to the docks.
Two homeless men passed each other’s paths along the waterfront, reminding me of two ferries crossing each other on the water, carrying nothing but loneliness on board.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was on the next block, running back up the hill.
I wanted to make myself turn back. But I didn’t.
Standing at Kitty’s front gate, I caught my breath.
She answered the intercom, sounding sleepy.
The metal gate rolled open, and I walked up her path. Her face was all concern and comfort. “Luke! You don’t look so hot. What’s going on?”
“I just need some company right now. Is that okay?”
“You know it’s okay.”
I told myself I was going to hold back and keep the wall up—the kind of wall I kept for my business clients. But I crumbled as soon as she had a coffee in my hands and had me sitting on the sofa.
I was shaking all over, and I couldn’t make myself go still.
“Oh hell, you’re a mess.” She touched my arm, taking the coffee from me and placing it on the low table in front of us.
My ribcage began squeezing into a series of silent sobs.
She grabbed me in a bear hug. I was grateful that she didn’t speak.
“I should go home,” I told her. “I’ve been leaning on you for months, and you don’t need that.”
“Nonsense. Lean on me all you need to. If you get yourself right, then you’re in a better place to help Phoebe through all this.”
Something inside me snapped, and I grabbed her arms “You know, that’s all I ever hear. Poor Phoebe. Everyone says it. Everyone thinks it. I’m just expected to keep propping her up. No one gives a flying fuck how I’m doing.”
She winced, shrinking back. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I’m just over it. Do you know what she did tonight?”
She shook her head in response, her expression tensing as if she didn’t want to know the answer.
“She fucking tried to drown herself.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God! What?”
“Yeah. In the bath. I dragged her out. She’s sleeping now. Like a baby.”
“Don’t you need to call someone? She might need help. This is serious. Luke, you can’t—”
“Can’t what? Can’t stop being her keeper? People don’t drown themselves in their bathtubs, Kitty. Not if they really want to do the job. They’d cut their wrists first or take a bottle of pills, or—”
“Are you sure she didn’t? The pills, I mean.”
“No, she went straight into the bath. Anyway, I counted the sleeping tablets that she keeps in her drawer. I count them every few days. They were all there. She’s just looking for attention.”
“Look, do you want a drink?” Not waiting for a response, she went and made me a bourbon and cola and planted it in my hand.
I downed the drink. A fuzz immediately spread through me—my fourth drink in the last hour. I’d had three at home already.
“Talk to me about the notes,” she said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to get those in the mail. The latest I heard on the news is that the police think they were just from a crank?”
My teeth set together. “Yeah. Just a crank. The notes are just the latest episode in my shit life.”
“Sometimes, things happen that make us stop and evaluate everything in our life. Maybe you’re just at a crossroads.”
“I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“You will. You’ll find your way.” She smiled tentatively. “Hey, have you had your yacht out for a spin lately?”
“Only twice in the past three months. I miss it. Dad doesn’t come out on it fishing anymore. I just talked to Mum. Says he’s depressed or something.”
“That’s no good. Hope he’s doing something about it and not just trying to battle through.”
“Once he’s wrung the maximum amount of sympathy out of Mum, maybe.”
“Depression’s no joke, Luke.”
“I know. But man, he’s always moaning about something.” I slumped back on her sofa, tilting my head back against the headrest. “Kitty, are you sure you want to go ahead with that purchase of yours?”
“Yeah, why not? I’m over investing in Sydney property.”
“That’s just it. It’s not the wisest investment. There’s much better ones out there. And it’s a huge amount of money to slap down. I wouldn’t touch it if I were you.”
“Well, you’re not me.” She smiled. “I get emotionally attached to things, and that means more to me than the potential profit.”
“Okay, I’ve said my piece. When I’m back in the office, I’ll get things moving on it. I haven’t been in for a couple of days.”
“Of course you haven’t. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got a head full of worry right now.”
“I should go.” I pulled myself to my feet, feeling a bit woozy from the alcohol. “I shouldn’t leave Phoebe alone too long.” Hesitating, I ran my hands through my hair. “Sounds wrong, I know, but I just don’t want to go back there.”
In response, she rose alongside me and hugged me again.
She felt good and warm and solid. Phoebe never felt like that. Holding Phoebe always felt like trying to negotiate something that could shatter at any moment.
A thought flashed through my head, the thought of being with someone like Kitty and what that must f
eel like. No stepping on eggshells and no constant worry about what her mental state was like today.
Inside that thought, my mind went blank, and I kissed her on her mouth.
Immediately, she pulled back. Like I’d stung her or something. “I know you’re hurting and not yourself, so I’m going to ignore that.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t mean it.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t say for sure that I didn’t mean it.” Words were just spilling from me tonight, unchecked. What the hell was wrong with me? I wanted to blubber and be held like a little kid. I wanted to be with a woman who could give herself to me, unlike Phoebe.
She frowned, looking uncomfortable. “We’ll always be close. We’re friends. You’re going through a ton of stuff at the moment. This is not you. You’ll get past this, and we’ll keep on being friends.”
I swallowed hard. “Maybe I should have asked you to marry me that year we worked together at the agency. I shouldn’t have let you get engaged to that jerk.”
Her mouth twitched into a small smile. “You and I had a lot of fun that year. And yes, why didn’t you steal me away and stop me from accepting his ring? What was I thinking?”
“Christ, I wanted to belt him into next week for what he did to you.”
“Well, that’s all in the past. I made a bad decision. But I’m happy now.”
“You’re happy? I don’t remember what that feels like.”
“You will. You’ll find your way. You’re a positive person.” She looked certain as she nodded.
I said a quick good-bye, and she walked me to the door.
Plunging my hands into my hoodie pockets, I stepped back into the night air, feeling like a Biblical traitor. The gate closed behind me with a metallic click.
I didn’t want to go back to Phoebe. But I had no choice.
A thin mist skirted the ground, slinking around the fences and yards. I jogged back to my street, the cold plunging inside my bones. It was a damned miserable winter. The most miserable one I’d ever known.
I jolted when I spotted Phoebe sitting on the low fence next to our house. She was still in the towel, her hair wet and limp over her shoulders. I sprinted the last twenty metres or so up to her.
“Feeb, what the hell?”
Her expression was calm. “Where did you go?”
“For a walk. Get inside. Haven’t you brought enough attention on yourself lately?”
“Why should I stay inside, all safe and warm? Tommy isn’t safe and warm.”
“This ends, Phoebe. It ends now.” I grasped her shoulders. “You don’t have a monopoly on grieving for Tommy.”
“I can smell perfume. Why do you smell of perfume, Luke?”
“You’re imagining it.”
“Am I? No, I really don’t think I am.”
“Come inside. There’s no point hanging around out here.”
“You’ve been going for runs at night a lot lately, haven’t you?”
“Lots of people do.”
“You’re right. The people around here seem pretty nocturnal. Everyone wanders the streets at night. Bernice Wick goes out looking for her mother’s cat. The homeless people walk around looking for a place to sleep. That guy that’s been hanging around—who knows what he’s looking for? What are you looking for, Luke?”
“I’m not having this conversation anymore. If I have to pick you up and throw you into the house myself, I will. How did you get out here anyway?”
“Through the powder room window. What’s her name?”
“What?”
“Her name. The one you go to see, on your walks.”
“Stop it, okay?”
“There’s no point in us staying together anymore, is there?”
“Of course there is.”
“I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Come inside. You’re not leaving.”
“What am I? A prisoner now? You have a licence to keep me locked up? I’ll go to Nan’s.”
Panic shot through me. Mere minutes ago, I’d been contemplating a life without her. But standing here in front of her, with her telling me she was going to leave me, I couldn’t let her go. Not even to her grandmother’s house. She belonged with me.
My jaw tightened. “I’m on my fucking knees, Phoebe. And you sit there, in a wet towel, like a fucking priestess, telling me you’re leaving me.”
For a second, she eyed me in surprise, but then her face resumed its mask. “You can’t stop me.” She wriggled down from the fence and walked inside.
I followed her in and upstairs. She let the towel drop like she’d shed a skin and had been reborn. Dressing in a long T-shirt, she slid into bed.
Stripping to my undershorts, I got into bed beside her. Fear whirled in my head. I didn’t want her to go anywhere. I shouldn’t have gone out for that walk. In the morning she’d be different. She depended on me. For everything. She couldn’t just leave.
In the moonlight, she was insanely beautiful in a way that she wasn’t in daylight. The dark light softened the angles of a face that had grown too thin. The waves that her dark hair made on the pillow were like brush strokes.
I kissed her, on the cheek and on the neck I’d come close to choking.
She didn’t protest.
But she rolled over, away from me, shutting me out.
24.
PHOEBE
Saturday night
I WOULDN’T SHOW HIM THE TSUNAMI inside.
I knew exactly how to contain it. I’d pack it into the box, along with everything else from today. Pack it down tight.
The bottom fell out of my world back in December. I was still falling.
If Luke hadn’t pulled me from the bath, would I be dead right now? I didn’t know. I’d vomited the contents of my stomach soon after getting into the bath. The residue of the pills that had been left inside me hadn’t been enough to put me to sleep.
I stared at the bedroom wall, wondering how long I’d known that Luke was cheating on me. When he’d come back from some of his runs over these past months, he’d been distant. I’d put it down to fatigue. But his mood at those times had made me shrug and shake my head.
Until tonight.
Tonight was different. Luke had gone out and left a wife that had just attempted to kill herself. It was then that I knew. He was going to see someone to make himself feel better. Because it was always about Luke and what he wanted.
I’d been in a haze, such a long haze, since Tommy went missing. I’d told myself that everything had been perfect between Luke and me before we lost Tommy. But that wasn’t true.
I recalled a time in July of last year, sitting on the sofa downstairs and drinking, long after Luke and Tommy were in bed. Out loud and drunkenly, I’d asked the gods if my turn with Luke was over yet. I’d had a longer turn with him than had Sass, Pria, or Kate. I’d had him for well over two years. Surely that was long enough.
But there’d been no one left to hand him over to. Sass, Kate, and Pria had all moved on with their lives. And Bernice was out of the question.
It was game over.
What went wrong with Luke and me?
Back when I lived in London, he’d appeared out of nowhere, just after Flynn had devastated me. And somehow, we’d just fallen together. It’d just happened. Things happened in a flash after that. I discovered I was pregnant. Luke announced the pregnancy to everyone, while I was still coming to terms with the fact that there was a life form growing inside of me. And then Luke got down on bended knee with a ring—just like in the movies—at a London restaurant.
It was a whirlwind romance with someone I’d known since I was eight. But while I knew the boy, I barely knew the man.
Less than three years later, it was over. As of now. The marriage gone. The baby gone. Like none of it ever happened. It had all been sucked into a vacuum and disposed of.
I’d become a sad remnant of that former life, losing my mind and writing letters about a
child that (in all probability) no longer existed.
The rhymes in those letters were about me. Of course I’d written them. Anyone would know that, just by reading them.
No wonder Luke was cheating on me. No wonder Tommy had gone off so easily with a stranger. I couldn’t be the kind of wife and mother they’d needed.
From the time Tommy vanished, I’d given a sanitised version of my life to the media. Sass had told me to. But more than that, my instincts had told me to. Show the world a different picture. Be the good woman from the commercials.
Sass and I had picked through my photos, feeding the media the pictures of Tommy and me that told the story of a happy mother and her happy child. Not just happy, but joyous. Days gilded with golden sunshine and Instagram filters. A Facebook mashup of images that showed the pearls but not the oyster shells.
That story had become mine.
Who was I, really?
I thought back to the beginning of my pregnancy with Tommy.
I’d done the usual things during pregnancy: obsessed over kick counts (the number of kicks to the guts the kid gave me every hour that told me it was still alive), raged over restaurants and stores that shunned breastfeeding mothers (I was about to join their holy ranks), cried over every sad story in the news (my body was pumped with hormones), and lived in sheer terror of this alien being that had taken over my body (and was soon to force its way out).
Luke had been too busy to tell any of this to. The baby wasn’t completely real to him yet because it wasn’t inside his body. To him, the baby was a shapeless mound of dough that wouldn’t spring to life until it emerged, fully cooked. Luke’s obsession was his business—and the house that his business might soon be able to buy for us.
The small, red, wrinkly Thomas Basko was born eight weeks early, a few weeks before Christmas. The birth itself was surprisingly silent. Neither Tommy nor I cried or screamed. Luke was the only one to shed tears.
Tommy wasn’t the usual picture you saw in birth announcements. Please join us in welcoming our alien spawn to Earth would have been an appropriate blurb for his first photo. Tommy was in intensive care for three weeks and a humidicrib for another two weeks. He belonged to the hospital and the nurses and the routines and the beeping machinery that he was attached to. Luke and I were on the periphery of all of this.
