Where Have You Been?

by Wendy James

  The article he’d read also mentioned the possible drawbacks of the extended family environment – the ganging up, the manipulation, the increase in family tension, the interference, the constraints, but he’s certain that they’ve managed to escape these pressures, these difficulties. It takes a particular type of person to create such situations. And they’re none of them that sort of person. He’s sure of it.

  Susan

  Carly points out things that her younger sister doesn’t see. Things she’s never considered; that she doesn’t want to consider, but, Carly insists, they’re things Susan really ought to see; should consider.

  The two women are walking through a local reserve with the children, late in the afternoon. They troop past a toilet block. Mitchell tugs on his mother’s hand. ‘Mu-um. I have to pee.’

  ‘Well, go on,’ Susan says, pushing him towards the men’s. ‘Just hurry.’ He skips up the steps, narrowly missing a man who is exiting.

  ‘Hold on, Mitch,’ Carly calls out of the blue. ‘Come back.’

  The man looks up at them briefly, then hurries past, head down, hands in pockets.

  Mitchell trots back obediently. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go in there,’ Carly says. ‘They’re really dirty. Disgusting. Go behind a tree. It’s much more fun, anyway.’ The child is only too happy to comply, rushes off into the bush before Susan can interject.

  ‘Carly, what...?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she smiles slightly, ‘and I’ll explain.’

  ‘Watch,’ Carly looks towards the toilet block. ‘There should be another one.’

  ‘Another what?’ Susan doesn’t bother to hide her exasperation, her impatience.

  ‘Shhh. Look.’ A second man exits the toilet block, this one middle-aged, red-faced. He rushes away in the opposite direction.

  ‘See,’ Carly’s smile is broad, satisfied. ‘I was right.’

  ‘Right about what?’

  ‘God, Susan. Where’ve you been? It’s a beat. Not a nice place for a little boy.’

  Mitchell runs out of the bush grinning, fumbling with his fly. ‘I weed on my shoes, Mum. I couldn’t help it. They’re all nice and shiny but.’

  ‘What’s a beat?’ Stella asks.

  ‘Just walk quickly, kids. Let’s hurry up.’

  ‘Like a drum, stupid,’ Mitchell answers his sister. ‘It’s when you bang.’

  Carly laughs, but Susan grabs the children’s hands and holds them tight. Walks fast.

  Another day a young woman rushes up behind them as they’re walking down to the school together, pushes past without looking up or excusing herself. Carly watches, eyes narrowed. The woman is young, tall and thin, unnaturally pale, slightly stooped. She’s wearing a short black skirt and leather jacket. Chunky heels.

  ‘On the game,’ Carly says, ‘and on the gear.’ She looks like a young university student to Susan, no different to any other.

  ‘Around here? I don’t believe you. How do you know that?’ she asks her sister. ‘How on earth can you tell?’

  Carly rolls her eyes. ‘How d’you reckon, Susy? I saw it in a movie once?’ she knocks lightly on Susan’s skull. ‘Use those brains, honey. It won’t hurt. Really it won’t.’

  One weekday when Ed is in town for a design conference, the two women catch the ferry to Circular Quay to meet him for lunch. The ferry is unseasonally crowded and Susan sits next to an elderly man, chatty and interesting. Interested. They talk about the weather, about the water, move gradually into more personal territory. The man, who introduces himself as Peter, asks Susan about the children – how old they are, their interests. He was a child psychologist, he tells her, is retired now, but still finds children infinitely interesting. He misses the everyday contact, the access into the singular child’s-eye view of the world. He has none of his own – his wife couldn’t – a minor tragedy. Though he makes every effort – once he realises that the two women are travelling together – to include her in the conversation, Carly does not speak to him. She sits across from Susan, feet splayed out casually, reads a magazine. Looks up every now and then. When Susan takes out her wallet in order to show the man a photograph of Stella and Mitchell, Carly drops her book, and as she leans forward to pick it up, knocks Susan’s wallet out of her hand. ‘Sorry,’ she smiles sweetly at her sister. ‘So clumsy.’

  ‘A bit of big sisterly advice,’ Carly offers as they disembark.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t talk to blokes like that about your kids.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s a child psychologist. He was genuinely interested.’

  ‘Child psychologist, my arse,’ Carly snorts. ‘I just hope you didn’t have your bloody address showing in your wallet.’

  ‘What do you mean? What’s my address got to do with it?’

  ‘Fuck, Susan. That bloke is a rock spider.’

  ‘A rock spider? What are you talking about? What’s a rock spider?’

  Carly rolls her eyes. ‘A pedophile, Susan. A bloke who likes sticking his prick in very small spaces.’

  A woman in front of them turns, glares. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘He’s probably had to go for a wank after what you’ve been telling him about your two.’ Carly is unrepentant, her voice louder.

  ‘Shut up,’ Susan hisses. ‘Just don’t say another word.’

  ‘Sorry, lovey,’ she says brightly, ‘hate to spoil the party and all that, but this is the real world.’

  The real world. Susan wonders why her sister is so suspicious. Wonders why she considers such sordid behaviour, such a squalid world, to be the real world. The more authentic world. She wonders, but doesn’t dare ask. The truth is, she doesn’t really want to know. Susan is certain that the world she inhabits is just as authentic. Just as real. And she wants her world to remain benign, doesn’t really care what’s lurking beneath. And even if the harmony of her existence is some sort of a facade – just a fantasy of comfort and ease, order and security that’s camouflaging chaos – well, she doesn’t want, doesn’t need to know that either.

  ‘Come on, Sue,’ Anna says, ‘normal people don’t do this. Just up and leave their lives without a backward glance. How long has she been staying with you now? Four weeks? Five? She must have had another life. Why won’t she tell you about it?’

  It’s Mona Vale Beach today and an easy walk – high tide early this morning and the sand packed hard and flat. The two women can walk fast and talk.

  ‘Maybe there’s nothing to tell me, Anna. She says she had no one. Nothing. Some crummy job in a cafe. What sort of a life is that? It’s not really worth going back to, is it?’

  ‘That’s exactly my point. What sort of a person really has no life? She must have had something – a job, a car, a flat. Friends. A lover. Something.’

  ‘It’s not my business.’

  Why isn’t it your business? Surely you’ve a right to know who she is?’

  ‘When she wants to tell me...’

  ‘You’ll be there? Christ, Sue you’re starting to sound like Ed. It’s not normal. She’s become too much a part of your life – too instantly – and you still don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘She’s my sister!’ Susan can feel her face heating up, knows it’s not just exertion.

  ‘Oh. So she’s your sister. So what? Where’s your commonsense gone, girl? You know what? From the outside, from where I stand, it really looks like she’s using you. She’s living with you, eating your food, I don’t suppose she does anything to help, does she? Or pays for anything? Does she take the kids to school, cook dinner, clean the bathrooms? No? And I’ll bet you’ve lent her money haven’t you? She’s sucking you in, Susan, and I don’t know why you can’t see it. If she was an ordinary sister you’d have told her where to get off by now. Believe me – the whole situation – it’s not normal.’

&nbs
p; ‘I wonder,’ Susan manages eventually, ‘what exactly “normal” would be, under these circumstances. And how is it that you can make such a call anyway; what experience have you had, Anna, that makes you such an expert on my situation?’

  She breaks into a slow jog, overtakes her friend, who shouts after her:

  ‘I don’t need experience, Susan. I don’t need experience to see what’s happening. You’ve got to...’

  Susan takes off, sprints, can hear only the wind of her own speed, the rush of the water.

  Ed

  ‘She’s just a bubble burster,’ Ed hisses. ‘Always has been. She’s always sticking her nose in, interfering. Someone ought to sort her out. Tell her once and for all to keep her opinions to herself. You can see why poor old Tom hits the bottle from time to time.’ He manoeuvres his arm under his wife’s back, pulls her over to his side.

  ‘But Ed,’ Susan draws away from him, wriggles into a sitting position, hunches over her knees. ‘What she says isn’t completely untrue. Carly’s told us nothing about herself. She avoids answering any questions I ask. She straight out ignores me if I mention anything about the past. About Mum and Dad.’

  Ed sighs and sits up beside her. ‘Susy. Honey. We’ve talked about this. You’ve got to give her space. Give her time. Her past might be too painful to discuss with just anyone.’

  ‘But I’m not just anyone, Ed, I’m her sister. I just wish she’d tell me why. That one thing at least.’ He can tell that she’s hurt, gives her a brief comforting hug.

  ‘C’mon Suse. Think of it from Carly’s perspective.’

  ‘Oh, Ed. I have. I do. I really do, believe me.’ She slides down and pulls the blanket up to her chin. ‘I just think Anna’s got a point.’ Her voice is muffled. ‘I think Carly’s hiding something.’

  He stays where he is. Wide awake now. Indignant. ‘Jesus, Suse, I really thought you’d be a bit more loyal to Carly. To your sister. You should be telling Anna where to get off, not agreeing with her.’

  Susan says nothing. Rolls onto her side away from him.

  ‘She’s your own flesh and blood, Suse. Your trust should be absolute, unconditional. The way you trust me.’ He pauses for a moment, adds, ‘The way I trust her.’

  ‘She’s not your flesh and blood, Ed,’ Susan mutters. ‘She’s not your sister.’

  No, she’s not his flesh and blood. Not his sister. As he slides down beside Susan and grapples with her rigid form, he thinks how glad he is that Carly is his sister-in-law and not his sister, thinks how useful he can be to her, psychologically that is, in his role as disinterested observer. How glad he is that he can champion her without challenging other allegiances, without the complications of a shared history, shared trauma.

  He cups his wife’s breasts from behind, presses his groin into her warmth, feels her loosen, respond, thinks how well such detachment suits him.

  There are not words in his vocabulary, and not in the English language either, Ed suspects, to describe the overpowering emotion – a mixture of love and passion and responsibility and tenderness – that he felt when he first held his babies. And although the intensity of those first moments can never been repeated, the quality of his connection with the two children has never diminished. His feeling for Susan has, he is aware, changed over time: he loves her, this is not in doubt, indeed his love for her is probably far more profound than it was in the beginning of their relationship. Even if the once all-encompassing nature of their sexual communion has lessened over the years, this is only because they have reached a higher level; are connected forever by their shared creation. Still, he is not overwhelmed by feeling for her in the way that he once was (those long ago days when his heart would constrict whenever she entered the room, when countless hours were spent mentally undressing her). In any case Susan does not need that sort of adolescent devotion from him – she is strong, self-possessed, self-reliant, would probably find it irksome.

  He wonders whether it is partly the knowledge of the children’s vulnerability, their undeniable, unspoken need of him that secures, has in fact created – in a neat illustration of the principles of supply and demand – his particular emotional response. Wonders whether what he feels for Carly might not be a similar sensation – brought on by what he knows is her particular defencelessness and vulnerability, the insecurity and uncertainty of her position. Along with her almost unconditional trust in him. It’s remarkable how a need can be so easily, so effortlessly and so pleasurably fulfilled. Remarkable how the need can so quickly become mutual. He wonders and marvels at the strangeness of human relationships.

  He has never felt like this about his own sister. Ed has never had a real female friend. In fact, there aren’t that many women in his life. Oh, there’s his sister, Pam, but she lives a thousand miles away – in central Queensland – and the five-year gap seems never to have closed. She is bossy and critical, and in her presence he is boorish, becomes as callow as she anticipates. There is Cathy, his brother Derek’s wife, but with Cathy’s interests currently not extending much further than her own ever-increasing brood (she and Derek have four children under six; and a fifth on the way) there’s been little opportunity for them to develop any sort of a relationship. Then there are the women he works with: Moira; and the office girl Trudy, who comes in on Wednesdays and Fridays to file, dust and run errands. He also knows a number of female designers and architects, but none of these could be classified as friends; these relationships are only casual, far from intimate, or, in some cases, highly competitive, tinged with vague resentment. They’re not friends. There’s Susan, of course, but that’s different. She’s his wife.

  But now there’s Carly. Despite her official sister-in-law status, Ed has no qualms about thinking of her as a friend also. She displays all the characteristics of a friend. She is easy to talk to, is interested in his opinions, in him. Unlike Susan, who is always busy, always semi-distracted by the children, a meal to be made, an appointment to be kept, who seems always to be walking out just as he’s walking in, Carly is available. He can talk to her about anything. Anything. She is familiar with the situation at work – the conflicts, the personalities – and on a few occasions has helped to devise strategies for Ed to deal with Derek, difficult clients, the odd recalcitrant employee. She is genuinely interested in the work he does. Never displays a blank face, or yawns, but interrogates him in her charming way, demands to know more, more, more. Wants to understand. She even – and he is careful here, there are all sorts of loyalties, all sorts of boundaries that can’t, that shouldn’t, be crossed – listens to his concerns about Susan. And occasionally voices her own.

  One night when they are the last up, are sitting at opposite ends of the couch watching television, Carly says, out of the blue: ‘You’re worried about something, Ed, I can tell. You seem tense.’

  ‘Eh?’ (Though now that she mentions it, Ed realises that the left side of his jaw is sore, that he has been grinding his back teeth, clamping down, clenching – always a sure sign of tension.)

  ‘There’s something, Ed,’ she insists, ‘something’s really bothering you.’

  ‘No, really,’ he gropes for an answer, gives up. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s Susan isn’t it?’

  It’s miraculous, the way she identifies his anxiety, knows what is wrong with him even before he has managed to articulate his concerns to himself. Susan. He shrugs, grimaces, gazes mesmerised as she moves up the seat towards him.

  ‘You mustn’t worry, Ed. It’s just a phase. All women go through it. It’s to do with having children. A friend of mine said that for years after her kids were born she felt nothing for her husband. She hardly knew he was there. That she felt distanced from everyone. Really detached. It’s not depression or anything, at least only of the mildest sort. It’s nothing serious. She’s not going to harm herself. Or the kids.’

  Carly is right beside him now, pats
his hand gently. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Ed. Just one of those things married men have to cope with.’

  Ed believes he has read of this phenomena somewhere or other, a sort of common, low-grade, postnatal depression – but was unaware that Susan was experiencing such feelings. The children, after all, are hardly babies anymore. Thinking back, though, he must admit there have been occasions (more and more frequent?) when Susan has seemed not only down, but switched off, unreachable. Until now he has put it down to a preoccupation with work, or the onset of her period, an influx of mysterious hormones, has offered only a minimal degree of support and sympathy, has indeed sometimes reacted impatiently. Has put it down to an inevitable increase in fractiousness, irritability, the taking-for-grantedness that characterises an enduring relationship like marriage. Has thought it a normal phase of married life. And no doubt this was the very worst reaction he could have had. The sort of a reaction that could only exacerbate any sort of depression.

  He assumes that Susan has described her condition to her sister, feels sad momentarily that she has been unable to tell him herself. But really, overwhelmingly, he’s simply grateful that she has a relationship with her sister now, an experienced, compassionate, older sister, a relationship that lacks all of the entrenched resentments of the past that he knows tend to bedevil most sibling relationships.

  Carly is silently watching him, her hand still lightly covering his. He manages to dredge up a smile. ‘Thanks Carly.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have told you. I just thought...’ She bites her lip, looks away.

  ‘No. Oh, no,’ Ed turns his hand upwards in hers, grips her fingers tightly, I appreciate you telling me, I really do. Now that I know about it I can try and be more helpful, careful. Find a solution, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking...’ her voice suddenly hesitant, slightly shy.

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘Oh. It’s not really any of my business. I’m probably being a bit presumptuous...’