Where Have You Been?

by Wendy James

  She has avoided thinking about the incident with Howard Hamilton – easy enough with so much going on, so much to do – so when he rings and says merely, ‘Howard here,’ Susan has to think hard for a moment.

  ‘Howard Hamilton,’ he repeats, ‘your solicitor.’ Suddenly there is a strange constriction in her chest; a warmth spreads throughout her lower limbs. She angles her body away from the kitchen table, where Ed and Carly sit chatting, sipping Sunday morning coffee, cups the receiver close to her ear.

  ‘Howard,’ she says quietly, ‘Hi.’ Her heart pounds.

  ‘How’re things?’

  ‘Fine. Yes. Things are fine. Absolutely fine. Great.’ She can feel the gush gradually becoming a babble; pauses abruptly, takes a deep breath.

  Hamilton’s voice is calm, measured. ‘I think it’s time we got together again for a meeting. There are a few things we need to discuss, and I need your signature on some documents.’ A brisk, businesslike enquiry. ‘How are you placed tomorrow morning?’

  She doesn’t stop to think, to consider. ‘That’ll be fine.’ In fact she has no idea how she’s placed; right now it’s possible that she has no idea of the word’s meaning.

  ‘Say nine-thirty?’

  ‘Yes. No. I mean ... the kids: I’ll have to get them to school first. How about ten? Will that be okay?’

  ‘No worries.’ Casual, so casual. ‘See you then.’

  He disconnects before Susan can say goodbye. Before she can compose herself. She keeps the phone to her ear, the line buzzing loudly, for a long moment, returns the phone to its cradle reluctantly. She can feel her cheeks crimson, her ears burn; she keeps her back to the table, busies herself clearing the bench.

  ‘Who was that?’ Ed’s interest seems vague, cursory.

  ‘The solicitor. Howard Hamilton. He wants to meet me tomorrow morning. To sign some things.’

  ‘Just you? He doesn’t need me?’

  ‘No. Just me.’

  ‘You don’t want me to come?’

  ‘I don’t think so...’ She turns, dishcloth in hand, gives him an encouraging smile: ‘Unless you want to, Ed?’

  ‘No, no. I’m sure you can sort it out.’ Ed sounds relieved.

  ‘What about me?’ Carly asks suddenly. ‘Why doesn’t he need me? Surely if you have to sign papers, I’ll have to sign them too?’

  ‘He didn’t say he needed you.’ Susan makes her voice as neutral as possible, though she can feel her cheeks hotting up again. ‘So I guess not.’ Carly is watching her closely, looks slightly amused. ‘I’ve no idea what it’s about; what he wants.’ Susan shrugs and turns back to the washing up, suddenly flustered.

  ‘Strange,’ Carly’s voice is low, almost a murmur, ‘you must have a good relationship, you and that solicitor. First time I’ve heard of a solicitor phoning to make an appointment on a Sunday. He’ll probably charge you double for the call.’

  Carly

  They say that sometimes it is only when a cancer is diagnosed that that the cells divide and spread. Left unnoticed and undisturbed, a tumour may remain dormant for years, decades, sometimes only discovered post-mortem and even then not the cause of extinction anyway.

  Susan

  Before Carly’s return she didn’t think about her life too much, too intensely. After all, with the two kids, the house, Ed, the garden, work, friends, busy busy busy – who has time to think? And even those rare moments of reflection never involved much in the way of regret. Oh, perhaps she wondered vaguely whether she should have married later, worked harder, been more ambitious, travelled further, that sort of thing. But any doubts, any long-harboured unsatisfied desires were indistinct, fleeting – and probably had more to do with how she felt others saw her than how she really perceived her life. In truth, Susan had come to the happy conclusion that she was an immensely fortunate being. That she had everything she needed. Everything she wanted.

  Lately though, since Carly’s return, her reflections have become slightly more complicated. She still acknowledges that life has provided her with everything she needs, but how, she wonders, how do we ever know exactly what it is that we want? How do we even know who we are?

  Lately she wonders, really wonders, who she is.

  When she was younger, surely she was more certain of herself. She thinks that before the kids she was somehow more solid, more substantial. More like Carly – vivid and alive. Now, she feels herself shadowy, like a light that’s been dimmed, as if she’s not quite switched on properly. She has heard other, older women talk about finding themselves invisible, feeling their own desires swamped by others’ endless needs. Her own mother, for instance, was expert in inducing a guilt-provoking awareness of this – of being ignored, taken-for-granted, of little consequence. Susan has thought for years that this was justified in a way – that her mother’s personality had required this quenching. Somehow she hasn’t noticed her own dimming, her own increasing invisibility. She can’t see Ed – or indeed any man that she knows – suffering from this peculiar phenomenon, however. Ed is not fading. If anything, Ed is becoming more and more himself. And it’s Carly, she knows, Carly’s vivid presence that’s made her aware of her own diminishing, her increasing blurriness. She feels like a fading sepia print. And soon, soon she’ll be all but invisible.

  There are parts of herself, aspects of herself that she can list:

  she is Stella and Mitchell’s mother;

  she is Edward Middleton’s wife;

  she is a nursing sister.

  She is good at all these things, she knows that. She is a loving mother, a good and loyal wife, a conscientious nurse. She tries hard; she does her best. But still she’s not sure what it all adds up to.

  All of a sudden she isn’t quite sure who she is.

  She arrives late, flustered as always by her inability to find a park. Howard’s secretary looks up from her frenzied typing to give Susan a withering smile, tells her that Mr Hamilton delayed as long as he could, but had another client to see ... if Susan’s prepared to wait now, perhaps she can be squeezed in. Alternatively, she can make another appointment, for say, Wednesday week. The secretary frowns at her monitor, jabs viciously at the keyboard. ‘Mr Hamilton’s a very busy man.’

  There is no squeezing. Howard ushers her in with a smile, ignoring his secretary’s tut-tutting, the scheduled client’s impatience. He offers Susan a chair, and takes the seat beside her rather than the one behind his desk.

  ‘Sh-it.’ He sighs as if exhausted, glances at his watch, ‘It’s only eleven and already I’ve had enough.’ He yawns, grins. ‘How about you? Guess you’ve been going since half past five, or some ungodly hour?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not quite that bad, they sleep in a bit these days.’ She gives him a tight, polite smile, isn’t quite sure how to behave, what’s expected, what she wants to happen.

  ‘You forget they grow up ... eventually. Now, I’ve got you here...’

  She interrupts nervously: ‘About the other week – the barbecue. I really want to apologise – I’d drunk an awful lot, and was very emotional to start with. I don’t want you to think...’

  ‘Shhhhh.’ He stills her hand, which is anxiously beating a pen against the arm of the chair. ‘It’s okay, Susan. Really. These things happen. All forgotten. This is strictly business. Just a few more bits and pieces for you to sign. They’re for the real estate agent – you’re the signatory – not Carly.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ She feels unexpectedly deflated, disappointed.

  ‘Though, I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t find the – moment – very pleasant...’ he says it so casually, half laughing, but doesn’t quite meet her eye.

  ‘No. I...’ Her voice catches. His hand is still covering hers, his thumb absently stroking the soft skin between thumb and index finger.

  ‘Because I did,’ he clears his throat. ‘And if you, if you ever need, w
ell, anything, really...’

  ‘Anything...?’

  ‘You’ve only to ask.’

  Now, here, with this man, Susan feels herself again. Feels more real than she has felt in a long while. When he touches her – even the slightest contact, even a movement in the air between them – she suddenly knows that her heart is beating, her blood is pulsing, oxygen is moving in and out of her lungs. She is aware, for the first time in years – it seems almost as far back as she can remember – she is aware that she is alive.

  Ed

  He likes to wait up for Susan on the nights that she works. It means he gets less than his required eight hours, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep anyway, not until he knows she’s arrived home safely. He likes to be there too, just in case she wants, or needs, to talk through her day. To debrief. Though of course she never does.

  Like many long-married couples, Ed and Susan have stopped talking. Oh, there’s the kids and money and family affairs to discuss, but really talk – somehow they’ve lost interest. Ed looks back fondly on those early post-coital talkfests, where they’d be awake half the night sharing their every memory, fantasy, ideal – wonders what happened. What changed. Now they’re usually both asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow, never mind post-coital. It’s almost as if there’s nothing more to know. Ed realises that this is what most marriages come to – and that it is, if you stop to think about it, one of the really good things about a long-time partnership. The growing ease of the relationship. Becoming Darby and Joan.

  Now, on the nights that Susan is away, Carly waits up with him. He appreciates her company. And her conversation – which is always new, always interesting, always unpredictable. Even when they don’t talk, even when they just sit together and read, or watch television, Ed enjoys her quiet presence, takes pleasure in her just being there.

  This night, a Wednesday, Susan’s second shift for the week, they have hired a video, a French film, a recent release. Ed has been looking forward to seeing it – the movie has had favourable reviews, won prizes, has come highly recommended by the video store staff (who are usually reliable in their judgements), but fifteen minutes into the film Ed has had enough, is exasperated with both plot and character.

  ‘What a sleaze,’ he says loudly. The main protagonist is an adulterer, is cheating on his beautiful and blameless wife, and Ed finds it impossible to muster the required sympathy for the man. ‘What a dickhead. This is bullshit.’

  Carly pauses the film.

  ‘D’you want to watch something else?’

  ‘No, sorry. For some reason it just pisses me off. Blokes like that. Getting away with it! What an arsehole.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Carly seems genuinely interested in his reaction, rather than irritated by the interruption.

  ‘Well – all that screwing around, and there’re never any real consequences for blokes like that. We all want to fuck around, y’know, but some of us just manage to control ourselves. Why turn him into a hero? You know it’ll all end up okay. That somehow he’ll manage to have his cake and eat it too.’

  Ed isn’t quite sure why he’s so worked up, why on earth he feels so strongly about a fictional character. The moral consequences of adultery are not something he’s ever thought into that seriously – why would he? – but it makes him genuinely angry tonight.

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve always thought that it’s kind of courageous.’ There is a hint of laughter in Carly’s voice, but he takes the comment at face value.

  ‘Courage? Come on Carly – surely there’s nothing even remotely brave about doing what your hormones, your animal instincts, tell you to do!’

  ‘No. It’s not that, Ed.’ She pauses, considers. Then: ‘I think it must be like being an explorer, or an astronaut. You’re going somewhere new, unknown. You could end up seeing things – your whole life, everything – differently. That’s pretty scary. You might find out you’re not the person you thought you were. That you don’t really want what you’ve got. I don’t mean a serious, a serial adulterer, but a guy like this one. When it’s a one-off kind of thing. The guy who loves his wife, but does it anyway.’

  He groans. ‘That’s the most feeble excuse I ever heard. But I’ll pass it on. I know a few blokes who’d really enjoy that one. Don’t know that their wives would, though.’

  Carly shrugs. ‘Just a thought.’ She hits the play button.

  Ed laughs, but watches the film with a slightly different attitude. He wonders whether Carly’s speaking from experience.

  Adultery as exploration.

  He manages to get through almost two hours without once mentioning Carly. To hold out until midway through their fourth beer.

  Ed and Phil have discussed the usual things – work, politics, kids, the Wallabies’ latest triumph – and have reached that stage of the evening where long reflective pauses are involuntary, and discussions of a philosophical or personal bent, inevitable. When Phil suddenly interrupts his musings on the infrequently discussed positive ramifications of globalisation to ask him how the sister-in-law situation is progressing, Ed is more than pleased to digress.

  He tells Phil, who seems genuinely interested, how close Carly and Susan have become. How the children have taken to her. How all their lives have changed – and for the better – since she moved in. How full of admiration he is for this woman. What she’s been through. How she’s survived it.

  ‘You know, Phil,’ he says slowly, ‘I thought things were good before. That what we, that what Susan and I had was enough, was all I needed.’

  ‘But?’ Phil’s eyes are wide.

  ‘But having Carly around has really changed things. She’s made me ... made us,’ Ed has to grope for the right words, ‘...see things in a new light. A new perspective.’ He leaves it there, knowing that he has failed to explain his existential revelation clearly to Phil, that he can’t even explain it to himself.

  Phil snorts, pulls his chair in closer, hunches over the table towards him.

  ‘Mate,’ he says softly, conspiratorially, ‘you know what I think?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ed, mate, don’t think I’m judging you, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you ought to cut through all this relationship enhancement bullshit and just face it.’

  ‘Face what?’

  ‘Ed, it’s so bloody obvious, mate. You’re dying to get into her pants. You want to fuck her.’

  Ed is staggered. His indignation renders him momentarily speechless. Fuck her? Fuck his wife’s sister? He’d swear the thought had never crossed his mind.

  Susan

  Aunty Di is not a real aunt, but an old friend of their mother. Her only friend, really. Her youngest daughter, Joanne, had been a classmate of Karen’s, and Di stayed in contact over the years, sending Christmas and birthday cards, and was one of the few people to attend their mother’s funeral. She has found out, somehow, about Karen’s return and has called excitedly several times, made wistful comments about how much she’d like to meet her, how lovely it would be to see her again. Carly is initially indifferent, unmoved. ‘I didn’t like her when I was a kid,’ she says, ‘why would I want to see her now.’ But finally, after a plaintive card arrives, welcoming her back into the fold, she reluctantly agrees to Susan’s suggestion that they invite Di over for morning tea.

  ‘Why,’ Aunty Di says to Carly now, her massive bosom heaving from exertion and emotion. ‘My dear, I’d have recognised you anywhere. Anywhere. You’ve hardly changed. Oh, dear.’ She dabs at her eyes, sits down heavily. ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘And you, Aunty Di,’ Carly sits beside her on the lounge, pats her arm. ‘You’re still exactly the same.’ As Susan moves into the kitchen to make the tea, she can hear Di laugh weakly at this.

  ‘What’s ten stone in twenty years? Between friends? I’m still the same inside, anyway. And they say that’s wha
t counts.’

  When Susan comes back with the tray the two women are chatting happily. ‘What’s strange,’ Carly is saying, ‘is that I hardly remember anything. And what I think I remember, Susan’s forgotten.’ She looks up at her sister for support. Susan nods her head, pours the tea.

  Aunty Di purses her lips, nods. ‘It’s true,’ she says. ‘I find the same thing with my children. They seem to only ever remember the dreadful parts of their childhood. Not the lovely times. Not the parts I recall. The parts I treasure. And there were plenty of them. And now with you coming back, Karen, Carly, I have to admit I had a hard time remembering what exactly you looked like. I had some sort of a picture in my head of course, but when I tried to – get it into focus – I found that I just couldn’t. That I really couldn’t. I spent last night going through all my old snaps, looking, but Jo’s taken all her old school photographs. So until I saw you today I really didn’t have any idea of what you looked like. Now that I’ve seen you, of course, I remember perfectly well.’ She beams at them both, reaches for her tea. ‘You must be so pleased,’ this to Susan, ‘it must be wonderful to have her back. To have a sister again.’

  ‘When I think of you, Aunty Di,’ Carly murmurs between sips, ‘I always think of a red dress you wore once. You were going out – you and Mum – a movie or something, I can’t remember what, but I always think of that red dress.’

  Aunty Di frowns, shakes her head. ‘No. It’s no good. I can’t remember ever really going out with your poor Mum – I just remember being too busy with the kids to ever go anywhere, or do anything much. Anyway, we were always complaining about our hard lots – I do remember that. It seems to be the odd little details that you remember as you get older, but so many of the larger events disappear. It’s sad, really, isn’t it?’ She beams, dunks her biscuit.