How was she supposed to cope with this? It was unfair – she had already buried her husband, Carl, a good fifteen years ago, so he wasn’t here to be devastated alongside her. From the moment she had stepped out of the church on the day of Carl’s funeral and caught her sons fighting, she had been faced with the realisation that she would be dealing with each and every parenting moment on her own from then on. That prospect had been so daunting that her chest had tightened up and she almost hadn’t reacted in time. But instinct had kicked in and she’d grabbed Andrew’s fist just before he had the chance to give James an unsightly bloody nose for the wake.
‘Andrew! What on earth are you doing?’
‘He’s saying mean things about Dad. Tell him to take it back, tell him he’s wrong, wrong, wrong!’
‘All right, but you need to calm down first. Quickly, let’s go over to that bench and talk. We need to sort this out before everyone else comes spilling out of those church doors.’
‘But you should have heard him, Mum, you should have heard what he called Dad.’
‘Stop. Sit. Listen. I know today is hard for you both. You loved your dad very much and so did I. He was a wonderful man and he was so looking forward to taking you boys fishing.’
‘Oh, yeah, then why—’
‘I’m not finished yet, James Matthew McGavin. If your father could have helped it, there is no way in hell that he would have left you two – or me, I’d like to think. But you are allowed to be angry with him. And, you are allowed to cry – there is absolutely no shame in crying at your own father’s funeral. However, I do need you to keep the sibling-related violence to a minimum. Just this once, do you think you could please get along? For me?’
She started as she heard a noise behind her and turned to see her sister, Violet, walking in from the kitchen.
‘Right, that’s the last load going through the dishwasher as we speak.’
‘Vi, I almost forgot you were still here.’ Evelyn was caught by surprise, as she often was when she looked into her sister’s face. It was her own, just seven years younger and therefore seven years softer. Although Violet had kept her hair long and wore it loosely tied back, making her look younger still.
Evelyn was glad to have the company. She needed to focus on something else and stop punishing herself for today.
‘That was quite a performance you put on at the funeral, huh?’ Violet sounded as though she was trying to keep her voice light and casual.
So much for taking my mind off things.
‘Look, Vi, the last thing I need at the moment is a guilt trip from you, okay?’
‘Ev, that’s not what I was planning, but I do think we need to talk. I know you’re grieving, but I’ve gotta tell you, over the last few days your behaviour’s been a bit . . . off.’
‘Excuse me? I’ve lost my child, my son, and you think I’m a bit off?’
Violet immediately started backpedalling. ‘All right, not necessarily the right choice of words, but I’m just worried about you, about how you’re dealing with this.’
‘I shouldn’t be dealing with it at all. Parents aren’t meant to bury their children – ever. We’re not built for this kind of loss, so please forgive me if I’m not reacting textbook perfectly as the grieving mother.’ Evelyn’s voice was beginning to rise dangerously.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to upset you, it’s just that I’m afraid you’re holding something back. I haven’t seen you shed a single tear. I mean, shoplifting? Smoking? Drinking? This isn’t you. Well, maybe the odd drink or two . . .’ she trailed off.
‘And what the hell do you want me to do?’
‘I want you to tell me what you’re feeling. At least let me give you one hug, for God’s sake.’ Violet stepped hopefully toward her sister. Her optimism was not rewarded.
‘You imagine losing one of your children when he hasn’t done a damn thing to deserve it, when there’s no good reason for it at all, a completely meaningless death, and then you see how well you’d handle things.’
Evelyn turned and began to stride from the room, but tripped on a bouquet of flowers near the doorway. She looked down to see a tag that read, ‘Our thoughts and prayers are with you – Mr and Mrs Heartford.’
Heartford, Heartford . . . Ahh, Belinda’s parents.
She stooped and picked up the flowers, then hurled them across the room. ‘There. How’s that for showing my emotions?’
Later, having summoned the courage to go after her, Violet came up behind Evelyn in the kitchen and tentatively touched her shoulder. Evelyn had been staring into the empty fireplace with blank, burning eyes, but now she turned as Violet placed a deck of cards carefully onto the table and waited. Evelyn looked at the cards, then up at her sister.
‘What took you so long?’
They spent the rest of the night playing Flip – the high-speed card game that had become a family tradition over the years. The piece of childhood that her boys had never left behind. Even when they were teenagers and just about everything else she could suggest would be considered ‘extremely lame’, they would always give in to a game of Flip and a chance to be the family champion.
James arrived home a little after 4 am. He sat down at the table and took off his cap – one that Evelyn recognised as having belonged to Andrew, one that hid his slightly longer sandy-coloured curls and made him look even more like his cleaner-cut brother – and they dealt him in without a word. By sunrise, James had broken the silence to start telling stories about his brother, some that they all already knew and others that came as a surprise to his mother and aunt. He reminisced about all the times Andy had been there trying to bail him out of trouble – whether he had asked for the help or not. Eventually Violet joined in with some stories of her own and, after a while, Evelyn found she was able to smile properly for the first time since she’d heard the news.
Chapter 5
Belinda
A week or so after the funeral, Belinda remembered to wonder where her period was.
This can’t be right . . . she was looking over her calendar in confusion when it started to dawn on her. She had spent the last couple of weeks feeling nauseous on and off. She had been tired and cranky and, well, obviously emotional. But she had taken all of these symptoms as normal for a grieving bride-to-be who was actually no longer going to be.
The first thing she did was pick up her mobile to call Andy about it. When she saw the words ‘Andy – work’ up on the screen and realised what she was doing, she felt so angry at her own heartbreaking mistake that she threw the phone across the room. Unfortunately, she was in her bedroom, where the majority of the room was taken up by their king-sized bed. Her mobile landed quite safely after bouncing off the pillows piled high against the headboard, meaning the moment rather lacked the required drama of having something smash to smithereens against a wall.
Okay, pull yourself together. Let’s work through this logically.
First of all, she was on the pill – and had been for about three years. And secondly . . . secondly . . . my fiancé is dead. I can’t be pregnant, I absolutely cannot be about to go through this on my own.
Thirty minutes later she had returned from the chemist and was standing in the bathroom, staring down at the home pregnancy kit. She considered phoning Stacey or maybe one of her uni friends, someone like Jules, perhaps, who would be more relaxed and easy-going about it all, but decided she wasn’t yet ready to involve anyone else in this. If the test were positive, having someone know about it would make it all seem too real.
She took the test and then sat on the edge of the bathtub to wait for the results. While she waited she pored over her calendar, trying to convince herself that this couldn’t be right. How could she not have realised that she hadn’t had her period for nine whole weeks. That put her at four to five weeks late. As she loo
ked back through the months, she saw ‘Jenny’s hen’s night’ written in bright pink pen on the 5th of August. That was the night she had got drunk on homemade sangria. Really drunk. Messy drunk. She’d thrown up in the early hours of the morning shortly after getting home – after going to bed and taking the pill as part of her normal bedtime ritual. Did that mean she’d thrown up the pill along with all of that nasty sangria?
Oh God, maybe this really is happening.
Sixty seconds to go. She accidentally let herself lapse into a daydream, imagining what this moment would be like if Andy were alive. As much as she wasn’t ready to be a mother, it still would have had a completely different feel to it. There would have been nervous excitement. There would have been a hand to hold as they waited. A leg next to her leg here on the edge of the tub that she could anxiously press her thigh against. They’d have made little jokes and worried about what their parents would have thought – but, ultimately, they would know they had each other and if they’d brought the wedding forward, they could have been married before she’d even started to show. They could have worked things out. Andy had always said he wanted to have lots of kids. He probably would have been perfectly fine with it all . . . No doubt his enthusiasm would have rubbed off on her. If the result were positive, maybe he would have let out a whoop of delight and pulled her up from the edge of the bathtub and then danced her across the room, his tanned, brown arms tight around her waist.
She could feel tears welling up and shook herself back out of the daydream. It was time to check the results.
Two lines. One slightly more faded than the other.
Great, what the hell does a faded line mean?
She double-checked the instructions and, according to the pack, faded or not – two lines was two lines.
Two lines was a positive result.
There was no ‘whoop of delight’. She took a deep breath, put the test stick in the bin and walked out of the bathroom. She paced the lounge room for several minutes, and then she began to doubt herself.
No. I must have got it wrong. I’m seeing things because of the grief, right? And that second line slowly faded further and further away until it was gone, never having existed to begin with. After all, she was quite sure she’d only imagined it. Wow, can’t believe I almost thought I was pregnant there, hey? How embarrassing! Wonder what I should make for dinner tonight.
For another month, Belinda refused to think about her missing period. Each morning, as the sickness got worse and she found herself gagging and vomiting almost every time she tried to clean her teeth, she dismissed it as . . . a nasty bug! Hung over! Food poisoning – again!! She went on with her life as usual. Four shifts a week at her part-time job at the swimming pool. Head to the gym once or twice a week. Come home from her uni lectures and study for an hour or two. Make a stir fry, a casserole, pasta for dinner – whatever she felt like really – no one else to consult. Curl up in front of the TV and watch . . . whatever she wanted! Again, there was no one else to worry about; no one to sneer at her highly embarrassing secret addiction to lowbrow programs like Funniest Home Videos or The Bachelorette. It was just her and the puppy, snuggled together on the wrap-around. Then go to bed whenever she pleased! Take a tub of ice-cream under the covers with her if she happened to feel like it, let the spoon slip from her fingers as she fell asleep, wake to find the sheets smeared with melted neapolitan. Life was perfect, really: obviously this was how you were supposed to live, just doing whatever the hell you wanted. And the puppy made great company – he agreed with everything she said!
‘Want to make a bet on what stories will be on Today Tonight this week?’
A large, dribbly yawn from the puppy in response.
‘Too easy for you, huh? All right then, I’ve got ten bucks says there’ll be at least one piece on rising petrol prices and at least two appearances from Aussie battlers battling against something or other.’
A doubtful look from the puppy.
‘You’re not buying it? How about we raise the stakes then? Let’s make it one month’s worth of Dr Harry-recommended Pedigree dog food instead of the lousy old Chum I serve you up each night?’ She raised her eyebrows expectantly. The puppy’s tail gave an excited wag. ‘Aha! He’s in!’ She shook the dog’s good paw and then settled back and flicked on the TV to see if her bet was a safe one.
There was just one little thing that kept ruining her fabulous mood. Each morning – each damn day without fail – she kept waking up and having that moment. That split second. In fact, it didn’t even qualify as a split second. It was a minuscule speck of a split second. It was a sliver of time, a cruel little slice of her life, where she thought that none of it had ever happened. She could just reach out a hand and there Andy would be. Next to her. Where he belonged. She would roll over and see his short brown curly hair, his huge, friendly smile with just the one dimple – left cheek – his bright, sharp, blue eyes. Then the speck would vanish and she would be waking up properly and the wave of sickness would overcome her. In fact, it was probably that cruel little speck that was causing the sickness altogether. Yes, that was it – it had absolutely nothing to do with a vague memory of a faded little line. A faded little line that didn’t mean a thing.
She would get on with her day again. Crush any happy memories of Andy and replace them with the times when they had fought: sometimes it had just been a tiny disagreement over some insignificant wedding detail; other times it was an ear-splitting screaming match over the rubbish that Belinda never took out or the dishwasher that Andy never unpacked. It was easier to think of those times. It gave her reassurance that she was, in fact, better off. That there was no need to cry, no need to grieve.
‘Today Tonight is doing another story on bras.’
‘You owe me ten bucks.’
‘Double or nothing.’
‘Give it up, babe. You know they’ll run another one within a week or two.’
‘Fair enough, you can take it out in trade then.’
‘Not now! We’re just about to make dinner!’
‘All right, fine. After dinner?’
‘Count on it. Although I’ve got a great idea for something even more fun we can do after dinner.’
‘Oh, yeah? What’s that?’
‘Thank-you notes for the engagement presents.’
‘Belle, your idea of fun really, really sucks.’
‘Fair call. Still gotta be done, though, and I want to get it out of the way before we’ve forgotten who gave us what. You realise it’s been almost two months since the party?’
‘Yeah, yeah, Little Miss Sensible.’
‘Guess there’s nowhere to send a card to your brother though. Any idea which country he’s even gone to?’
‘Does it matter? It’s not like he’d give a shit about some thank-you card.’
‘True. I was just curious where he’s ended up this time.’
‘Why do you care? You missing him already or something?’
‘What? Why would I be missing your brother?’
‘Right, now he’s just my brother, is he? And here I thought he was your new best friend? You can’t deny you two really hit it off at the engagement party.’
‘Have I done something wrong? It seems like you’re trying to pick a fight with me or something?’
‘What’s with all this dancing around my questions? How about you just answer me straight – have you got a thing for my brother?’
‘Where is this even coming from?’
‘You’re unbelievable. You’re not going to answer me, are you? Fuck this. I’m going out for a drink. Maybe by the time I get back you might be ready to answer my question.’
If a nicer memory tried to creep its way to the surface, something like maybe the night they first met (it was at the pub where she used to work), tears would instantly begin to sting her eye
s and she would bury it as quickly as possible. On that particular night, Andy had valiantly tried to ‘rescue’ Belinda from a guy who was hassling her. Unfortunately, the guy was actually a bouncer at the pub and they were having a perfectly innocent conversation. He didn’t take kindly to Andy’s attempts to drag him away from the bar. Belinda had appreciated the sentiment, though, finding Andy outside when her shift was over and offering him some ice for his swollen lip. Their relationship had blossomed from there.
She had always loved telling people about how they had met, but now she convinced herself that thinking of that night was simply not healthy, and she busied her days with uni work instead. One night she was scanning through her student email account, searching for an old email that contained contact details of another student she was supposed to be working on a group assignment with, and came across one from Andy titled ‘Kick around’. Without really meaning to, she opened it up and then bit her lip to stop herself from crying as she read the light-hearted exchange.
Okay people,
Here’s the deal: informal soccer game, first Sunday of every month, starting April 3. Crestwood Oval (on the high side across the road from the high school), 1 pm. Putting it out there.
Want to make it more interesting? We’ll split the group up into two teams. If most people show we should have at least enough people for 5-a-side. Losing team buys winning team a round of drinks at Winsto pub after the game. Will admit downing a few beers after the game defeats the purpose – you know, get fit and what-not, but whatever floats your boat.
You all better show or we’ll just have to assume you’re too soft. Yes, even the girls.
Free-Falling Page 4
