The Cry

by Helen FitzGerald

  I stroke her fringe. I’ve worked out ways not to see him in her. Her dark lashes come from her grandmother, not from him. I always liked his mum and I’ve made sure Chloe’s had contact since we came home. They meet in town, mostly – Chloe always comes back with Darrell Lea Coconut Ice and oodles of shopping bags.

  She’s frowning in her sleep. Another dream about her dad, she’ll tell me when she wakes. ‘He was eating dinner with me, nothing unusual, just sitting there eating,’ she’ll say, or something like that.

  I whisper, ‘Chloe.’

  ‘Hmm?’ She turns onto her other side, bear and all.

  ‘Chlo. Wake up beautiful girl. I have to tell you something.’

  ‘I had a dream,’ she says, eyes still closed, but awake enough to hide the bear under the covers.

  ‘Something bad has happened,’ I say, taking her hand.

  She opens her eyes and sits up. ‘What?’

  ‘Baby Noah has gone missing.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone took Noah from your dad’s car while he wasn’t looking. Tonight, in Point Lonsdale.’

  She’s dressed in seconds, making plans about how to help. She wants to go and look for him now and wonders why I’m not ready myself. ‘Maybe he crawled, maybe he got out of the car himself. Get a move on! We have to go there and look!’

  I’m about to explain there’s no way a nine-week-old baby can crawl but there’s a knock on the door.

  *

  The police are wondering if Chloe is lying for me, assuming she’s used to doing this since I grabbed her and left. The young female one with glasses keeps looking at her when I answer them. I follow her eyes and unfortunately Chloe does look like she’s covering for me. ‘Yes, we’ve been here all night,’ she says. ‘No, no one else has seen us.’ She looks at me every now and then, as if asking: Have I said the right thing? I’m terrified she’ll tell them I left her alone to pop out for the Roti Channai. It’d take me off the list of kidnapping suspects, but keep me on the unfit mother one. Chloe doesn’t mention it. Good decision, Chlo, I think.

  They won’t tell me anything other than what I already know. The baby was last seen in the hire car in Point Lonsdale at around 6.50 p.m.

  The male one with the sideburns wants to know about my relationship with Alistair now. I ask Chloe to go and watch television in the sitting room. She rolls her eyes, unhappy to be left out, annoyed that we’re sitting in the kitchen talking when we should be out there searching, but she does as she’s told, skulking off, shutting the door behind her.

  I’m aware I have to be very careful. I’ve been preparing myself to tell this story to strangers for a long time, but I have to be even more careful not to sound like a crazy bitch now. I’m aware that my awareness that I have to be careful may make me sound like a crazy bitch.

  ‘I left Scotland because I didn’t want to lose my daughter,’ I say, not finishing the sentence that’s pounding in my head, which ended with ‘to a narcissistic psychopath’.

  ‘I have only ever wanted to protect my daughter,’ I say, conscious that the aforementioned description wants to attach itself to every sentence and every thought that relates to him. It has wanted to since the first time I wondered whether it defined the man I had married, which was after I discovered the affair. I began to realise that our marriage was all lies, all just smoke and mirrors. In Edinburgh I thought our relationship had flattened because Alistair was working hard and I was homesick. I became paranoid that his lack of attention was due to me being no fun, or unattractive. He didn’t ravish me the way he used to, but I thought the problems were small and normal, nothing we couldn’t work through eventually. We didn’t fight. Things were dull, but comfortable. On reflection, I realise we didn’t care enough to fight, and that things weren’t comfortable at all. According to Phil, Alistair had indulged in other women before Joanna. He’d been deceiving me all along, and I had no clue. What an idiot I was. Is he a narcissistic psychopath? He ticks a lot of the boxes. Or is that just the scorned woman talking?

  ‘What do you want to protect her from?’ the female one with glasses and thin lips asks. And I find another way to explain. ‘From losing me, her mother,’ I say. ‘When I found out he was leaving me for someone else, I asked if we could go home to Australia and share custody. He refused. I know him. He’s stubborn, and his work’s very important to him. He would never have compromised. I couldn’t live there. My visa was based on him, y’see. If the case had gone to court in Scotland, there’s a chance he would have won. I was unemployed and pretty depressed. I drank too much. He was successful and well respected. But I was a good mother to Chloe, I know I was. And he was never around for her anyway. That’s why I took her. Here, look at this.’ I take the scrapbook I started working on the day Alistair filed for custody and show them the first few pages – there’s a photograph of me and Chloe baking cupcakes, smiling at the camera, flour on our aprons and clothes, one of us jogging together, one of me helping her with her maths homework. But they’re not interested in my scrapbook.

  ‘You were charged with drink driving last month?’ the female one asks.

  ‘I had two glasses with lunch . . . I didn’t think . . .’

  ‘No.’ She full-stops for me.

  ‘How do you feel about his new partner?’ the male one with sideburns and chin-dimple asks.

  I swallow a snigger. How do I feel about her? I decide to be honest. ‘I’m still angry at her, but I also feel for her.’

  ‘You feel for her because of the situation?’ the female one with the glasses and thin lips and French-polished nails asks.

  ‘Yes.’ This is true, but it’s not just that. Beneath the thick layer of anger I feel for her lies a thin layer of guilt. I left a young woman with that man. I left her there to get pregnant to that man. I should have warned her. She wouldn’t have listened, I told myself and still tell myself. It would have been impossible for her to listen, just as it was for me when Dad suggested I should play the field before settling down with Alistair. How can you listen to such negativity when a gorgeous sexy man has you on a pedestal, when he’s telling you you’re the most intriguing and beautiful woman he’s ever known, when he’s calling you his best friend and his soul mate, making mind-blowing love to you twice a day, smothering you with adoration, writing beautiful love letters, fixing things, organising things, making things happen? God, those early days were wonderful. No, she wouldn’t have listened.

  I’m not saying we are sisters in arms, definitely not. She’s part of him. They are Team Enemy. Letting her in would be the same as letting him in, and I will never make the mistake of doing that. But sometimes the guilt nudges the anger from below and I worry for her, especially at night. I worry about the day she discovers him betraying her. I’ve imagined her coming to me, years hence. I might be ninety or so, in a home, and she’ll come to say sorry, and to cry about the pack of lies her life turned out to be.

  I have to admit, I find myself smiling when I imagine this meeting.

  ‘That your car in the drive?’ the female one asks.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A Ute, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What colour would you say it is?’

  The male cop has gone outside and is touching the bonnet as if he’s taking its pulse.

  ‘I’d say it’s dark grey.’

  ‘How much do you hate him?’

  ‘Who?’ Her change of tack is so abrupt it confuses me.

  ‘Your husband.’ She leans in. ‘How much would you like him to suffer for what he did?’

  ‘Ex-husband. We divorced a year ago. I don’t want him to suffer . . .’ I lean back, a liar.

  ‘I bet the anger you feel for him is nothing compared to the anger you feel for her?’ she says. ‘I can tell you’re filled with bad ugly shit-on-you hate.’ She moves away, and points to the coat rack in the hall. My waterproof jacket. ‘Is this your jacket?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Japar
a, yeah?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She touches it. Her colleague comes in from the driveway and stands to her left, nodding as if to say: she’s touching that, just like I touched the bonnet of the Ute out in the drive, and that’s ’cause we’re the law, missy.

  ‘It’s not wet,’ the female one concludes.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Your ex saw someone in a Japara – it was raining.’ They’re playing annoying-cop/annoying-cop. It’s the male one who said that.

  ‘You have a clothes dryer?’ Female.

  ‘Off the kitchen.’

  The female cop heads to the laundry, leaving the male cop to cop a feel of my jacket, which he does, then gives me a look that says: I am not telling you if it is hot or not!

  ‘Can we look around your house?’ the male one with the sideburns, dimple and wedding ring says.

  I don’t object. I’d sound guilty.

  As they search, I fidget on the couch and worry that they’ll find him here, in the cupboard in the laundry or something, as I do when anyone accuses me of anything. Maybe I did do it. Maybe I did wear the Japara earlier tonight and get it wet stealing a child and then dry it in the dryer and hang it up on its hook in the hall. Maybe the baby’s in the laundry cupboard. I blame Alistair for the paranoia. I was paranoid that he’d try and take Chloe from me, that he’d tell everyone I was an unfit mother even though he used to say I was the most wonderful mother in the world. Alistair built me a solid foundation for paranoia.

  He’s not in the cupboard. Of course he’s not. And the car engine’s cold and the dryer’s not been used and the jacket’s not warm. I let them look on my computer and find out I have a fake account and that I stalk her. That’s how I knew he’d gone missing, I explain. And they seem to understand. They seem to be getting nicer as time goes on. Or just disappointed. The latter, I’d say, because I’m sure they had straight backs when they arrived, both of them. They’re slumping out the door now. They didn’t solve an enormous mystery and won’t be heroes on the telly. If I’m planning on going anywhere, I should talk to them first, the female one with the glasses, thin lips, incongruous nails and flat chest says. They will need to speak to me again. If I skip town, it will be very suspicious.

  As they begin to head out, my parents arrive, about-facing and reinvigorating the cops. Maybe the old fogies did it. Maybe they will be on the telly. They take Mum and Dad into the living room and question them. Chloe and I both eavesdrop, ears against door.

  ‘Pat Donohue,’ my dad is telling them . . . ‘Unit 2/18 Yoker Street, Diamond Creek. No siblings. She’s our only child.’

  ‘We prayed for another one,’ my mum is saying, ‘but it never happened. My name? Annie Donohue. Same address.’ Her voice is shaky. She’s scared for me. ‘The separation was difficult but my daughter is not spiteful. Okay, yes, she did take Chloe away from him but he didn’t make much of an effort and she did try . . .’

  My dad’s interjecting: ‘Al only had Chloe’s best interests at heart. She had no one over there. It would have been an impossible life for both of them. She’d never hurt anyone.’

  The female cop’s asking them where they were tonight.

  ‘Having fish pie at Dennis and Molly Ewan’s,’ my mum’s saying.

  ‘From six till ten-thirty,’ my dad’s confirming.

  *

  Chloe’s been understandably torn about Noah. Since she found out Joanna was pregnant, she’s referred to him as ‘The Replacement’. But she’s distraught now, suddenly feeling a sister’s love. Mum hugs Chloe, and they sob together. She hugs me next but I’m not tearful. I’m waiting for Alistair to call. I know he will, as soon as they let him.

  Dad pours the rest of my bottle of wine down the sink and clears the rubbish and dishes from our takeaway. No one wants to ask what this will mean for the custody hearing. ‘What should we be doing?’ he says instead. Always practical and proactive, just like Chloe. He’s the one paying for the top-notch lawyer to make sure his daughter isn’t slaughtered in court, and that he doesn’t lose his granddaughter.

  ‘He’ll want to see Chloe,’ I say, turning on the news.

  I shudder: Joanna Lindsay is on screen. She’s not what I remember: naked in bed, rosy cheeked from fucking my husband. She’s not how she is on Facebook either, smiley public face saying everything is great, I am great, my baby is great, my life is great(er than yours). She’s standing on the street where it happened, surrounded by police and onlookers. She has wet tangled hair, a grey expressionless face, milk stains on her T-shirt, and is thinner than I remember. I feel a heavy tingle all over but especially in my stomach, a heavy tingle like I’m filled with leaden sherbet. The tingle fuels thoughts so shallow I don’t want to admit to them. Fuck up! Yes, that’s the first. Do something SO idiotic, Joanna Lindsay, that the whole of Australia will see what a numbskull you are. She has a tiny pot belly! That’s the other thought. I want her to turn sideways so I can see just how much bigger her stomach is than mine. I am not a good person.

  A police officer hugs her. She looks devastated. I’m surprised at what my heart does, it gains weight and heads south, thump. Joanna Lindsay is a sad, lost, poor girl.

  Chloe answers when her dad rings and it’s decided. We’ll call the police to let them know where we’re going, and take her to see her father now.

  *

  The house is just the same as it ever was, except the weatherboard needs a paint and the grass has turned to dust. It feels weird not to go in – Elizabeth and I got on well – but I won’t, I tell them. I’ll stay in the car. There are three police cars parked on the street in front and two journalists taking photos and waiting for interviews, microphones in hand. Mrs Robertson’s black Golf is in the driveway – I recognise it. I watch Chloe walk up the front path and along the veranda, my mum and dad behind her. When the door opens, it’s him. He looks even younger than he did four years ago but his head seems to have grown and his body shrunk. He’s short. I never took much notice, but he’s stumpy. I don’t find him attractive at all. How wondrous. I don’t find him attractive! He’s kind of puky, with his thinning over-worked hair and his under-worked body. (That’s a bit of a spare tyre, I think. Just a bit, but it’s there.) He’s oddly proportioned, short and balding and fat. Phil runs 5k every night. Phil looks good for his age, not like some old guy trying to look young. Phil has all his hair. Why am I thinking this? We’re just friends. As if Phil’d ever go for me.

  I am one shallow piece of work to be thinking these things, but he’s still at the door and I can’t help it.

  What strikes me more than how he looks is that he is a stranger. I scan him one more time and wonder who he is and why I allowed him to kidnap my self-worth. He’s just some guy. Some guy who makes me burn with anger. I can feel it now. He hugs Chloe. I hear someone crying, or more than one person. Hard to tell. They all go in, shut the door.

  I wonder if Alistair thinks I’d be capable of something like this, really. He knows I have a Japara – he gave it to me in the early days, when he still bought me thoughtful presents. He bought his and hers, in fact, so we could hike together ‘in any weather, at least once a month’! He wouldn’t know for sure that I still have it, but he does know I loved it, and that I never throw things out. I berate myself for caring what he thinks. It’s always annoyed me, that I care what he thinks of me.

  I’ll be here a long time, I suppose. I wonder about heading to the pub. I wonder about texting Mum to tell her I’ve gone for a walk and to text back when they’re done.

  There’s a knock at the window. A woman. I press the button to wind down the window and she pokes a microphone at my face. ‘Excuse me, are you related to the Robertsons? Would you answer—’

  I press the button and the window goes up, not fast enough. ‘Go away,’ I say pushing her microphone out so it doesn’t get caught.

  As uncomfortable as it is, I will not go away. I won’t risk losing Chloe to him, no matter what. I don’t trus
t him.

  Another knock, a woman squealing: ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’ I wave her away, and turn the radio on to drown her out.

  She knocks, bangs on the window. Another journalist bangs on the other one. The car feels like it’s shaking. I put my hand on the horn and leave it there till they back off a little, only a little. I open the window and tell them I’ll get the police to move them on if they don’t leave me alone. I notice Joanna looking out the window to see what’s going on.

  I close the window, sigh, and shut my eyes, wondering what they’re doing and saying in there. He’ll be hugging my daughter and telling her he loves her. My mum and dad will be nice to both of them, my issues superseded by theirs. It angers me. It shouldn’t I know. See, I really am bad.

  I need a drink.

  Gone for a walk, I text Mum. Txt when you’re leaving and I’ll meet you at the car.

  She texts me back: ok.

  Two journalists follow me. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Are you related?’ ‘Do you know the parents?’ ‘Just a few questions.’ I run, and they’re not desperate enough to keep up with me.

  The pub is closed. It’s 4 a.m., after all.

  I run back to the car, elbow some hacks out of the way, get in, and lock the doors. The curtain in the house twitches. Joanna.

  I will not feel sorry for her. I will not lose focus. No matter what has happened, I will not lose Chloe.

  I can’t help but turn round and when I do I see she is still at the window. If there is a bond between us – two mothers fearing they will never see their child again – I refuse to welcome it.

  I’ve thought about her so much over the last four years she’s become as important and as mystical as the Holy Ghost. But there she is, and even from this distance I can see she’s just a shaky little girl. On her first day of school, I was seventeen, form six, smoking, pashing, doing exams. I wonder if the terror and sadness in her eyes has only just arrived, because of the baby, or has it been there for a while, because of him. After all, she’s known what a good liar he is from the start. I didn’t know till it was over.