The Cry

by Helen FitzGerald

  Instead of sitting down so Joanna could talk honestly and confidently, Alistair stood up very straight and adopted a monotone. ‘No, what’s crazy is you think it’s okay for me to lose both my children. I’m sleeping in the bedroom tonight. You can have the sofa.’

  21

  ALEXANDRA

  1 March

  I wake at 5 a.m. to Chloe crying loudly. She’s sitting up in bed when I go into her room, arms open wide for me to hold her. ‘Mum! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mum!’

  I tell her it’s okay; that the hangover’s probably making things feel worse.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’ve done something really bad.’

  She tells me about the blog. First, she felt sure she could help find Noah – she felt it was her duty, as she explained early on. But as the days wore on she believed him to be dead, and revenge became her motivation. She spent every spare moment trying to get evidence against Joanna, and as opinions and accusations flew in she stopped caring if her blog also implicated her father ‘because he doesn’t give a shit about me’.

  I haven’t cuddled Chloe in bed for a while, and I hold her while she sobs. ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘It’s okay, my baby.’

  Chloe says she’s written a letter for the court arguing that she loves me, loves living with me, and does not want to be with them, or in Scotland. This letter would probably have been enough for us to win if Chloe hadn’t taken to truancy, alcohol and crime, and if I hadn’t been caught physically abusing her.

  I almost faint every time I think about it. I keep hoping for a miracle, knowing the only miracle that will save me is if Alistair and/or Joanna are charged with the murder of their baby. And that would be a much worse thing for Chloe than living away from me for a couple of years. ‘Just a couple of years!’ I say to Chloe, crying. ‘And wherever you are, I’ll follow. I’ll get a work permit and a house so close to yours you’ll be sick to death of me.’

  ‘It can’t happen. I will not live with them. I don’t care about him any more. I even threw that stupid bear out.’

  ‘No! Where is he?’

  ‘Gone. He has nothing to do with me now. And I hate her. I hate that woman.’

  ‘You don’t really think she killed Noah, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes the hate makes everything skew-whiff.’

  ‘Don’t hate her,’ I say. ‘Try not to hate her. I hope this doesn’t upset you, but I’m glad I’m not with your dad. I’m thankful something happened that made it end. And listen, we’re not giving up on Noah, but no more blogging. Okay?’

  She’s looking at me with such love that I know she means it when she nods.

  *

  After Chloe goes to school, my lawyer phones to say a space has come up in court for the hearing – in forty-eight hours. It would have been postponed – due to the situation with Noah – but Social Work Boy felt Chloe was not safe with me. If the thumb mark hadn’t gone by the time he left (he checked and it had) and if I didn’t have the support of my ‘hardworking, generous and loving’ parents, he’d have taken her from me there and then. The lawyer estimates that the chances of me winning might be as low as thirty per cent after what happened yesterday. To add to that, there’s nothing concrete to incriminate Alistair and Joanna in Noah’s case. The rumours were just that and the police aren’t focusing on them any more. Which means in two days, my girl might have to go and live with him and his lover, wherever that may be.

  *

  As soon as the lawyer hangs up, Alistair phones. He’s coming here now. He must have been waiting for Chloe to be at school. He said he wants to bring me some of the things that I stored at his mother’s house but that’ll just be an excuse. I’m worried. He’ll have a plan. He always has a plan. I said okay without thinking. I should have said no, or asked to make it another day and organised for Mum and Dad to be here, but I didn’t, I just said okay.

  When we first met, I wasn’t the kind of person to just say okay. I was tough. I was funny. He said so, in the Carlton bar we met in. ‘You’re funny! Are you hungry?’

  I pace from bedroom one to bedroom two to living room to kitchen to bathroom and even to laundry. I tidy as I pace. I put the kettle on, put fresh coffee in the plunger. I open windows, wipe benches, fluff pillows. I change into jeans. Change into running gear. Change back into jeans. Berate myself.

  Since I caught them, I’ve deserved the moral high ground. You think I’d hold on to it, right? He lied to me for nine months. And if what Phil said is true, he’d been doing the same shit all along. Our marriage was always a lie. He said he was at meetings when he was shagging all over town, leaving juices in our car and on our sheets. Said he worked his biceps and shaved his pubes for me. Said he didn’t feel like sex because he was too stressed or too drunk. Or said he did like it, but did it always have to be the same, always in the bedroom, could I not have a bit more imagination? Said he couldn’t go to Chloe’s school play because he had a conference. Said he loved me. Said he’d always stay with me, no matter what.

  It seems impossible that he has grabbed the high ground back so many times.

  First: She took my child away from me. Abducted her!

  Second: She’s a drink driving criminal.

  Third: She’s a pincher. Maybe she wasn’t charged with assault, but the pinch is on file with Social Services now. A child abuser.

  Fourth: I am the father of another stolen child. There is no ground higher than that upon which I stand.

  How dare he? The ground is mine!

  I pour the coffee down the sink, unruffle a pillow, wipe off my lip gloss and put on my Lycra running pants. I do not care what he thinks of me. All I care about is my daughter and my high ground.

  I sit on the couch for a few minutes, then get up, turn the radio on, then turn it off, then put the iPod in its dock and search for the Emmylou Harris songs which we used to play together, then slap my own hand for still having Emmylou Harris on my playlist, take the iPod out of its dock, then switch the kettle on. I’m about to reapply lip gloss and change into skirt – no, jeans – when he arrives.

  *

  The furious buzzing of my insides is numbed when he’s standing in front of me. ‘Hello, Alistair,’ I say, not extending a hand, but opening the door to usher him inside.

  He digs for eye contact, loosening his shoulders and speaking in a sad whisper to entice pity: ‘Hi Lex.’

  ‘Come in,’ I say, refusing to let pity douse the feelings I want to have.

  He puts a large box down in the hall. ‘Photo albums,’ he says.

  I squirm at the box, at our things. ‘Right, thanks.’

  He sits at the kitchen bench as I make coffee, clasping his fingers together nervously. After taking a sip he says he’s not sure where to start.

  I make it easy for him. ‘Is there any news?’

  ‘No.’ His lip quivers. ‘How did everything go so wrong?’

  I can’t believe what I do when he starts sobbing. I move to his side of the bench and hug him.

  ‘I’m a bad man. It’s because I was bad to you. I’m so sorry.’

  My top is wet with his tears so I hand him a tissue. ‘You have to put all that aside now. Here, blow your nose.’

  He doesn’t hold back with the nose blowing. And why would he? I’ve seen him soap his balls and tweeze his nose hairs. It feels like we’ve never been apart. The familiarity envelopes me. To my horror, I like it.

  ‘I should never have done it, Alexandra. I was a pathetic cliché, indulging a crisis. And she’s so . . . unbalanced . . . I think she always was and I just didn’t see it.’

  For four years I have argued with him in my head – every day, almost all day. I have so many angry insults ready. I try to muster them.

  You are a narcissistic psychopath. Here, look at the profile, mister:

  Glib superficial charm – tick.

  Above average intelligence – tick .

  Considerable poise, calmness, verbal facility – tick .

  Pro
miscuity; impersonal, poorly integrated sex life; inconsistent, undependable, and unreliable commitments in life, including marital – tick , tick, tick

  The long awaited moment has arrived. I can deliver my angry speech.

  ‘I donated some money,’ I say instead because all the above is just plain ridiculous, isn’t it? The mad rantings of a wronged woman. Hell hath no fury and all that. I’m just the same as all the other bitter bitches who hate their cheating exes. ‘I don’t know what else I can do.’

  Alistair, who I loved with all my heart for many years, blows his nose one last time and holds the tissue in his shaky hand.

  I sit on the stool beside him. He turns his legs towards me, knees almost touching mine. ‘You’re more beautiful than ever.’

  ‘Shut up.’ I’m not being coy, I really don’t want to hear this shit.

  ‘Being without me suits you.’ His knee touches my knee slightly. My reflex twitches my leg out of reach but the brief connection has weakened me, I can feel it. He’s so bloody good at this.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do.’ His phone buzzes and he hesitates, which surprises me for two reasons. First, no matter what was going on, Alistair always answered his phone. And second, his son is missing. What parent would hesitate when it could be the news you’re waiting for?

  ‘You should answer.’

  He does. ‘Bethany, hi . . . No! Really! You’re kidding?’

  Oh my God, they’ve found him, I think. They must have. Alistair’s over the moon.

  ‘That is wonderful news. Say yes immediately! Thank you thank you thank you.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, smiling with relief, anticipation.

  ‘I’m gonna be on 60 Minutes.’

  ‘Oh,’ I plummet, then lie: ‘That’s great.’

  ‘The PR woman is amazing. Do you remember her from my MBA course? Bethany McDonald?’

  ‘I do. The stunning one.’

  ‘You think?’

  Of course I do. Alistair drooled over the woman for years.

  ‘The police have been incredible too. I can’t fault them.’

  The notebook I took to the lawyer’s is on the bench beside the phone. It reminds me to focus. ‘What happens now . . . with Chloe?’

  He comes back at me fast. ‘Alexandra, why did you steal her from me, for four years? Do you know how hard that’s been for me?’

  He’s using an old diversion tactic. Answer a question with a question (Me: ‘Where were you tonight?’ Him: ‘Why are you so paranoid all of a sudden?’)

  ‘What happens now, with Chloe?’ I ask, more firmly.

  ‘Noah’s been missing for fifteen days,’ he whimpers.

  He’s wanting to engage me but I refuse. I use a tactic I learned in law. Don’t fill the silence.

  It works in that he fills it, but not with the answer I need. ‘He’s dead, I know it.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘After seventy-two hours, everyone knows that.’

  ‘Not for sure, Al.’ Alistair, not Al! Why did I call him that? Al is the name of the man I fell in love with. This is Alistair, the man he turned out to be.

  ‘I can’t lose both of them,’ he says, and I know what this means. He still wants to take her.

  Anger gets me off my stool and sends me around to the other side of the bench. I fold my arms. ‘Despite everything, we’re still going to court, then?’

  He extends his hands out on the bench – open, pleading. ‘I’ve lost my son! He’s gone. Chloe’s everything to me now. All I want is to do what’s right for her. You must know she’s losing it? I’ve fucked everything else up. If I can just do what’s right for her. Can’t we sort this out, no weapons? Can’t we make sure something in the world is okay?’

  And he’s crying again. And I’m heading back to his side of the bench to hug him again.

  ‘My baby’s gone,’ he says. ‘I hate myself. I hate myself! I’m so sorry for hurting you. I’m so, so sorry. Please tell me you forgive me. Tell me we can sort this out together, tell me we can do this, for Chloe.’

  He’s not going to steal her from me. We won’t go to court. We’ll sort it out together! The accusations I rehearsed fade. I tell him I forgive him.

  I tell him we can do this.

  *

  It’s elation, the feeling I have. I’m free. I don’t have to worry about hiding any more. Chloe won’t be taken away from me. I don’t have an enemy. No one wants to hurt me. I don’t have to convince (or win back) social workers. I won’t be crucified in court. I can have a glass of wine when I want. I smile so much during my afternoon shift in the café that I get fifty dollars in tips. I make a note to do that more often.

  When I pick up Chloe from school, I tell her she’s right, she won’t have to leave me, and we jump up and down with happiness. I tell her we’re going out. When she asks where, I say wherever you’d like. When she asks if this is so I can take dumb photos for that dumb scrapbook, I take the book from my bag and say, ‘Hold one end, like a Chinese cracker.’ She does this, and we rip it in half, and laugh.

  She feels sentimental, wants to do something we used to do together, so we head to Luna Park and I even go on the Scenic Railway. Nothing scares me. Chloe holds her arms in the air and laughs at how loudly I scream. She buys a blue ice cone and eats it on the ghost train, putting a handful of ice down my back in the dark tunnel and making me jump. We buy fish and chips and eat them on St Kilda beach as roller-bladers whizz by on the promenade, the sun setting over the water. We buy two DVDs and seven packets of lollies on the way home and scoff our way through a movie. She falls asleep halfway through, a smile etched on her face.

  I’m elated. Losing Noah has changed Alistair. Somewhere inside is the man I fell in love with. A good man. A grieving man. It’s over. I’m safe and I’m happy and I’m falling asleep . . .

  The phone. I switch the television off, rub my eyes, shuffle my way to the kitchen, and answer it.

  ‘Hello, Alexandra, this is Joanna Lindsay.’ She’s speaking in a weird whisper. I see the digital clock on the microwave.

  ‘It’s four in the morning,’ I say.

  ‘Is it? I’m sorry.’

  She’s shaky, crying maybe, not sure, don’t care, I’m going to hang up.

  ‘Please, don’t hang up.’

  She’s read my thoughts.

  ‘I need to see you, tomorrow morning. It’s very important. I want to help you.’

  How could she help me? I think to myself. I don’t need help any more. She reads my thoughts again.

  ‘It’s not something I can say on the phone, I’ll explain tomorrow but you have to believe me when I say that you do need my help.’

  22

  JOANNA

  1 March

  She woke when Alistair opened the front door to leave. ‘Where are you going? Alistair, come here. Alistair!’

  ‘I’m going to Melbourne to see Phil.’ He was obviously still furious with her. His face looked different. She recognised the expression, but couldn’t place it.

  ‘I’ll be back this afternoon. Why don’t you go for a walk? You’ve not been out since it happened, it’ll do you good. I’ve left a hat and glasses on the hall table – not much of a disguise, but it might stop you getting hounded. Maybe you could go to the shops and get some ingredients and cook something.’ He walked over, kissed her on the forehead, and then left.

  As the car engine started, she recognised the feeling in her stomach. It was related to the expression she’d just seen on Alistair’s face. A faint nausea. And then it came to her. That was his cheating face, the one he always had when he phoned his wife from their two-star hotel rooms. Not blinking, lips just managing to suppress an expression: a fearful tremble, or a smile? ‘Work’s been a nightmare!’ he’d tell Alexandra as Joanna lay silent on the bed. ‘Has your day been okay? Did Chloe go to dancing?’

  God, she was totally paranoid. She should do what he suggested. It was a good, kind idea. She showered, dressed, waved Elizabeth off to w
hatever pointless Noah-hunting expedition she was going out on today, grabbed the sunglasses and baseball cap Alistair had given her, and stepped outside for the first time since.

  ‘Morning, Ms Lindsay,’ the security guard on the front veranda said.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Ms Lindsay! Ms Lindsay!’ One of the two die-hard journalists camped on the pavement said.

  She started running.

  The greengrocer at the end of the street didn’t sell Lilly Pilly berries and recognised her. ‘Are you holding up?’ the middle-aged man asked.

  ‘Not really,’ she said, pulling her cap as far down as it would go.

  She began walking into town. She’d only walked one block when she saw her baby’s face above the word MISSING.

  She ran towards the pole and ripped the poster off, tearing it into pieces and tossing it in a nearby bin. She ran towards Geelong for a few metres, turned back and pulled the ripped sheet out of the bin – her baby’s face! She couldn’t rip her baby’s face to pieces and leave it in a bin! Torn pieces of the missing poster now in her pocket, Joanna ran two kilometres, without looking higher than knee level, all the way into the town centre. She was so out of condition, it was more of a stagger than a run.

  The house was still empty when she got back. After getting her breath, she taped the ‘Missing’ poster back together, flattened it with her hand, and kissed what she could make out of her baby’s face. This she put in her hiding place under the mattress. The letters she’d hidden were still there. The police must have left them there. She Googled the jam recipe and set to: washing and boiling the berries, draining the misty pink juice through muslin, adding sugar and lemon, boiling, removing scum, waiting for it to set.

  The process didn’t calm her as she’d hoped, probably because she was supposed to make this while Noah was jumping on a trampoline in the garden, not pinned to street lights below the word MISSING. She had to stop herself from going outside again to tear down every poster she could find.