But when Damien brings their drinks over, June doesn’t ask him to Christmas. Some habits are hard to break.
* * *
On the way home, Pia, mid-stride, turns to June and says, “I told Dad that I was pregnant.”
June’s eyes widen. “Best not take long to tell your mother then. You know what she’s like. This will make her jealous and hurt that you didn’t tell her first.”
Pia groans. “I can’t tell her yet. She’ll smother me. I’m not ready to be smothered. I still need some headspace to decide what I’m going to do.”
June stops walking and looks at Pia. “What do you mean ‘what you’re going to do’?”
Pia waves away June’s worry. “I don’t mean with respect to keeping the baby or not. I’m definitely going to have this baby. I mean with respect to Ben.”
June picks up the pace again. “How so? You mean telling him about the baby?”
Pia nods. “Dad thinks that he has a right to know.”
“Yes, he has a right to know. But he doesn’t have to know. You need to do what’s best for the baby.”
“Is it best for the baby to grow up without a father? What do I say when he or she asks me who their dad is? What if they go looking for him later in life? Ben will hate me for not telling him.”
“Hmm,” June says, almost a hum. “You’re going to have to decide what will be hardest—Ben in your life from the beginning or the possibility of Ben in your life in eighteen years’ time.”
Pia purses her lips and looks at her feet.
“There’s always the option to give your child an age-appropriate reason why they don’t have a father.”
“You mean lie?”
June shrugs, but nods.
Pia’s the one to stop walking this time. She’s grinning. “Aunt June, I never thought I’d ever hear that from you.”
“Mothers, in difficult circumstances, have had to lie since forever in order to protect their child or themselves. It’s part of our maternal nature. The child comes first. Always.”
Pia’s hand falls to her stomach. Her expression shifts, becoming more serious. “You’re right. Even in these early stages, I can feel my axis shifting. It’s all about the baby already.”
“And will be forevermore.”
Chapter 23
Grace
Grace follows June through the living space towards the reading table in the kitchen.
Mary intercepts halfway there. “Just the two I wanted to talk to. I’d like to have a chat about Christmas and what we’re all planning to do.”
“Give us half an hour, Mary. This is long overdue,” June says holding a smudge stick in her hand.
“Can’t wait,” Grace says with an eye roll. As much as she has tried, she has never been one to believe in all this woo-woo nonsense. But it is something June is interested in and believes in, so who is Grace to say otherwise?
Mary nods and gestures they keep on moving by.
“Take a seat,” June says once they reach the kitchen. “I’ve dressed the table in white to represent wiping the slate clean, clearing out the past, and ending the grieving period, so you can embrace the future.”
Grace bites her tongue. What would June know about grieving? She’s barely even had a relationship let alone lost the love of her life. It’s not like Grace can turn the sadness off because it’s been twelve months.
But, nonetheless, Grace takes a seat at one of the chairs. June sits beside her at the head of the table, a small white bowl in front of her. She holds the thick stick of tightly bound dried leaves upside down over the bowl and with a lighter, sets it alight.
A pungent spicy smoke fills the air, not unpleasant, and actually smells a little like Christmas.
“White sage,” June says. “It will clean old negative energies.” She blows out the small flame and white smoke snakes from the tip of the stick.
She holds the sage stick above Grace’s head and wafts the smoke with her hand, a gesture not unlike a royal wave, then lowers the stick, smoke ensuing. It curls up Grace’s nose and tickles the membranes.
Before she can stop it, a noisy sneeze explodes from her nose and mouth. She shoots her hand up to cover her mouth so spittle doesn’t hit June’s face but whacks the sage stick instead, sending it flying to the other side of the table.
“Sorr—” Grace sneezes again and again and again.
June rushes from her seat to the end of the table where the sage stick is burning a big patch in the tablecloth. Small flames appear within the fabric like dancing cellophane.
“Oh, shit. Shit. Shit,” June squeals, rushing now, head turning left and right for something to quench the flames.
The flames lick higher, spread further. Grace jumps to her feet and races to the kitchen for a container. One is sitting in the dish drainer on the sink. She fills it up from the tap.
“Hurry,” cries June.
When she’s made it back to the table, half the tablecloth is burning. Flames about ten centimetres high. The scent of astringent chemicals fills the air. Grace throws the water over the table. It splashes and singes, some roustabout spillage flicking up and wetting June’s white dress with ashy drops.
The flames are out now. A big charred mess that was once a silken white tablecloth remains.
“Oh no,” Grace says, but the corners of her mouth are curling upward. A giggle is bouncing in her chest. “I am so …” The giggle escapes. Grace covers her mouth to stop it. “Sorry. I didn’t—“
A chuckle breaks through June’s wide-eyed shock.
“I didn’t mean to,” Grace manages before dissolving into fits of giggles.
June joins her with a loud cry of laughter that grows and grows.
Grace has to cross her legs, she’s laughing so hard, afraid she might pee herself. Her chest is rattling with each shriek of amusement, her eyes are watering, as are June’s as she points to the table and explodes into laughter once again.
They have both lost the plot, completely overtaken by rapturous yelps, snorts and tears. Grace has to take a seat, her stomach is so sore. Her mouth is aching.
“What the bloody hell are you two doing?” asks Mary from the doorway.
Grace points to the table and bursts into more laughter. Tears are falling down her cheeks.
“Smudging gone wrong,” June says between raucous chuckles.
Mary cracks a small, tight-lipped smile too, which only sends both Grace and June into further explosions of laughter.
Mary’s shoulders shake and a small chuckle escapes.
It has been so long since Grace has laughed. Yes, she laughs with the grandchildren but never like this where her entire body is overcome with the delight of it.
She laughs and laughs until she cries.
The last year in contrast to this current joy has been so terribly dark. All that emotion thrusts to the surface and overwhelms her, laughing until she is sobbing with true anguished tears.
The giggles and chuckles around her subside.
“Grace?” June asks, lips in a serious line.
Mary comes over and places a hand on Grace’s shoulder. But Grace can’t talk, let alone answer.
“Grace? What is it?” Mary asks.
It’s a long while before Grace manages a word. “Everything,” she wails.
“Oh dear,” June says pulling up a chair beside Grace and sits.
Mary does the same on the opposite side. They give her some time to get all the tears out.
“Is this about John?” June asks.
Grace shakes her head. “Not exactly.’
Mary frowns. “Then what?”
Maybe it’s time she finally faces what is truly worrying her, confront this ‘so-called’ daughter and tell her sisters. “John has a daughter,” she hiccups.
Mary reaches into her dress pocket and pulls out a clean hanky. “Here. Wipe your nose. You’re dripping all over the place.”
Grace takes the white hankie, wipes her eyes and noisily blows her nose.
“What do you mean ‘John has a daughter’?” Mary asks.
Grace breathes in deeply trying to compose herself. “An email was sent to John’s account a couple of months ago from a woman claiming to be his daughter.”
June gasps.
“From when? Before you were married?” Mary asks.
Grace shakes her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her. Only that John paid a private investigator to find her, and she emailed John to say the ball is in his court to get to know her.”
“So she has no idea that he’s passed?” Mary asks.
“None that I know of.”
“Email her back. Ask her for the facts,” Mary says.
“I can’t. What if she tells me something I don’t want to hear?”
“True,” June agrees. “But what if it’s not as bad as you’re thinking. He could have had this child before he met you.”
That is the better of the possible options, but why wouldn’t he have told her? Why keep it a secret all these long years?
“Or she could be a complete fraud,” Mary says. “She could have heard he’s died and is trying to get money from you. Do you know who the private investigator was?”
“I found an invoice while going through John’s paperwork.”
“Well if there’s an invoice, then it’s hard to doubt that it’s legitimate. If John’s paid someone to go digging, odds are she’s the real deal.”
Grace nods solemnly. Her shoulders hunch.
“It could be a multitude of possibilities,” Mary says. “People keep secrets, Grace. Even from their wives. Not all of them are bad and some usually have a good reason behind them.”
Grace opens her mouth, breathes to speak, but it’s difficult to voice the words. A deep shame falls upon her. “John wasn’t himself in the last six months of his life. Even before the diagnosis, he was different.”
June leans forward. Two lines of tension sit between her brows. “Different how?”
Both June and Mary watch her as she seeks to find the right words. She recalls the worst of many moments when she began to realise her husband may not be the man she once thought he was.
They had arrived home from visiting their son Marcus in Adelaide. The two weeks they were there, John was grumpy, wouldn’t talk much, and snapped over petty matters like when she attempted to wash the bugs from the windscreen at the service station while he was paying for fuel.
He pulled the squeegee out of the water, scrubbed the window to within an inch of its life, then threw it back in the soapy bucket, big splashes spilling everywhere from the force he used. “If you’re going to help, you may as well do a half-decent job.”
Days after they had arrived home, she walked into his office. He had the laptop open and looked deep in thought. Out of curiosity, she asked him if he was going to be long and when he would like dinner.
He slammed the laptop shut and his glare sent a chill through her. Who was this man? Because he certainly wasn’t her husband.
“How about you give me a moment of peace before coming in here and interrupting me you rude, sticky-nosed bi…” he trailed off when her hand flung to her mouth in shock.
As she backed out of the room and shut the door behind her, she heard his fist come down hard on the desk along with some choice swear words.
In all the time she was married to John, he never swore in front of her. Not once.
But even before then, there had been quite a few months where he retreated into himself, not really speaking much at all. If she were to guess, she would have said that he was depressed. And if her sisters knew her husband like she did, they’d know that was an absurd notion.
“He was nasty to me. I sometimes didn’t even recognise who he was,” she finally admits to her sisters.
Mary sighs. “I’m very sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.”
“I was confused and ashamed and then the diagnosis came and that was all I could think about for the next few months until he passed. But do you think his change of behaviour has something to do with this daughter?”
“I can’t say,” Mary says. “The only two people who know are the daughter and the investigator. And I know the investigator won’t be coughing up answers because of client confidentiality. So that just leaves the daughter.”
“I think Mary is right. You need to write back to this woman,” June says.
Mary nods in agreement. “We’ll help you. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it's writing letters.”
“Go splash some water on your face. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Then meet us up in the library with your laptop,” June says.
Grace sighs but is resigned that she is going to have to deal with this daughter once and for all. “Fine. Give me fifteen minutes.”
* * *
Grace sits at Mary’s desk in the library, fingers perched on the keyboard of her laptop. A snakelike curl of anxiety slithers in her stomach. Her lungs can’t fill enough with each thin breath, leaving her dizzy.
Mary and Grace have pulled up a chair either side of her and are facing the screen. Silence is the only sound in the room as they all read the open email.
“She does sound genuine,” June says. “I chose three tarot cards downstairs while you were freshening up, but I couldn’t get a vibe on anything. It was as though a dense blanket was covering who this woman is and what she wants to reveal.”
“Best to deal with it in the real world anyway, June,” Mary says impatiently.
“Of course. I’m not stupid. I know reality from the spirit world.”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
Tension is strung from wall to wall and stretched tight to the point of snapping. Grace can understand why her sisters are emotional about this. She, herself, has barely coped these last two months. And the last thing she has been capable of is pushing it all to the back of her mind.
Despite a part of her not willing to spoil her understanding of who John was, the curious side of her has to know the truth. Mostly, she wants peace of mind. And maybe it’s too negative a notion to assume that John has done something wrong. As Mary said, there can be numerous reasons as to why this daughter has only appeared now.
Within the next ten minutes, they have constructed a reply.
Dear Rebecca
Thank you for your email. I am John Peterson’s wife, Grace. I am sad to inform you that my husband passed away from cancer fourteen months ago.
Before his passing, John never mentioned that he was attempting to contact you, so you can imagine your email has come as quite a surprise.
I would like to find out more about you, and perhaps I can tell you what you would like to know about John, maybe even send you some photographs.
I would like to hear from you again; however, I do understand if it is too difficult.
Kind regards
Grace Peterson
When she hits send, Grace sits back and sags in her chair. With this single email, a small glimmering light appears from above the dark cave within which she has been trapped. It illumes the slick rock walls. She lifts her face to its warmth. “Despite the growing nerves about what type of reply I’m going to get, I do feel lighter.”
“See,” June says patting her shoulder. “The smudge stick must have worked after all.”
Grace glances at Mary and they both burst into laughter. “I’m not sure sage leaves have anything to do with how I feel now.”
Chapter 24
Lily-Rose
Lily-Rose steps off the scales in the upstairs bathroom. She always weighs herself naked and first thing in the morning to avoid the fluctuations in weight that can occur during the day.
Sickly trepidation sparks in her chest as she stares at the numbers on the scales. She has already put on two kilograms since arriving in Tasmania. Aunt Grace’s bloody food.
Yes, her weight isn’t essential to landing future roles anymore, but she still has to come face-to-face with fans who have only seen her as the capt
ivating characters she portrays on the screen, and it will be a shock for them to see a worn-out, dowdy woman when they are expecting a glamazon.
For fuck’s sake, she’s so tired of endlessly depriving herself every second of the day. It’s draining and depressing. She lost the man she loves. And as she appears now, she can’t get acting roles other than to play the mother of a similar-aged actor anyway. So what is the point? What is the fucking point?
Over the years, she has had some work done—a nose job (she inherited Mum’s Roman nose), some liposuction, fillers, Botox and chemical peels—but it’s all incredibly discreet. Hardly obvious.
Her breasts are her own, but the general opinion in Tinsel Town is that no one wants to see naked breasts on the big screen of anyone over forty, so she hasn’t had to show them for a near decade.
She steps off the scales and stands in front of the bathroom mirror, lifting her breasts in her hands. They have certainly climbed towards her feet more than she would like this past decade. Though, at the beginning of her career, when she was pressured to change herself to suit the glances of the Tinsel Town elite, she swore she would never go overboard with plastic surgery to the extent she starts looking unnatural or like someone else. So a boob job, in her opinion, is out of the question.
After dressing, she heads back down the hall to her bedroom. The muffled voices of her mother and aunts sound from within the library. A distinct burnt smell lingers in the air.
She rushes towards the library. In old houses like these, electrical problems can easily cause fires. Poking her head in the doorway, the women all turn to look at her with startled expressions.
“What’s that smell? I shouldn’t be calling the fire brigade or anything, should I?”
All three shake their heads.
A small smile tugs at the corners of June’s mouth. “A minor smudging incident.”
Lily-Rose narrows her eyes, takes a step into the room. “What are you all doing?”
With an impartial countenance, Mum says, “Writing a letter.”
Lily-Rose groans and backs away, hands up in the surrender position. “I’ve had enough letter-writing in my lifetime to feel traumatised at the mere mention of it.”
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