‘Chris … Don’t read more into that than—’
‘Don’t.’
‘It was nothing, honestly. I’m just emotional … over Phoebe.’ She reaches for him but he steps back, pinning himself between her and the bench.
‘Stop.’ He raises his hand. ‘Just … stop. For years you let me chase after something I could never have – always pretending you didn’t want what I wanted, you didn’t know what I wanted.’ He turns, picks up a chisel and stabs the bench. ‘You knew; you wanted it too. Just not with me.’ He pushes past her and goes towards the door but she grabs his arm.
‘Don’t go.’
Chris looks at her with painful curiosity. ‘Why? Why this … half-life? How can you not want more? I want more. I want to be loved, really loved. I want to be wanted.’
‘I …’
‘You – what? Come on, Diane, look me in the eye and tell me you want me.’
She stares at her hand on his arm, as if even blinking will commit her to something with consequences she cannot imagine.
‘Do you love me at all?’
She glances away with a small frown, her eyes roaming the rough wooden walls punctured with nails and hooks and hung with tools and the detritus of life: their life; their accumulations, omissions and silences.
‘Yes,’ she says at last, as if she has carefully weighed all that the word implies – every ingredient of her affection and every effort made on his behalf – and concluded that, yes, she can rightly claim to love him. Yet the way it curves up at the end betrays doubt. Nothing so crude as a ‘but’; more an implied proviso that nothing in the world can be considered absolute, nothing in the world is certain, not even love. And Chris knows if he were to stay, it would have to be enough for him. She never promised love, only that she would do her best. And she has.
‘Chris …?’
His heart begins to race – anticipating her question – but her voice trails off and he exhales with relief. One such yes is enough.
But what her yes contains is not sufficient to fill the days and years ahead. Chris is weary of his half-realised, half-developed self. For years he’s ignored the empty spaces between work, family and home life. Not any more.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but there’s no risk of you losing your heart to me, is there?’
She draws in a deep, tired breath. ‘I don’t need to lose my heart in order to love.’
‘Perhaps not. But you do need to feel desire in order to connect. And you don’t desire me, Diane. You never have, and you never will.’
Chris stares through glass doors at the city that is his home. Strange to be holed up in a hotel less than eight kilometres from where he lived until an hour ago.
He never imagined, when he left number 10 Appleby Street this morning, that this would be the last day of a life he’s known for twenty-five years. Not life in abundance, perhaps, but leaving nevertheless cuts deep. So does the knowledge that Diane does not want him.
You’ve always known it. You just didn’t want to admit it.
Some lies sound sweeter than the insistent murmur of truth. The price of knowledge is … well, just ask Adam.
His watch says eight o’clock. He needs to eat. Driving to the Gold Coast and back, leaving his wife and downing two beers have left him almost senseless. He orders a hamburger from room service and turns on the TV. When his phone begins to ring he’s inclined to ignore it but suddenly realises it might be Phoebe.
It’s Ben.
‘I’ve just been talking to Diane. She tells me you’re at the Gold Coast.’
‘I’m not at the Gold Coast. I’m here, in town, at a hotel. I’ve left Diane.’
‘You what?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘More or less. Just tired, I think.’
‘Good God, Chris. Is this fallout from what happened at work?’
‘No, it’s been coming for a long time. Years.’
‘Oh, lad. I’m sorry.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course. The end of a marriage is very sad.’
‘Yet you don’t sound very surprised.’
‘Well …’
‘Go on. Today’s the day for confessions. Let it rip.’
‘Well, I … I never got the sense of there being much, um, passion between you. A bit like me and Jo. I loved her, but I wasn’t in love with her.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘Chris, you’re welcome here, you know. There’s a bed always, and you don’t have to … talk, or anything.’
‘Thanks. But right now I’m more worried about Phoebe. Did Diane tell you? She’s pregnant.’
‘Yes; that’s why I rang. Not a cause for celebration, I gather.’
‘James doesn’t want the baby and Phoebe won’t have it without him. Diane’s in a terrible state – I’ve never seen her so upset.’
‘And you?’
‘My opinion doesn’t matter. My job is just looking after Phoebe. I’ve said we’ll support whatever she decides but I don’t think she’s convinced. She’s lying low. I’ve phoned, left messages, been to her flat, but I can’t track her down. She’s not even at work. I don’t know what else I can do.’
‘Nothing. You just have to wait. The hardest part of being a parent: letting go when you most want to hang on.’
‘I don’t want to hang on, I just want to fix it.’
‘Yeah, I know. Like when you found Jo’s diary, all I could think was: how can I fix this? Rosa told me I couldn’t. You were the only one who could do that.’
‘Rosa … your cleaning lady?’
‘Yes. Lovely lady; good friend. Told me to stop wallowing in guilt and get myself in a fit state to help if you ever need it. To make sure you know that if you walk through my door – in five minutes or five years’ time – you’ll find someone you can trust. Okay, maybe not trust, but rely on. I’ll be here, Chris. I’ll wait. Forever. And that’s all you can do for Phoebe.’
‘I’m worried she won’t come.’
‘She’ll come. She knows you’re a stayer.’
‘I’ve just left Diane.’
‘That’s knowing when to quit. You’ll never quit your kids. You’re like your mother. Your heart’s so huge you can’t help yourself. Phoebe knows that.’
A buzz at the door interrupts them. ‘Sorry,’ says Chris. ‘I have to go. Room service.’
He sits in front of the TV with a hamburger skewered by a long red plastic toothpick shaped like an arrow.
Pathetic-looking thing.
He removes it and takes a bite. Nothing to complain about, but not the taste of Coolum. He’ll be doing his own cooking from now on.
Thoughts of Phoebe keep him awake. His baby. Her baby – his grandchild. He tries not to anticipate her choice because either way he can’t save her from the consequences. Only be there. Only – as Ben said – wait.
He tries not to think about Phoebe the next day as he sits at his computer placing pedestals, handbasins and spa baths in the motel at Carseldine. He tries not to think of her the day after – Saturday – when he finds a serviced apartment overlooking the Brisbane River at Kangaroo Point. View is good, accommodation basic. Kitchen-living room, bedroom, bathroom; a toilet with no view. But it’s enough. In the afternoon he goes to the city to buy a couple of shirts and some underwear, unable, yet, to face Diane.
Sunday morning finds him at the small kitchen bench gazing between a sketch of Fletcher and his knapsack on the floor. He left home sixty hours ago. Another life.
He takes out his mobile and dials Phoebe. James’s voice intrudes on the answering machine. Chris hangs up and dials her mobile. No answer. He leaves a message. Another one; he’s lost count of how many. ‘It’s Dad. I love you. Call me.’
Well, says Fletcher, looking a little lacklustre. Here we are. Do what we want and go where we want.
Like, where?
Coolum?
No, Sunday. Too much traffic and besides, I don’t want to s
ee the land I can’t have. Coomera, maybe – on a train.
I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Some things are better left as memories.
It beats doing nothing.
Fletcher was right: memory and reality are worlds apart. Forty years ago the carriage was made of wood, the windows opened with a bang and jammed unwary fingers and the door opened from the outside. This train has vinyl seats and graffiti scrawled on the walls. Though Chris slept through much of his original journey he has vague memories of a slow chug through paddocks with grazing cows and sugarcane fields that serviced the rum distillery at Beenleigh. Now, the engine drones though dreary industrial parks, car wreckers, dusty travellers palms and the occasional old house. Chris looks for buildings he might have seen on his childhood odyssey but recognises nothing. He brightens briefly at the Kingston Butter Factory, built in 1907, and given a red-brick facade in the 1930s. Eventually, industry and housing give way to countryside, an old cemetery, and Coomera.
The station is not as he remembers. No whistling conductor, and the landscape seems different. The hills look closer and the grass has been mowed. He jumps down from the platform and walks back along the line towards Brisbane. His special place was not far along, but after a kilometre or so he finds nothing familiar and abandons his search. Fletcher was right. Again.
The following evening he stands on the balcony of his unit. It’s cold but the view is distracting and distraction is what he seeks. The river is as different from the ocean as whisky is from wine. The sea hurls itself at mother earth with the insistence of a toddler; the river fingers her banks in silence. Shadows creep over the foreshore and cross streets, snake between buildings and lick walls with black tongues. The lights of Brisbane have swallowed the stars and overlaid the river with rippling, blinking neons. Gay greens, brilliant blues and saucy reds dance across her inscrutable face. Chris pours himself another whisky. It’s cheap and harsh but all he could find within walking distance. It trickles down his throat but the heat of its travel fails to warm the chill of the journey ahead.
Phoebe phoned him that morning at the office. She was downstairs, outside the coffee shop. He scooted from the office so fast he knocked Doris flying, and catapulted down the stairs.
‘Phoebe.’ He crushed her against him. ‘I’ve been so worried. Come on, I’ll buy us some lunch.’
‘No, Dad, I can’t. I haven’t got time.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I … I have to ask you something.’
Afterwards, he stood on the footpath watching her disappear into the melee of lunchtime Toowong. How had it come to this – his family undoing itself? It might have been a relief to stop struggling with Diane but there is no relief, no end to struggle when it comes to his kids. Not now. Not ever.
‘Why me?’ he asked Phoebe. ‘Why not James? It’s what he wanted.’
‘He’s gone. I booted him. He said if I kept the baby he’d leave me. So I said I was keeping it and he could go to hell. But I’m not, Dad. I can’t. I’m not ready for it. I hate asking you because I know how you feel, but I can’t ask Mum and I – I don’t want to go alone.’ Her eyes welled up. Beneath the lipstick and the gloss and the suits, she was a kid trying to survive her first major hurdle.
Chris drew her towards him. ‘I’ll take you, Pebbles. I’ll be with you, all the way.’
Tuesday morning before work, Chris pulls up outside 10 Appleby Street and climbs the stairs to the back door. He stops for a moment, his throat thick with apprehension. What is the protocol for entering your own house after you’ve left? Do you knock or act proprietarily and use your key?
He knocks.
Diane comes to the door. It’s just gone seven but already she’s dressed. For uni, he supposes, her routine apparently unchanged by his leaving.
‘I suppose you’ve come for your things.’
He nods. ‘Some, yes, but it’s not why I’m here.’ He follows her to the living room and rests his hands on the back of a chair. ‘Phoebe came to see me yesterday. She – she wants Mrs Doll.’
‘What for?’
He shakes his head.
Diane goes down the hallway and comes back with Mrs Doll, a smiling Phoebe clone in a red check dress and bonnet. ‘Maybe she …’
‘Phoebe is having a termination,’ says Chris. ‘I’m sorry, Diane, but she’s made the decision.’
‘No … No! She … hasn’t—?’
‘She asked me to take her to the hospital.’
‘You …? Why not James?’
‘He’s out of the picture. Phoebe booted him. Please, Diane, please come with me.’
She shakes her head. ‘No. No, you ask too much.’
‘God damn it, woman, I’m always asking too much. For once, just say yes.’
‘I can’t. I can’t.’ A muscle dances in Diane’s jaw and despite his frustration, Chris struggles to find a word or gesture that might suggest an outcome less bleak. She subsides onto a chair with painful slowness.
‘My grandmother gave me a doll once,’ she says, fingering Mrs Doll’s dress. ‘I called her Gracie … after Grace Kelly. She had golden hair and blue eyes and dimples and I loved her.’ She tucks a stray curl under Mrs Doll’s bonnet. ‘My father stored fossils in my bedroom when he ran out of room in the rest of the house. One day he dropped a rock on Gracie’s head and cracked it; a big circle, almost half her head, and it came away in my hand like a broken Easter egg. I tried to glue her back together but I was crying so much I botched it. My father put Gracie in the bin. I took her out, wrapped her in my best scarf and buried her in a shoe box in our yard.’ Diane sits Mrs Doll carefully on the table. ‘He bought me another doll – some ethnic thing. I couldn’t bear it and I put it in the bin.’
‘Diane—’
‘Don’t, Christopher! Don’t say there’ll be other grandchildren. This is the one I want; the one that matters. This is the one we’ll never see, we’ll never know, never get to love—’
‘Stop!’
‘No.’ She glares at him and stands up. ‘I won’t stop. You can’t distance yourself from this. You don’t know what it’s like. You can’t ever understand what it is to lose a child. A world of children can never replace the one that’s lost.’
Chris’s throat is suddenly dry. ‘You …’ He licks his lips. ‘You lost a child?’
Diane gazes silently out at the trees.
‘Did you … was it … an abortion?’
‘No!’ She shakes her head violently. ‘It was not.’ She picks at her nails, her face creased with pain. ‘I lost her.’
Chris feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
‘I lost my baby. I miscarried her at five months.’
Chris shuts his eyes. Something else he never knew. More secrets.
Not your business any more.
‘Adrian’s?’
She nods. ‘It … it wasn’t his wife who got pregnant, it was me. Adrian was scared witless. Terrified I’d make it public and he’d lose his reputation and his marriage and … the child I didn’t tell you he already had. He gave me abortion money. I took it but I told him there’d be no abortion. I couldn’t believe how desperately he wanted me and our baby gone.’ Diane gulps, the sound of a swallowed sob. ‘But I wanted her, Chris, so much.’
He reaches out and gently draws her into the circle of his arms. She holds herself stiffly but doesn’t pull away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I had no idea.’
She sags against his shoulder, a balloon suddenly devoid of air. He strokes her hair and a thin, despairing wail comes from somewhere deep inside her.
For long moments she rests against him, then slowly disengages herself. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she says. ‘I should have told you.’
‘I wish you had. At least it helps me understand why you’re so upset about Phoebe.’
‘She’ll regret it. I know she will.’
‘Perhaps. But it’s her decision, and she’s made it.’
‘When …?’
‘Tomorrow. And
I understand how difficult this is for you, Diane, but please, please, come with me when I take her to the hospital.’
She shakes her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘I’m begging you. Phoebe is our daughter; your daughter, and she needs you.’
Rain spatters against the windscreen as he backs out of the hospital car park. He’d rather not leave Phoebe on her own but is desperate for Diane to be there when the ‘procedure’ is over. He was sure she’d change her mind about taking Phoebe to the hospital. When she didn’t, Phoebe was distraught. Chris has promised that her mother will be there when she wakes but he’s no longer certain. These waters are untested.
The kitchen door is open. He can hear voices. He knocks but no-one answers. He calls out. No response.
Inside, he finds Diane hunched before the TV, jabbing her thumb on the remote. She’s wearing an old house dress and bedroom slippers.
‘Diane? What’s going on?’
She continues to poke the gadget as if she hasn’t heard him.
He goes to her and gently removes it. ‘Hey, it’s me.’
‘Oh, God.’ She buries her face in her hands. ‘Has it … has she—?’
‘I’ve just taken her to the hospital. Come on, Di. Let’s have some coffee, okay?’
She nods, shakes her head, nods again, then rises slowly and goes to the kitchen. She puts on the kettle, takes a carton of milk from the fridge and two mugs from the cupboard.
Chris surveys a familiar room from an unfamiliar perspective: Archie’s bed. The sheets smell like spring. Diane has cleaned the room but not purged it. The walls are still plastered with posters of Pearl Jam, Nirvana and other bands whose music Chris would rather forget, and the desk is stacked with magazines filled with photos of lethal-looking knives, stainless-steel pots and beaming, corpulent cooks. There’s an interlocking stack of measuring cups and an antique set of scales. No writing gear; Archie’s art is scribed by knives, not pencils.
Last Day in the Dynamite Factory Page 24
