by Lucy Clarke
“How d’you mean?”
“Turning up at Jeanette’s house. Telling her about Jackson.”
He watches the road as he asks, “Why do you want to meet her?”
She presses her fingertips to her temples. The idea has been burning in her thoughts for days and all she knows is that she must do this. “I need to meet her to understand why he married me.”
“Then it’s the right thing.”
Eva leans her head back against the seat rest. “But is it fair to Jeanette? She’s got no idea Jackson married me. And I’m going to be the one to break it to her.”
“You’re just telling her the truth.”
“Should I be?”
“What would you’ve preferred? To know everything you do now—or to still be in the dark?”
THE LANDSCAPE CHANGES FROM flat plains to craggy mountains as the road climbs through tight switchbacks. Water streams off dark granite mountainsides and the trees drip with moss.
At some point on the drive, Saul’s cell phone rings but he leaves it when he sees it is his father. He doesn’t want to have to tell him that he’s sitting in the truck beside Eva and that they’re on the way to meet Jeanette. He knows exactly what his father would have to say about that. He’ll call him back later tonight and arrange to pop by in a day or two. Last time Saul visited he’d checked the bins and knew from all the empties that Dirk had been hitting it hard. Saul should be stopping in on him every day, but it depresses the hell out of him to see his dad this way.
An hour later, the road begins to flow over hillsides and green pastures, where cattle huddle together in the rain. Beside him Eva gazes out at the fields flashing by. She looks exhausted, her eyes ringed by dark shadows. He wants to take her hand in his, tell her it’s going to be okay. But he can’t. The kiss on the boat is just a beat of memory now, unmentioned. He wonders if Eva regrets it, or whether she lets it play over in her mind in quiet moments of the day, the way he does.
Suddenly she is looking at him, her brow furrowed. “Did Jeanette go to the memorial?”
“Jackson’s memorial?” he says, taking a moment to place her question. “Yeah, she did.”
A flicker of anguish passes over her face, which he understands: Eva had traveled all the way to Tasmania so she could grieve with Jackson’s family, yet it must seem as though they’d already shared their grief with Jeanette.
“Did she do a reading? Say anything?”
“No. Only Dad said a few words. We kept it brief. The cloud came down on the mountain. Everyone was cold.”
A truck passes in the opposite direction, a rush of air and spray whooshing by. When it’s gone the road is empty again. Tin cattle sheds and the occasional farmhouse are all that break the endless stretch of green on either side of them.
“Did she bring Kyle?”
“No. She came alone. Some of us went to the pub for a drink afterward—but Jeanette didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know. I guess it was hard for her. Everyone knew she and Jackson had separated. Maybe she didn’t feel . . . entitled or something.”
“Did she cry?”
Saul glances around, surprised.
“I’m sorry. I just want to understand as much as I can.”
He sighs. “Yeah, she cried. Sobbed, actually.” He thinks of Jeanette standing apart from the crowd, pressed against the railings at the top of Mount Wellington. She seemed to lose it, burying her face into her balled hands, heavy sobs escaping that sounded so raw they made everyone look at the ground.
“Does your dad get along with her?”
“Not really. I think he resented her for coming between me and Jackson.”
“You both fell in love with the same woman,” she says so quietly, it’s almost as if she’s speaking to herself.
After a moment, she looks across at Saul, asking, “Why are you taking me?”
From the way she is looking at him, he can guess what she’s thinking. But he’s not doing this because he still harbors romantic feelings for Jeanette.
“I’m taking you because you asked,” he says simply.
“THIS IS IT,” SAUL says sometime later.
They swing into a gravel driveway and pull up beside a white Ford with a muddied license plate. The rain has stopped but puddles tremble on the drive and thick drops slide from leaves. The house is a modest single-story with a small garden. There is a blue plastic slide on the lawn with a broken bottom step.
Saul cuts the engine and unclips his belt. “You ready?”
Eva doesn’t move. She stares at the house where Jackson once lived with his wife and son. It seems impossible that those four walls contained such a huge, yet hidden part of his history.
Maybe it’d be better for Jeanette to remain an indistinct image in Eva’s mind, not someone real she then has to live with. She tries to ignore the doubt and anxiety that blow through her mind like a hot wind. They’ve come all this way; she must go through with it.
Yet dread pins her to the seat. “I . . . I can’t do this.” The words seem impossibly weak, but she realizes they’re true.
“Eva?”
Her breath shortens as she says, “Can we go? Sorry. I just want to go.”
“But we’ve just—”
“Please,” she begs in a voice so desperate she barely recognizes it as her own.
Saul reaches for the key in the ignition, but something makes him pause.
She follows his gaze and sees he is looking toward the front door, where a woman of Eva’s age has just stepped out. Her hair is dark red and she wears a pair of jeans and a large T-shirt that hangs off her slim shoulders. Her feet are bare. She is staring at the truck, arms folded, trying to place it.
The woman’s eyes widen with surprise as Saul steps out of the truck. Her arms unfold and she touches her hair. She smiles a little, a small, perplexed look. Eva then sees how beautiful she must have once been.
“Saul?” Jeanette says. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry for just turning up. I’m here with . . . a friend,” he says, glancing over at Eva.
Jeanette’s gaze follows his.
Eva knows she must get out of the truck, but her legs don’t seem to be working. Her palms are damp and she presses them against her thighs. She can feel the heat of them through her jeans. This is his wife. The mother of his child.
Saul takes a step toward the truck. “Eva?”
She has no choice. Taking a deep breath, she clanks open the door and climbs out. She doesn’t see the murky puddle in the driveway and her feet sink into it, cold water seeping into her sandals. She steps quickly aside, humiliated.
When she looks up, she reads no warmth in Jeanette’s expression. Eva tries to pull her lips into a smile, but her face feels frozen. The two women stare at each other.
It is Saul who eventually breaks the silence. “Jeanette, this is Eva. She’s come to talk to you about Jackson.”
I used to have nightmares about you and Jeanette meeting. They started in the weeks running up to our wedding. I’d imagine you arriving at the altar in a beautiful white dress, the light from the stained-glass windows catching in your engagement ring. But then when I lifted up your veil, it was Jeanette’s face I saw, not yours.
Because of that nightmare, I asked you not to wear a veil on our wedding day. I told you I thought they were a bit old-fashioned—do you remember?
The visions of you and Jeanette meeting weren’t only confined to my sleep. I was cooking scrambled eggs one evening when you came in from a late shift. You were full of chatter, like you always were after work, and you told me a new nurse had started: Jeanette.
I stopped stirring. My head felt dizzy and hot, like a fever had erupted. “What does she look like?”
“Look like?” you repeated from behind me, bemused.
I corrected myself immediately. “I mean, is she old or young?”
“She’s about my age, I guess.”
The eggs were starting to
stick to the pan, but there wasn’t space in my thoughts to stir them, nor turn off the gas. It took every shred of my concentration to knit the next three words together. “Where’s she from?”
You paused for a long time, thinking. Then you said: “Leeds.”
I laughed. Actually laughed with relief.
“What?” you asked, coming to my side so you could see my face.
“Sorry,” I said, finally snapping off the burner, then turning to you. “It’s been a crazy day at work. Just ignore me.” I threaded my arms around your waist and kissed the smooth stretch of your neck. “All you need to know is how happy I am to have you home.”
As I held you in my arms, I knew then that I would do anything to stop you and Jeanette from meeting.
Anything.
22
The hallway of Jeanette’s home is dim and narrow, and the air smells of burned fat. Eva’s wet sandals squeak as she walks the length of it, hoping she’s not leaving a trail of sopping footprints. She passes a row of little boy’s shoes lined up beside a blue stool and she has to force herself to walk on.
They enter a square living room that smells faintly musty, where two tired-looking sofas face a low table. Toy cars are parked on top, several of them missing wheels or doors.
Eva and Saul stand near the window, which overlooks the garden. Outside, an empty clothesline sways in the damp breeze.
Jeanette remains in the doorway, arms hugged to her chest. No drinks are offered. No one is invited to sit. Heavy frown lines have furrowed into her brow, but Eva can see clear hints of beauty in her high cheekbones and pale green eyes. This is the woman he first loved, she thinks.
“My son’s asleep,” Jeanette says, and Eva cannot tell if she means it as a plea or a warning.
Eva takes a step back, anchoring herself between the windowsill and a dark wooden sideboard, on top of which several framed photos are staggered. She wants to turn and look at them, see if Jackson is in any of the pictures, but her gaze snaps up to meet Jeanette’s, who says, “Either of you mind telling me what this is about?”
Saul looks to Eva.
She knows that this is her cue—but all she is thinking is that Jackson once lived in this house. Had he ever perched on the sofa, rocking Kyle in his arms? Had he pulled Jeanette close to him to gaze out the window together at a storm rolling in? Had he watched a rugby game on TV, sitting forward with his fists pressed to his mouth, the way he had done in their home in London?
“Eva’s come over from the UK,” Saul says to fill the silence. “That’s where she met Jackson.” He nods for Eva to go on.
Her mouth feels dry and her pulse ticks in her throat. “Can I use your bathroom?” she blurts.
Jeanette smiles tightly. “It’s at the end of the hall. On the right.”
Anxiety spins through Eva as she steps into the hallway. Her recurring nightmare of Jackson rises so vividly into her thoughts that she has to pause, a hand reaching out to the wall to tell herself: It is only a dream. Yet exhaustion is blurring her perception of reality so much that it’s as if she’ll turn a corner and find Jackson here.
She needs to splash water on her face, calm down. She begins moving along the hallway, but when she reaches the end, rather than turning right into the bathroom, she finds herself hovering outside the door opposite.
The name KYLE is spelled out in brightly painted wooden letters and the door has been left slightly ajar. She glances quickly over her shoulder and then steps in.
The drawn curtains lift in the breeze. The room smells sweet, of fresh laundry and wet grass. A young boy sleeps curled on his side, his back to her, his chest rising and falling softly. She desperately wants to see his face, to see Jackson’s features.
Her hand trails to her stomach, a cave of emptiness opening inside her. She wants to touch this little boy, hold him in her arms. His dark hair looks blissfully soft, a faint curl at the nape of his neck. She takes a step forward, moving closer to him. A floorboard strains beneath her feet and Kyle mutters, shifting in his bed.
Eva freezes. If she wakes him, she will have to explain to Jeanette and Saul what she was doing in his bedroom. She waits, barely breathing, wondering how many times Jackson had stood where she is now, watching his son drift off to sleep. It seems unthinkable that he could have left this little boy, walked out on his family, and made a new life in England.
When Kyle settles, Eva quietly retreats into the hallway and stands there for a moment, dizzied by the sight of him. Suddenly this all feels too real. In coming here, she’s witnessing the proof of Jackson’s deception: he was a father; he had a family; he had an entire life she knew nothing about.
She glances up and down the hall and then, inexplicably, finds herself moving toward the room next to Kyle’s. Easing the door open, she goes in.
A bedroom, presumably Jeanette’s. It is neat, although the double bed is unmade. There is only one bedside table and on it there’s an empty glass and a pair of silver earrings in the shape of half-moons. She slides open the drawer beneath it and sees a flashlight, two novels, several hair clips, and a tube of hand cream missing its lid.
Carefully shutting the drawer, she then ducks down and peers beneath the bed. The only items under there are a black suitcase and a balled-up sock. She gets to her feet, blood rushing to her head and pinpricks of light darting across her vision. She needs to get out of here, go back to the living room before they start wondering where she is.
But Eva finds herself crossing to the corner of the bedroom where a narrow pine wardrobe stands. Her fingers curl around the wooden handle and she pulls it back, heart pounding. Inside is a row of women’s clothes, the soft scent of lavender lifting from the fabrics. She trails a hand through cotton dresses, pairs of women’s jeans, a thick woolen sweater, a purple coat with a fur-lined hood, an orange-and-tan scarf. She thinks: Nothing of Jackson’s. Then she closes the wardrobe and slinks from the room.
Other than the bathroom, there’s one more doorway off the hall. Eva pushes it open, entering a spare room filled with junk: an exercise bike, boxes of paperwork, a rocking horse with a broken spring. She opens a filing cabinet and trails her fingers through sheafs of papers that are ordered into slim green files.
Beyond the room she hears Jeanette’s voice and she freezes, eyes darting to the door. She can’t think how long she’s been gone. What if Jeanette comes looking for her and finds Eva rifling through her belongings? Her pulse throbs in her neck as she waits, listening.
After a moment, Jeanette’s voice continues and Eva realizes that she and Saul must still be in the living room together.
She continues flicking through the papers in the filing cabinet. They are innocuous, just bills and bank statements. Then suddenly her fingers stop over a piece of paper on which she sees Jackson’s handwriting.
She pulls it out, drawing it close to her face.
It is only a gas bill, but in Jackson’s squat hand he has written the word paid, along with the date of three years ago.
It should mean nothing. It’s not a love letter or a clue as to Jackson’s mind-set, yet it knocks the breath from her body. Before there had just been other people’s explanations, but here was proof of a life lived without her. She pictures the same handwriting on the corners of their bills at home. The easy, almost casual duplicity of it enrages her. She grabs the edge of the page and tears his handwriting from it. Screwing it into a ball, she stuffs it in her mouth, working her teeth over the chalky paper, which turns sodden and slippery. Her teeth keep on clenching harder, her jaw muscles straining, her tongue pulling Jackson’s words around her mouth.
Then she stops. She is shaking. Her mouth hangs open as she sees the madness of what she is doing. Quickly, she shoves the torn bill back into the filing cabinet and closes it. Then she retreats from the room and hurries into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
She spits the slimy paper into the toilet bowl and flushes it, watching the fragment whirl downward and finally disappear. She g
rips the edge of the sink, realizing she has been searching Jeanette’s home looking for clues of him. She is coming unhinged.
Eva turns on the cold tap and splashes her face with icy water. Then she pats her skin dry and faces herself in the mirror. Her eyes are wild, glittering. You are losing it, she tells herself.
She runs a hand back through her hair as this thought settles, then she waits in the bathroom until her breathing begins to slow.
SAUL SITS WITH HIS hands clasped, thumbs tapping together.
“What’s this about?” Jeanette asks from the sofa adjacent to him.
“I’d rather wait for Eva.”
“And I’d rather you tell me what’s going on. You bring a stranger into my house and tell me she wants to talk about Jackson. Who the hell is she?”
“Please, Jeanette. Can we just wait till Eva’s here? It’s better she explains.”
“Well then,” she says, folding her arms, “we’d better dust off the small talk.” Jeanette had always had an air of defiance about her, as if she were daring the world to do its worst. But he knows it’s all front.
She settles back into the sofa as she asks, “How’s that place of yours out in Wattleboon? Heard you’d moved in.”
“Yeah. Before Christmas.”
“It’s a beautiful spot,” she says. “Used your inheritance on it, did you?”
He nods. “That and some savings.”
“Jackson frittered his. But I knew you’d keep yours aside, do something with it. You always had vision, Saul.”
“Thank you,” he says, surprised by the generosity of the comment. “What about you? You and Kyle settled up here?”
She shrugs. “For now. We’re near Mum, which is something.”
