by Lucy Clarke
“There were so many lies. How do I know what was real?”
“I loved you. I still love you. That’s what’s real.”
She shakes her head and turns back toward the bay. “It’s not enough.”
Jackson stands silently beside her, his hands spread on the wooden railing. Despite everything, she wants him to reach out and place his hand over hers. Wants to feel the warmth of his fingers. Wants him to hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay.
“I’ll never have enough words to explain, but I want to try.” He smoothes his hands over the railing as he talks. “Before I came to England . . . before I met you . . . I was a mess. I’d wrecked everything: my family, my relationship with Saul, my marriage.” He pauses. “I’d lost myself, Eva. I no longer knew who I was.”
“So you became someone else.”
“Yes, because when you came into my world, you gave me a reason to change. I felt I could be someone different, someone better, because I started seeing myself through your eyes.”
“But that person didn’t exist.”
“That’s the thing, Eva. He did. I know the details were borrowed—I didn’t do a degree, I didn’t work on dive boats or travel to South America—but the rest, that was real. That was me. You fell in love with me.”
She closes her eyes. Her head throbs. How will she ever know, how can she ever unknot the lies from the truth? He’d hidden so much of himself beneath layers of lies and deceit that she’d only ever known part of him.
His voice is low, contemplative. “So many nights I’d lie awake beside you and wonder, if I’d told you the truth from the start, would you still have fallen in love with me? A married bartender from Tasmania who’d committed manslaughter. Would you have? Because I was never sure.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“You’re right, because once I started lying, I couldn’t go back,” he tells her, his voice heavy with emotion. “I knew I’d lose you, so I just . . . kept going.”
The floodlight goes out and the deck falls into darkness. Eva stands completely still, blood beating in her ears. She sees how Jackson’s lies outgrew him, became something larger than him. Yet even though he knew the unsustainability of his situation, he’d kept pushing forward, creating more lies. “You should never have asked me to marry you.”
“I don’t regret it. It’s one of the only things I don’t regret. Forging paperwork and keeping secrets from you, that wasn’t how I wanted to do things. But I did want to be your husband. More than anything, that’s what I wanted from life.”
“Yet then you let me believe you were dead,” she says coolly.
At that, his head drops down. “When Jeanette turned up in London, standing there right outside my office, I knew it was over.”
He grips the railing harder, saying, “I couldn’t go back to Tasmania like she wanted. But if I stayed, then she’d go to the police, tell you what I’d done. I couldn’t let that happen. I wasn’t worried about jail—I’d survive that. What I couldn’t bear was for you—for Saul, for Dad—to know who I really was. What I’d done. I felt like if you were to stop believing in me, Eva, then I’d stop believing in myself, too. I couldn’t let Jeanette drag me back to who I was before . . . I couldn’t. So I chose to disappear.”
In the darkness she can feel him looking at her.
“But it was a mistake. It was the biggest mistake of my life to walk away from the beach that day and let you think I was dead. Because what I’ve discovered, Eva, is that life without you isn’t worth living.”
“That’s what I said,” she tells him. “That’s exactly what I said at your memorial.”
THEY REMAIN ON THE deck, listening to the murmuring bay. It sounds mournful tonight, a low pulsing of waves falling onto the beach and being dragged back again.
Eva’s voice is quiet as she says, “I was pregnant with your child.”
“What?” Jackson says, with a start.
“I was here, on Wattleboon, when I found out. I’d come to meet Saul . . . but I fainted. He took me to the medical center. I did a pregnancy test and it was positive.”
She hears the scrape of Jackson’s beard as he rubs a hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe it. Are you . . .” he says, eyes traveling down to her stomach.
“No. No, I’m not. I miscarried at twelve weeks.”
“Jesus Christ, Eva. What happened? Were you okay?”
“I was with Callie and Saul. They looked after me. But no, I wasn’t okay. To lose a baby . . . it is . . .” She breaks off, thinking of the hollow ache that filled her womb. But she can’t get lost in those memories. Not tonight.
“I wish I’d known. Wish I’d been there for you . . .” Jackson reaches out and places his hand over Eva’s. She doesn’t move. She feels the cool pressure of his fingers and the hardness of the wooden railing beneath her palm.
“Was it my fault . . . the miscarriage? Was it stress that made you lose the baby?”
There is no answer to that question, so she remains silent.
“I’m so sorry,” he says slowly. “You would’ve been an incredible mother. Having a baby with you, that is everything I could’ve wanted from my life. Everything. But I didn’t deserve that gift.” He takes a deep breath and squeezes her hand. “But you did, Eva. You did. I’m so sorry. I’m truly sorry for everything I’ve done to you.”
The waver of his voice draws an instinctive emotional response from Eva. She feels herself wanting to pull him to her, run her hand over the back of his neck, for them to comfort each other. She thinks of the way they used to lie together, his head on her stomach, her fingers buried in his hair.
Her memories of Jackson are tangled together, the beautiful moments knotted so tightly to the awful lies that neither thread can be undone.
36
Saul turns away from the window; he doesn’t want to see Eva and Jackson standing together on the deck, hands joined. He crouches down in front of the log burner and watches the flames leap and dance, his cheeks and lips beginning to tingle from the heat. He listens to the soft whir of air and smoke being drawn from the flue.
As boys, he and Jackson used to stand in front of the wood-burning stove in the shack and spit on its cast-iron lid. Their saliva would become molten balls that sizzled and bounced, and they’d watch to see whose would last the longest before transforming into steam. Saul remembers the kick of satisfaction he’d feel if the winning spitball was his. Even over the smallest things, there had always been an element of competition between them.
But there will be no winner in this.
Behind him the glass doors slide open and he turns, expectant. Jackson tramps inside, bringing with him the cold, pine scent of the garden.
“How is she?”
Jackson crosses the room and sinks down onto the sofa. He leans forward, locking his arms over his head. “She was pregnant.”
Saul waits.
“I can’t believe it. We could’ve had a baby together. Been a family.”
“How?”
Jackson drops his arms and looks up. Just for a moment, Saul catches his surprise at the question, before his face clouds as he says, “I don’t know.” It reminds Saul of his brother’s formidable capacity for fantasy.
“You were with her when she miscarried,” Jackson says.
He nods. “And Callie.”
“Eva said you arranged for her to stay in the shack. Said you came around every day, brought meals for her.”
Saul nods, remembering how broken Eva was in those early days, unable to even leave her room. He had no idea how to find words for a loss he could never experience, so instead, he’d talked with her about the small goings-on of his days: the fish he saw on each dive, the project he was working on in the lab, the rhythms of the bay.
He glances out over the deck, where he sees Eva still leaning on the railing, watching the bay. She wears his sweater still and the sleeves fall down beyond her hands. Jackson must follow his gaze because when Saul turns b
ack to the room, Jackson is staring at him. “You must’ve spent a lot of time with Eva.”
“Some.”
“I’ve seen you free-diving together.”
Saul feels the heat of the wood-burning stove at his back and steps slightly away.
“And I’ve seen you on the deck.”
There’s an edge to Jackson’s tone and Saul feels himself rise to it. “So you’ve been lurking around, watching her?”
“I wanted to know she was okay.”
“Magnanimous.”
Jackson’s lip curls. “So what, are you two . . .?”
“I care about her.”
Jackson exhales loudly, as though the air has been forced out of him. He gets to his feet and paces to the corner of the room, saying, “I’ve had to see you with your arms around her. Kissing her. Holding her.” He stops, sniffs hard. “Is she, what, in love with you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what she feels.”
Jackson turns toward the glass doors, watching Eva. “She’s everything to me. I know I’ve hurt her. I know I’ve let her down, but she’s my wife, Saul.”
“No,” Saul says firmly. “She was your wife. You let her believe you were dead.”
Jackson swings around to face Saul. “I had no choice!”
“How many times have you consoled yourself with those words? Is that what you told yourself when you ran from the bush fire? Because it’s bullshit, Jackson! There’s always a choice.”
“Is it payback?” Jackson says, his eyes narrowing. “Is that it? For Jeanette? I fucked your girl, so you wanna fuck—”
Saul lunges forward, covering the room in two paces. He seizes Jackson by the throat, slamming him up against the wall. The back of Jackson’s head hits a framed picture and the glass shatters, fine shards raining over them both. Tiny needles of it are caught in Saul’s arm hair but he keeps his grip strong.
“It’s no fucking payback!” Saul shouts. “I love her!” The picture frame creaks and strains against the back of Jackson’s head. Their faces are inches apart and Saul can feel the stale heat of Jackson’s breath. All the anger and swallowed rage burns in this space between them.
“Fuck you!” Jackson shouts, his voice strangled by Saul’s grip.
Saul feels the tendons in Jackson’s neck pulsate beneath his fingers. “You almost destroyed her! I don’t care what your reasons were, or why you’re back, but you don’t deserve her.”
“And you do?”
Saul raises his free hand, his fingers curling into a fist. The veins in his forearm stand proud as his fist hovers level with Jackson’s face.
“Hit me!” Jackson spits through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with fury. “Do it!”
Saul understands that every frustration, every bad decision, every regret of Jackson’s is right here hovering over Jackson. His brother wants the pain of a fist in his face—he needs to feel as though he’s being punished, feel the guilt being beaten from him. It’s the same look he’s seen on their father’s face when he has a bottle in his hand.
“Come on!” Jackson yells. “You hate me, so just do it! I started the fire. I ruined our family! Fuckin’ do it!”
The rage contorting Jackson’s face begins to weaken. Saul’s hand is still gripped on Jackson’s throat and he feels the sob move beneath his fingers, hears Jackson’s voice crack as he cries, “I killed her! I killed Mum!”
Saul’s fist drops and he pulls Jackson toward him, clasping him in his arms, splinters of glass pressing between them. He feels the heat of his brother’s body, the sweat from the back of Jackson’s neck in the crook of his arm. Jackson’s chest shudders as he gulps in air.
EVA IS ROOTED TO the spot. The heat from the stove thickens the air.
She was drawn inside by the yelling and saw Saul’s hands at Jackson’s throat. She’d watched, unable to move.
And now their arms are grasped around each other. She smells the tang of sweat, whiskey, fear. They cling to each other as though the ground is sinking and it is just the two of them left.
She thinks of all the photos she’s seen of them growing up: dive-bombing from the rocks; standing shoulder to shoulder holding a glistening fish by its tail; grinning with skateboards tucked under tanned arms.
For the past four years they haven’t spoken to one another, letting silence and anger fill the space between them. But now she sees that beneath that, all their history is still there.
Saul will always love Jackson.
As she looks at Jackson’s anguished face, she wonders, Will I?
Watching the brothers together, she can pinpoint their similarities more closely: how they both stand with their feet planted wide; the similar length of their backs broadening into their shoulders; how emotion can deepen their expressions in an instant.
The only two men she’s ever really loved, right here.
But which love was real? Had she fallen in love with Jackson because he was borrowing the details of Saul’s life, or had she fallen for Saul because he was an extension of Jackson?
Over the past few months she’s come to understand that her marriage to Jackson never had solid foundations. He had a magician’s talent for distracting her, diverting her attention away from the gaps in his past, and with sleight of hand, he created a present that was so vivid and full, she hadn’t noticed it was all just a performance.
With Saul, it was different. Their relationship had grown tentatively. They had found each other when Eva was at her lowest, yet he’d still seen something to love in her. And wasn’t every reservation she had about her relationship with Saul really about Jackson?
Saul is solid, grounded, honest; whereas Jackson is passionate and spontaneous, as ungraspable as air.
But does she need air to breathe?
Saul and Jackson step away, glass crunching beneath their feet. And then they are turning, suddenly noticing her in the doorway.
“Eva,” they say at the same time, their voices an echo of each other.
Now she sees the wall behind them where the photo of Saul at Machu Picchu hangs at an angle, its glass frame shattered.
She can feel the heat of the log burner as if it’s roaring inside her. They are both looking at her expectantly, as if they are waiting for an answer only she may have.
But all Eva is thinking is: What now?
37
Time crawls forward. The fire is stoked. Coffee is brewed and drunk. The clock on the bookcase chimes at 2 A.M. and then again at three. A pack of cookies lies on the table unopened.
Eva now sits in the corner of the sofa, her bare knees hugged to her chest. A deep tiredness fills her, dragging down her eyelids, making her breathing shallow, her limbs heavy. It feels as if the three of them are pressed together in the depths of the night, cocooned with this dark, shared knowledge.
The glow from the lamps paints the room in a soft orange light. Saul looks contemplative as he leans against the door with his hands pressed in a prayer, the tips of his fingers resting against his mouth. Every now and then his gaze roams to Jackson, who sits quietly on the wooden rocking chair picking at a thread in the fraying knee of his trousers. It’s as if all his nervous energy has fled and now he’s exhausted.
Eva thinks of all the lost hours she’d spent imagining Jackson returning to her; when she lay in bed alone at night listening to the empty silence; when she padded along the bay retreading the paths of his childhood; when, in any moment of the day, she was caught off guard by the overwhelming need to be held by him.
Because there was no body, a feather of hope had always floated inside her, lightly brushing her longing that Jackson would one day walk back into her life.
I wished for this. I wished he wasn’t dead. That he’d come back to me. And now he has.
Into the quiet she casts a question at Jackson. “After everything you did to disappear, everything you put us all through, why come back to Wattleboon?”
He looks up, his gaze filling with both tenderness and remorse as it
falls on her. He draws his hands along the wooden arms of the chair and says, “I needed to see you were okay. I wanted to be near you. I never planned to show myself. But then tonight I heard you talking to Callie about visiting Jeanette . . .”
Her back stiffens against the sofa. He was there? Standing in the shadows, listening? How many other times had he been nearby? How often had she doubted herself, questioned her sanity, thinking she was sensing things that weren’t real? “How long have you been in Tasmania?” she asks, her mind sliding from one thought to the next.
“A month.”
She blinks. “Have you been in the shack?”
He looks at her, then down to the floor as he nods.
She knows then that she didn’t imagine it—his scent. She pictures Jackson walking through the shack, trailing a hand over her belongings. He’d have gone into her bedroom and seen his old checked shirt on her pillow. She can see him putting it on, buttoning it up over his chest, feeling the familiar fit of the cotton against his skin, and remembering what it was to feel like himself once more.
“I thought I was going mad,” she tells him, shaking her head. “I knew you’d been in there—the air smelled of you. But I kept telling myself that I was imagining it.”
“Eva—”
“And you took our photo, didn’t you? The one of us at the jazz festival.”
“I’m sorry.”
She closes her eyes and sighs. Already those two words have lost their impact.
“Why tonight, Jackson?” Saul asks from his position by the door. Eva cannot tell if he’s standing there ready to leave, or because he wants to make sure Jackson stays. “Why show yourself tonight?”
“I hadn’t meant to. I heard Eva crying.” He shifts his gaze to her. “You waded out into the bay. I was worried about you. I came closer to make sure you were okay . . . and you saw me.”
“No,” she counters, shaking her head. “You wanted to be seen. If you’d heard me talking to Callie, then you’d have known I was leaving, too. The temptation was too great, wasn’t it? You got close enough so I’d see you—take the decision out of your hands.”
