Tom’s not here.
I lie on the downstairs sofa and stare into the unlit fireplace. The cleaner comes and clears it out on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and today is a Wednesday, which is a relief. I never wanted a cleaner, but Ollie and Nettie insisted I get one when Tom began to degenerate. I don’t need her any more, obviously. Maybe I’ll cancel the cleaner.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Tom says in my mind. But it’s not ridiculous. I’ve always found the cleaners to be more of a hindrance than a help, to be honest. To me, cleaner day always means a furious whip-around to ensure I won’t be deemed a pig, followed by the need to make myself scarce because being home, twiddling my thumbs, while some (invariably) foreign girl works up a sweat scrubbing unspeakable things from my husband’s en suite toilet is just too awful to bear. Tom didn’t share my worries about cleaners. If he was home, he’d have languished on the couch, newspaper and coffee in hand. Once, I recall watching him lift one foot, then the other, as the girl vacuumed under his boots. He winked at her and she chuckled. Only Tom could get away with that.
Tom’s not here.
I’m not lonely. There are people I could call to keep me company. Ollie would come, I know that. He’d leave the office in a heartbeat and come straight over, delighting in the opportunity to do a good deed for his old mum. This is probably the reason his business is failing—his priorities are out of whack. He needs to stay at work and make a living to support his wife and family.
Nettie might come if I asked—unless she was doing something related to making a baby. My position in her foodchain is high, but not highest, which is exactly as it should be. Besides, I have the feeling she has her own issues. Since the sighting of Patrick in Daylesford, I’ve heard more whispers. Someone spotted him in Bright, someone else in Albury. Patrick, as it turns out, is a busy man. Once, I’d have confronted him, asked him what he had to say for himself. Now I can barely find the will to get out of bed.
I could call Kathy or Liz or Jan. They’ve all been calling and texting, offering to drop off meals or take me out. Liz did manage to convince me to come to the Baths for drinks a couple of days ago, but I still haven’t quite recovered. The normalcy of it was simply too much and I am not ready for normal yet. Tom is dead. I don’t care about your daughter-in-law or your fight with your husband or the funny story about your bladder control issues and the dog park. I don’t care about any of it.
Because Tom’s not here.
I miss the feel of him. Even a week ago, when Tom was barely alive, I could still reach out and touch him. He was always physically warm as well as emotionally. His warmth was his superpower. People wanted him to lead them. Friends wanted to be around him. Our children loved him best. I loved him best.
Mothers aren’t supposed to say that. But it is the truth. I was born to love Tom Goodwin.
The doorbell rings. I ignore it. This couch feels like a life raft; the outside world is shark-infested water. I grab the throw rug and pull it around my shoulders, hoping that sleep comes and carries me through until evening, when I will finally change into my pyjamas and slide into the comforting blackness of evening. I might have some toast and a cup of tea, and put something on the television to take the edge off the silence as I rattle about in this big old place. Sometimes, at night, I pretend that Tom is still here. I pretend that I’m up and about, ready to stretch out another cramp, or give him another sip of water. Those moments we shared in the wee hours of the morning feel so unimaginably luxurious now, those stolen moments, both of us against the world.
‘I’ll be right there, my love,’ I whisper into the empty house. ‘You’ll feel better in a moment.’
The doorbell rings again.
‘You get it, Tom,’ I whisper, and close my eyes.
44
LUCY
The present . . .
It’s dark when I hear the key in the lock. Nettie and Patrick have left, the kids are asleep and I’m on the couch, staring at nothing.
‘Ollie? Is that you?’
I hear keys drop into the bowl and then he appears in the living room. He flops onto the sofa, rests his head back onto the cushion and closes his eyes.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
He keeps his eyes closed. ‘They questioned me.’
‘About what?’
‘Everything.’
‘Ollie—’
He opens his eyes. ‘Honestly, they questioned me about everything. What I was doing the day Mum died, my relationship with her. They asked about my relationship with Nettie, my relationship with you. My business—’
I frown. ‘Your business? Why do they care about that?’
He opens his eyes. ‘Well, clearly they know things aren’t going so well. They had all our profit and loss statements. Debt is a pretty big motivation to kill someone.’
‘But you didn’t profit from her death!’
‘But I didn’t know I wouldn’t profit . . . this is something Jones kindly pointed out.’
‘She was going to tell you.’
He looks over at me. ‘What?’
‘I mean . . . she must have been. Surely Diana would tell you something like that.’
Ollie shrugs. ‘I honestly have no idea.’ A frown touches his forehead. ‘I saw Eamon while I was there. He was being questioned too.’
‘About your mother’s death?’
‘I guess so. Who bloody knows?’ Ollie sinks back against the couch, defeated.
‘Lucy, can I ask you something?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think I killed Mum?’
I look at him, every part of him so achingly familiar—the angles of his face, his devoted brown eyes, the curve of his chest. ‘No. But I do think you are lying about something. And I want you to tell me what it is.’
45
LUCY
The past . . .
I‘ve never been one to believe in fate, or ‘having a feeling’, but as I drive along Beach Road I have a sudden urge to call in on Diana. In fact, I make the decision so quickly I nearly take out a cyclist on the inside lane and end up waving profusely as he shakes his fist at me.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth, and he gives me the finger.
I turn into Diana’s driveway. She won’t like me turning up unannounced like this, but ever since Tom’s funeral I can’t seem to stop thinking about her. She must be lonely in this big house, all by herself. I asked Ollie to call her a couple of times and he did. ‘She sounded all right,’ he reported each time. ‘A bit flat maybe, but that’s to be expected.’
And it was to be expected. That didn’t mean she couldn’t use a friend. If that’s even what I am.
I press the doorbell. When there’s no movement inside I try the door and find it open. ‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Diana? It’s Lucy.’
I find her in the den, horizontal on the couch.
‘Diana?’ I say, but she doesn’t so much as lift her head from the pillow.
And that’s when I realise. Something is very, very wrong.
Diana stares out the passenger window of my car, trance-like. She’s wearing her normal ‘uniform’—navy slacks, white blouse, pearls—but her clothes look rumpled, like she wore them yesterday and dropped them on the floor before putting them on again. She’s also wearing black runners instead of nude pumps or ballet flats, and her hair is flat on one side (presumably the side she slept on) and she hasn’t bothered to fluff it up. She hasn’t said a word since she got in, not even to comment on the biscuit crumbs I wiped off the seat before she sat down.
‘Are you okay, Diana?’ I ask when we stop at the traffic lights. She’s staring at the beach-side of the road, at the kite surfers zipping along the horizon, but I get the feeling she isn’t seeing any of it.
‘I’m fine,’ she says when enough time has passed that I’m about to repeat myself. I offered to call Ollie (‘No, he’ll be too busy at work’) and Nettie (‘All she’s worried about lately is babies!’), but it appears she’s happy enough for me to be around
. She says she’s not ill, but she’s clearly not well. And so I’m taking her to see her family doctor.
But when I pull into the parking lot, Diana still doesn’t move.
‘All right,’ I say in a faux jovial voice that makes me cringe at myself. ‘Here we are.’
Finally she moves, but slowly, like a much older woman. She goes straight to the waiting room and sits down, leaving me to report to the desk. This is not the Diana I know. She’s been sad since Tom died, but today she seems almost childlike. She’s much easier to deal with this way, admittedly. But I don’t want to ‘deal’ with her. It’s a shock seeing someone so in control become so . . . helpless.
I report to the desk and then I sit beside her and wait. Diana takes the magazine I offer her but doesn’t open it. I don’t open mine either. When her name is called a few minutes later, I turn to her. ‘Would you like me to come in with you?’
She shrugs, which I take as a yes.
Dr Paisley appears to be in her mid-fifties, plump and smiley, dressed in a brightly coloured kaftan. Apparently Diana has been seeing her for years.
‘Hello,’ she says, sitting at her desk. She swivels her seat to face us and stretches her hand out to me. ‘I’m Rosie. Nice to meet you.’ She looks back at Diana. ‘I heard about Tom, Diana. I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What can I do for you today?’
I look at Diana who looks at me. Finally she sighs. ‘Well, I haven’t been feeling myself since Tom died. Which I imagine is to be expected. But Lucy wanted me to come and see you.’
Dr Paisley’s eyes touch mine for a second. ‘You’re right, no one feels themselves for a while after losing a partner. Sometimes a long while. But we need to be keeping an eye on your health through this period, so Lucy was right to bring you in.’
Diana shrugs. ‘Good then.’
‘How has your sleep been?’
‘Broken.’
‘Have you been doing things you normally do? Catching up with friends, seeing your grandchildren?’
‘I had drinks with the girls at the Baths last week.’
‘And how was that?’
Diana looks out the window. ‘It was all right, I suppose.’
As we chat, Rosie wraps a blood pressure strap around Diana’s arm and the machine starts pumping it up. Diana barely notices.
‘Has your mood been low in general?’ Dr Paisley asks her.
‘You could say that.’
‘Any issues with memory?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Diana says, deadpan, and I chuckle.
Rosie asks a few more questions, nodding at each answer as though it makes perfect sense.
‘Well,’ she says finally, ‘I think it might be a good idea to do some blood tests.’
Diana raises an eyebrow. ‘Blood tests for what?’
‘Several things. Anaemia. Thyroid. Plus the usual standard things.’ She types into her computer and a blue referral paper spits out of her printer. ‘But from what you’ve said, Diana, there’s no question in my mind that you’re suffering from depression. And so, I have to ask . . . have you had any thoughts about suicide?’
Diana doesn’t answer. After a moment, Dr Paisley’s eyes move to me.
‘Would you prefer if we talked without your daughter in the room, Diana? Sometimes it’s easier to be frank if—’
‘I don’t need to speak privately,’ Diana said. ‘No, I haven’t thought about killing myself.’
‘Good. Good.’
Dr Paisley prints out a referral for a good psychologist and prescribes some antidepressant medication, and we make an appointment to come back in a week. It’s not until we get out of there that it occurs to me that the doctor called me Diana’s daughter. And Diana didn’t correct her.
46
LUCY
The present . . .
‘Ollie,’ I say as the landline starts ringing. ‘The day your mother died. Were you at her house?’
He sits forward, resting his hands on his knees, and takes a deep breath. ‘I was.’
‘Why?’ I say, a moment before the more important question comes. ‘And why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I wanted to.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’
The phone keeps ringing, a loud, shrill interruption. I want to pull the damn thing out of the wall.
‘I’ll just answer it,’ Ollie says, walking over to the phone.
‘Ollie, no! Just leave—’
But he’s already snatching up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
I swear under my breath.
‘It’s Oliver,’ he says into the phone, then he’s quiet for a moment. His eyes find mine. ‘Yes. Just a minute.’ He holds the phone out to me. ‘It’s Jones.’
‘For me?’ I feel a pinch of worry as I take the phone. ‘Lucy speaking?’
‘Lucy, it’s Detective Jones. Housseini and I need to speak to you as a matter of urgency.’ Jones’s voice sounds clipped. ‘Do you think you could come down to the station?’
‘What for?’ I say. I want to say I’ve had enough of the police calling at ridiculous hours of the night, hauling me or Ollie down to the station. I want to tell Jones that we have little children who are asleep, and that unless I’m under arrest, she’ll have to wait until the morning. But I don’t say any of this. Because I have a feeling my ability to be outraged may just have been compromised.
‘We want to talk to you about an organisation called VEI. Voluntary Euthanasia International. We’ve received information that indicates your mother-in-law was a member of this organisation . . . and we have reason to believe that you have knowledge of this.’
I tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.
47
LUCY
The past . . .
When I arrive home after Diana’s doctor’s appointment, Patrick and Nettie are pulling up out the front.
‘Hi,’ I say, emerging from the car. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘We called Ollie,’ Nettie says. ‘He said we could come on over.’
‘Oh. Well, good. I’m glad you’re here actually.’
‘Us too,’ Nettie says, oddly chipper. Patrick, in contrast, seems a little down. He takes his time locking up the car, then slopes up the path a few paces behind us.
‘How has your day been?’ Nettie asks.
I let them in with my key. ‘Actually, it’s been a little strange. Which is why I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you about Diana.’
We walk into the kitchen where Ollie is standing at the fridge cracking a beer. ‘G’day, everyone,’ he says. ‘Beer, Patrick?’
‘Mum?’ Nettie says to me. ‘What about her?’
‘Yes, what about Mum?’ Ollie says.
The kids, in front of the TV in their PJs, look up, then quickly back at the screen.
‘Have they been fed?’ I ask Ollie.
‘Chicken nuggets, peas and corn,’ he says proudly. ‘Wine for you, ladies?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘I’m fine,’ Nettie says.
Ollie holds out a beer to Patrick, who accepts and downs it in record time. I wonder if everything is okay with him, but I’m too preoccupied with Diana to spend too much time thinking about it.
‘Why don’t we go outside to get away from little ears?’ I suggest. ‘And I’ll tell you what’s going on with Diana.’
As I clear the clutter from the outdoor table, I notice Nettie giving Patrick a look—somewhere between a smile and a wince. I feel a little dance inside. She’s pregnant, I realise. She must be pregnant.
‘So . . . do you guys have anything to tell us?’ I ask, when we’re all sitting. Nettie’s smile indicates that she does, but she shakes her head.
‘No, no, you first. Tell us about Mum.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Actually I dropped in to visit her today.’
There’s a short, loaded silence. Even Patrick stares at me like I have two heads.
‘You dropped in to
visit Mum?’ Ollie says.
Admittedly it is not the kind of thing I usually do. Still I’m taken aback by everyone’s level of shock.
‘Well, we’ve hardly seen her since Tom died, we’ve barely even heard from her. I was worried. And it turns out, I was right to be. She looks like she’s been sleeping in her clothes, not eating properly. I took her to the doctor, just to get her looked at.’
Ollie puts down his beer. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘She’s had some blood tests, but she’s most likely depressed. She was given a prescription for antidepressants. The doctor also recommended exercise and keeping some sort of routine. And I thought we could all take turns taking her out, bringing her food, that kind of thing.’
‘Good idea,’ Ollie says.
‘Sure,’ Nettie says. ‘Yes, why not.’
But Nettie seems distracted. Jittery. Her eyes bounce around the way the kids’ eyes do when they arrive at someone’s house for a play date and they can’t decide which toy to play with first.
‘Is everything all right, Nettie?’
‘Well, actually . . . Patrick and I do have something we’d like to discuss with you.’ She beams at Patrick, who smiles back a little less enthusiastically.
‘You’re pregnant!’ Ollie exclaims.
Nettie’s beam dims a little. ‘Well, no. Not yet. But that is what we wanted to discuss with you. The thing is, my fertility issues are multilevel. It’s not just the PCOS, it’s also my ovum and my uterus. Give me a fertility problem, and I have it.’ Her laugh is a thin, empty titter. ‘Our doctor told us this week that our best chance for conceiving a child is using a donor egg and a surrogate.’
I take a sip of my wine, drop my gaze.
‘It’s not how we imagined becoming parents, obviously. The baby wouldn’t be biologically related to me, but it would be related to Patrick and it would have been conceived to be ours. I think this is our best chance at having a baby.’
The Mother-in-Law Page 21
