The Mother-in-Law

by Sally Hepworth

  Patrick has the decency to look ashamed, which is something, I suppose.

  I study him. ‘So . . . you don’t want a baby, is that it? You don’t want to be shackled to Nettie?’

  ‘No, that’s not it. I do want a baby. At least I did. But I accepted it wasn’t going to happen a few years back. Nettie didn’t. And now . . . I don’t know how to help her. She’s either a walking zombie or she’s totally manic from her latest fertility idea. She’s not the same person I married.’

  He looks so sad I rein in my anger.

  ‘So what do you want from me, Patrick?’

  ‘I don’t want anything. That’s exactly my point.’

  ‘Actually you do want something. You want me to withhold money from my daughter so you can avoid having a conversation with her that you need to have.’

  Patrick opens his mouth but I get in first.

  ‘And what happens next? Once Nettie gives up on her baby dream? You give up your girlfriends and you both live happily ever after?’

  He exhales. ‘I don’t know, okay?’

  But he does know. And suddenly I do too. There are age restrictions around surrogacy in Australia, even for intended parents. In a few years, Nettie and Patrick will be too old to become parents. Which means that Patrick just has to ride out Nettie’s craziness for another year or two. And with my recent ‘cancer’ diagnosis, in two or three years he’ll be able to enjoy a comfortable, childless life. A life with all the little extras he’s enjoyed with us over the years. Whisky, cigars, homes by the beach. Now that it’s within his reach, he’s not going to give it up.

  ‘Well,’ I say, ‘regardless of whether I give Nettie this money for the surrogacy, you need to talk to her. You need to tell her about the other women, and you need to tell her you no longer want a baby.’

  Patrick shakes his head. This has not gone the way he wanted. He thought he could come here and form some alliance with me, I realise. Him and me against my daughter. The idea makes me sick to my stomach.

  ‘Diana, I really don’t think—’

  ‘If you don’t, Patrick, I will.’

  Patrick’s eyes flash as he rises to his feet. He smiles, a horrible mean smile. ‘Look at you, acting all concerned about your daughter. Nettie’s spent her whole life vying for your attention, and you’ve never given her the time of day. You’ve spent more time worrying about your refugee women than your own children. And now you’re acting holier-than-thou. Who do you think you are?’

  ‘I think I’m her mother.’

  ‘Some mother.’

  He squares up against me, but I’m not scared. If Patrick wants me to change my mind, he’s going to have to kill me.

  56

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  After his pathetic attempt at trying to intimidate me, Patrick finally leaves. I finish sorting the baby clothes and then go into the study. I sit in Tom’s old chair, running my fingers over the surface of the desk, picking up pens and notepads, touching the things that he touched. It’s been a year since he died and he’s started to disappear from the other rooms, which have been cleaned numerous times, but I still feel him in here.

  I remember that conversation we had a few years back, about the kids and money. It’s about support, Tom said. Whether to give it or not. Patrick doesn’t want me to give them money for the surrogacy. Nettie does. One way or another, Nettie has a rough time ahead of her and she’ll need someone to support her.

  I hear a key in the door and a moment later I hear Lucy’s voice. ‘Diana? Are you home?’

  It’s Lucy’s voice.

  I sit up straight. Lucy hasn’t been here since the night she came to encrypt my email address and show me how to use bitcoins. I didn’t know if I would see her again after that. But here she is rounding the corner, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt and hot-pink ballet flats and a zebra scarf around her neck. Still fashionable, but a little more subtle these days. It’s as though she’s maturing, coming into herself, figuring out who she really is.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been by,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t apologise. I understand.’

  I do understand. It’s a tall order visiting someone after you have helped them procure drugs illegally to end their life? What would we talk about? The future is off limits, obviously, as are plans for Christmas, or upcoming holidays. There is simply nothing left to discuss. Still, I can’t deny the fact that I feel . . . happy to see Lucy. Over the past few months I’ve become accustomed to having her around, making food or doing the dishes or booking my appointments. It has made it feel all the more quiet when she isn’t here. I’ve been surprised, even humbled, by her devotion. Perhaps the biggest surprise is that, while I know she doesn’t want me to take my own life, she’s never, not once, tried to talk me out of it. It reminds me of the way she supports Ollie. Suddenly I see it for what it is: a gift.

  ‘What are you doing here in the study?’ she asks.

  I look around the room. It feels empty, even filled with furniture. ‘Looking for Tom,’ I admit with a smile.

  A soft smile crosses her face. ‘It’s lovely, the way you love him.’

  ‘Funny, I was just thinking the same about the way you love Ollie.’

  The thing about death is that it puts things into perspective. I know what I care about now. I care about my children and my grandchildren. I care about my charity continuing to operate. I care about people getting a fair go.

  And I care about Lucy.

  Lucy presses her lips together, swallows. ‘You . . . you’ve never said that to me before.’

  ‘No. But I should have. I’m sorry I didn’t.’

  She crosses the room and puts her arms around me. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ she says. She begins to sob in my arms, keening.

  ‘Shhh.’ I pat her back. ‘It’s all right, dear.’

  Holding her, I feel myself soften. I can’t remember holding anyone like this since Tom. It brings tears to my own eyes.

  ‘I’m not going to do it, Lucy.’

  Lucy stills, but remains where she is for a moment. When she finally lifts her head I feel a surprising sense of loss, a coldness where her warm head has just been.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I can’t leave Nettie with everything that’s going on right now,’ I say. ‘I can’t leave Ollie and my grandchildren. I can’t leave my charity.’ Lucy’s hair has gone all static, fanning around her face like a mane. I pat it down, tuck it behind her ears. ‘And I can’t leave you,—’

  ‘I love you, Diana,’ she says, and she throws her arms around me again with such force that it takes my breath away. I return the hug with as much vigour.

  ‘I love you too, dear,’ I say, and then we stand there in the centre of the room, holding each other and crying.

  57

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  There’s a saying about little boys adoring their mothers, and I think there is something to it. Little girls love their mothers, too, of course, but a little boy’s love for his mother is pure, untainted. Boys see their mothers in the most primal way: a protector, devotee, a disciple. Sons bask in their mothers’ love rather than question it or test it.

  What I like best about the mother-son relationship is the simplicity. When Ollie was a toddler, when times were really tight, I had fleeting pangs of guilt that I wasn’t able to give him things. I remember asking him what he wanted for his birthday and he replied, ‘I’d like to go to the beach and then eat Vegemite sandwiches for dinner.’ It was, perhaps, the only thing we could afford. For a moment I thought that was why he’d said it, but then I realised he was too young for that. Sandwiches at the beach was simply his idea of a perfect day.

  So today, when Ollie calls to suggest a visit, I don’t read into it. I expect that’s all he wants, a visit. Ollie is committed to Lucy, and his family comes first, but I like to think there’s still a part of his heart that is reserved for his dear old mum. When he appears at the door, though,
it is immediately apparent that he is not, in fact, here for a visit. He looks upset and he doesn’t try to hide it—he is in his work clothes, but scruffy, as if he’s slept at the office.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ I ask him.

  He closes his eyes, shakes his head. ‘Can we talk inside?’

  We go into the den and Ollie declines my offer of tea or coffee. Instead he drops onto the sofa. I sit opposite him and he rests his head in my lap. I put a hand into the thick dark hair he didn’t get from me or Tom, and run my fingers through it like I used to when he was a little boy. Now he is a forty-eight-year-old little boy.

  ‘What is it?’ I repeat.

  ‘My business is going under. We’re not going to make our loan repayment,’ he says. ‘And the bank is calling in our debt.’

  My hand freezes in his hair. ‘Oh no. Ollie . . . I had no idea.’

  ‘Honestly, neither did I. I’ve been working my guts out for this business for years, and I can’t seem to make any headway. I honestly don’t know where the money goes.’

  ‘Probably into Eamon’s pocket,’ I mutter. I’ve never thought of it before, but suddenly it seems like the obvious answer.

  Ollie pauses, blinking into the middle distance. ‘No. Eamon wouldn’t—’

  ‘Wouldn’t what? Go to any length to line his pockets?’

  Ollie shakes his head. ‘God, I don’t know. I haven’t even spoken to him properly in months.’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘Of course I have. He says everything is fine and we can talk later.’

  ‘You need to insist.’

  He laughs blackly. ‘Even if I did, Mum, there’s nothing to talk about now. It’s over. The business is worthless.’

  He presses his fingers into his eye sockets. I’ve never seen him look more broken.

  ‘Not if you make your loan payment,’ I say, after a moment or two.

  Ollie frowns. ‘But how would I do that?’

  ‘I might be able to come on board as a silent partner. At least, I might consider it if Eamon has nothing to do with it. As a matter of fact, I have an idea for your business. It would be a bit of a departure from what you’re doing now.’

  ‘What kind of . . . departure?’

  When I tell Ollie my idea, he looks so surprised and impressed I have to try hard not to be offended. That’s right, I want to say. Your father wasn’t the only one with business ideas. He rests his chin in his hand, taking it all in, and he reminds me so much of Tom, I find it impossible to believe they weren’t biologically related. We live on, I realise. We live on through our children.

  ‘You know what?’ he says finally. ‘That is a business I could really throw myself into.’

  58

  LUCY

  The present . . .

  The phone is ringing in the background again. The damn thing won’t stop. But neither Ollie nor I look at it or even acknowledge it.

  ‘You asked Diana for money? For your business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Ollie pinches the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You said it was a deal breaker.’

  I blink at him. ‘What?’

  ‘A deal breaker. You said that. If I ever asked Mum for money. I couldn’t lose you on top of everything else.’

  I sigh. ‘Jesus, Ollie. You’re not going to lose me.’ I close my eyes.

  ‘The weirdest thing was that she agreed. I never expected her to.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I . . . just wanted to talk to my mum. You probably won’t believe this, but she could be . . . very wise.’

  I chuckle. ‘Actually, I do believe that.’

  The landline stops ringing and for a moment we are surrounded by pure silence. But it lasts only a second before Ollie’s mobile starts up. I open my eyes. I want to throw it against the wall.

  ‘She was different,’ Ollie says, frowning as he recalls it. ‘She didn’t tell me to make my own way, or to figure it out myself. She told me she had my back. She said we’d pay off Eamon and go into business together.’

  ‘She wanted to go into business with you?’

  ‘She had a really interesting idea actually. A recruitment agency for highly skilled refugees. Engineers, doctors, IT professionals. A full service agency that would help to get candidates’ qualifications recognised in Australia and give them all the tools they need to transition into good jobs, across all fields. It was a really good idea. She thought you might want to be involved too.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes. A family business, she said.’ Ollie’s chin puckers. ‘But then she killed herself. Why would she say all of that . . . and then kill herself less than an hour later?’

  Obviously I have no idea. When Diana told me she’d changed her mind about killing herself, I believed her. Why would she have said that if it wasn’t true? And even if she did change her mind back again, it didn’t explain the letter in the drawer, or the thread in her hands. It didn’t explain the missing pillow.

  ‘There’s only one explanation I can think of,’ I say to Ollie. ‘Someone must have got there after you left.’

  59

  DIANA

  The past . . .

  After Ollie leaves, I go to Tom’s study and pull out my letter. I look down at it.

  I could have written more, but in the end, there’s really only two pieces of wisdom worth leaving behind. I worked hard for everything I ever cared about. And nothing I ever cared about cost a single cent.

  Mum

  I’ve never been a woman of many words. I could have crafted a letter to my children explaining why I’d chosen to end my life, or about how much I loved them, but that’s not my style. Besides, how would that help them? Sentiment has a way of diluting truth, and if I was going to leave a last few words of wisdom behind for my children, I wanted them to be clear.

  Now, of course, I won’t be needing this letter. At first I think about burning it. Then I wonder if I should keep it as a reminder of how I have felt this past year. Perhaps it’s a good thing, to remember. I tuck the letter into the office drawer and head down the stairs and am just walking past the front room when Nettie lets herself in.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says. ‘Can we talk?’

  Nettie walks into the small front room and sits on the little couch. I follow her, sit beside her. She picks up one of the cushions and begins fiddling with the gold tassels. ‘I’m here about the money, obviously,’ she says, not wasting any time on small talk. ‘For the surrogacy. I’ve been talking to the agency, and I’m going to need to pay the deposit soon. I’m sorry to pressure you, but this is my . . .’

  ‘. . . last chance.’

  ‘Yes.’

  My mind drifts to Patrick. His flashing eyes. She’s on a mission for a baby. She’s obsessed by it.

  It’s like she’s possessed.

  ‘And Patrick is . . . on board? About the surrogacy?’

  ‘Of course he is.’ She avoids my gaze, the way she did when she was little and didn’t want to talk about something. ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘How are things with Patrick, Nettie?’ I ask. ‘Is your relationship . . . solid?’

  She shrugs. ‘Sure it is.’

  ‘Really?’

  Nettie looks up, takes in my sceptical expression and becomes guarded. ‘What?’ She sounds almost angry.

  ‘You know Patrick has been unfaithful, don’t you?’ I say. ‘You must know, Antoinette.’

  The expression on Nettie’s face—a kind of bewildered rage—is so jarring that for a moment I wonder if it’s possible that she doesn’t know. Then she laughs. ‘Of course I know. Everyone knows.’

  I hesitate a moment, thrown by the bizarre laugh, but decide to plough on. If I’m going to help my daughter, I need to understand her, see her side of things. ‘Then why would you want to bring a baby into a relationship like that? Tell me, darling.’

  She rolls her eyes.
‘It’s not about Patrick, don’t you see that? It’s about me.’

  Nettie stands up, starts pacing. She goes back and forth, several times.

  ‘Nettie, I’m worried about you,’ I say. ‘You’re not in a fit state to go into surrogacy right now. I think you should see someone, get some professional help.’

  Her pacing stops abruptly. Her eyes lock on mine. ‘Does this mean you won’t help me?’

  ‘It depends what you mean by help. I’ll help you find a psychologist to speak to. I’ll help support you if you decide to leave Patrick, and I’ll help support you if you decide to stay with him. But I won’t be funding your egg donor and surrogate pregnancy, no. Not right now.’

  Nettie hovers over me, her hands shaking with rage. She shifts from foot to foot in front of me. I remain still, as if trying not to spook a frightened animal.

  ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like to have the one thing you want taken away from you?’ Her voice grows in volume and intensity as she speaks.

  ‘Yes. Tom was taken away from me.’

  ‘Did it make you question your own life? Your purpose?’

  ‘It did.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. If you knew what I was talking about, you would never do this to me.’

  ‘Believe me, Nettie, I know,’ I say. ‘I understand what it’s like to feel that your entire purpose is wrapped up in one thing, one person.’ I hadn’t intended to tell Nettie about my planned suicide, but suddenly it feels like the one thing that might bring her to her senses. ‘After your father died, I contemplated suicide. I researched it, I bought poison online—it’s still in the door of the darn fridge! But it was madness, the whole thing. I loved Tom, but he wasn’t my entire life. I have you and Ollie and Lucy. I have my grandchildren. My friends. My charity. And Nettie, you may not see it now, but your life isn’t about having a baby.’ I stand so we are eye to eye. ‘Forget about babies. Take your life in a different direction. You could do anything you want!’

  ‘So you won’t give me the money?’ she says, when I’m finished.

  ‘Nettie! Have you heard anything I’ve said?’