"So all our problems were because of Gina and Mike," said Alice. These two strangers had destroyed their marriage.
"I don't think we can blame them for everything," said Nick. "We argued. We argued over the most trivial things."
"Like what?"
"Like, I don't know, cherries. One day we were going over to Mum's place for dinner and I ate some cherries we were meant to be taking. It was the crime of the century. You would not let it go. You were talking about those cherries for months."
"Cherries," pondered Alice.
"I'd be at work, where people respected my opinions," said Nick. "And then I'd come home and it was like I was the village idiot. I'd pack the dishwasher the wrong way. I'd pick the wrong clothes for the children. I stopped offering to help. It wasn't worth the criticism."
They didn't say anything for a few moments. Next to them, a family with a toddler and a baby laid out a rug. The toddler picked up a handful of sand with a determined expression on his face and went to drop it all over his baby sister's face. They heard the mother say, "Watch him!" and the father pulled him away just in time. The mother rolled her eyes, and the father muttered something they didn't catch.
"I'm not saying I was perfect," said Nick, his eyes on the father. "I was too caught up in work. You'd say I was obsessed with it. You always talk about the year I was working on the Goodman project. I was traveling a lot. You had to cope on your own with three children. You said once that I 'deserted you.' I always think that year made my career, but maybe ..." He stopped and squinted out at the harbor. "Maybe that was the year that broke our marriage."
The Goodman project. The words put a bad taste in her mouth. The bloody Goodman project. The word "bloody" seemed to belong naturally before "Goodman."
Alice leaned back and pushed the heels of her boots deep into the sand. It all seemed so complicated. Her mistakes. Nick's mistakes. For the first time it occurred to her that maybe their marriage couldn't be put back together.
She looked over at the family with the two small children. Now the father was spinning the little boy around and the mother was laughing, taking photos of them with a digital camera.
Madison walked up from the water toward them, carrying something in her cupped-together hands, her face radiant.
Nick's hand was next to Alice's on the picnic rug.
She felt the tip of his finger lightly touch hers.
"Maybe we should try again," he said.
Chapter 29
George and Mildred turned up on Friday.
Alice found them at the back of the garage. George was lying on his side, as if he'd been kicked over. His once dignified lion's face was now stained a moldy green, which made him look ashamed, as if he were an old man with food all over his face. Mildred was sitting in the middle of a pile of old pots. There was a huge chip out of one paw, and she looked sad and resigned. They were both filthy.
Alice had dragged them both onto the back veranda and was scrubbing them with a mixture of bleach and water, as recommended by Mrs. Bergen next door, who was thrilled that Alice had swapped sides on the development issue, and who was once again waving and smiling when she saw her and asking Alice to send the children over to play on her piano anytime they wanted. "We're not five anymore," said Tom wearily. "Doesn't she know we have a PlayStation?"
Barb had offered to take Madison for a shopping trip on the first day of her suspension. "Don't worry, I won't spoil her," she'd told Alice. "No new clothes or anything. Unless she sees something really special, of course, in which case I'll put it away for her next birthday."
As Alice scrubbed, she wondered if George and Mildred would ever look the same again. Was it too late? Were they too scarred by the years of neglect?
And would it be the same for her and Nick? Had each argument, each betrayal and nasty word built up into an ugly rock-hard layer covering what was once so tender and true?
Well, if it had, they would just chip away at it until it was gone. It would be fine. Good as new! She scrubbed so vigorously at Mildred's mane that her teeth chattered.
The phone rang and Alice put down the scrubbing brush with relief.
It was Ben. His voice on the phone was deep and slow and very Australian, as if someone from the outback were calling. He said that Elisabeth had been sitting in bed watching television for the last forty-eight hours and screaming if he tried to turn it off, and he wasn't sure how long he should let this go on for.
"It must be because she's so upset about the last IVF cycle failing," said Alice, looking at her fridge with the photos of the children and the school newsletters, and wishing she could somehow share this life with her sister.
There was a slight pause and then Ben said, "Yeah, well, that's the other thing. I found out that it didn't fail. I got a call from the clinic about her first ultrasound. She's pregnant."
Elisabeth's Homework for Jeremy I can hear him in the next room calling Alice. I made him promise not to tell anyone I was pregnant.
I knew he would. Liar.
You have no idea of the fury I feel. Against him. His mother. My mother. Alice. You, Jeremy. I hate you all. For no particular reason.
I guess it's for the sympathy, the pity and understanding, but most of all, for the hope. For the comments I'm about to hear. "This one could be the one!" "I have a good feeling about this one!"
Waves of red-hot fury keep rising up inside me. I'm trying to ride them like I imagine you might do with labor pains. I feel sick, and my breasts ache, and there is a funny taste in my mouth, and we've been here so many times before, and I can't go through it again, I can't.
And the thing that infuriates me the most, Jeremy, is that even though I'm saying it and I'm believing it and I know with all my heart that I'm going to lose this baby like all the others, I also know that underneath it all, that inanely positive, pathetic voice is still chirping, "But maybe ... ?"
Alice drove over to Elisabeth's place.
She had to get directions from Ben, and none of the streets or the area seemed remotely familiar. Perhaps she didn't visit Elisabeth much? Because she was so busy. Busy, busy, busy.
They lived in a red-brick cottage with a neatly mowed front lawn. It was a family neighborhood. There was a children's swing set in the front yard of the house next door, and a woman across the road was leaning into her car and unstrapping her baby from a car seat. It reminded Alice of her own street ten years ago.
She could hear the clamor of the television as soon as Ben opened the door. "She wants it up really loud," said Ben. "Be ready. If you try and turn it off, she sounds like a trapped animal. It's freaking me out. I had to go sleep in the spare room last night. I don't know if she even slept at all."
"So, what do you think is going on?" asked Alice.
Ben shrugged his massive bear shoulders. "I guess she's scared she's going to lose it again. So am I. I mean, in a way, I was almost relieved when I thought the blood-test results were negative."
Alice followed Ben through the house (very clean, neat, and bare; no clutter) into the bedroom, where Elisabeth was sitting up in bed with the remote in one hand and an exercise book and pen resting on her lap.
She was still wearing the same outfit she wore at the seminar for the butchers on Wednesday, except her hair was a tangled mess and her mascara had smudged so she had thick black shadows under her eyes.
Alice didn't say anything. She just kicked off her shoes and hopped into bed beside Elisabeth, pulling the covers up and putting a pillow behind her back.
Ben hovered uncertainly at the door. "Okay," he said, "I'll be working on the car."
"Okay." Alice smiled at him.
Alice glanced at Elisabeth's profile. Her face was set, her eyes fixed on the television.
Alice stayed silent. She couldn't think of the right thing to say. Maybe just being there would be enough.
An old episode of M*A*S*H was on the television. The familiar characters and the sudden bursts of canned laughter took Alice straight bac
k to 1975. She and Elisabeth sitting on that old beige couch after school, waiting for their mother to come home from work, eating ham-and-tomato-sauce sandwiches on white bread.
Alice's mind drifted. She thought about this strange little period of time in her life that began when she woke up in the gym last Friday morning. It was like this past week had been a holiday in an exotic destination that required the learning of unusual new skills. So many things had happened. Meeting the children. Seeing Mum and Roger together. The Family Talent Night.
Finally, she felt Elisabeth stir next to her. Alice held her breath.
Elisabeth said irritably, "Don't you have things to do?"
"Nothing more important than this."
Elisabeth grimaced and pulled at the blanket so it came away from Alice's legs. Alice pulled it back over her.
M*A*S*H finished and Elisabeth changed the channel. Audrey Hepburn's delicate features filled the screen. Elisabeth switched it again to a cooking show.
Alice felt like coffee. She wondered if it would break the moment, whatever this moment was, if she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup to bring back to bed. Oh, for a Dino's large double-shot skim latte.
Dino.
She dived for her handbag, which she'd left on the floor next to the bed and rummaged through it. She pulled out the fertility doll and carefully placed it on the sheets between herself and Elisabeth. It looked back at them with inscrutable boggle-eyes. Alice angled it so it was facing Elisabeth.
More time passed and Elisabeth said, "Okay, what is that thing?"
"It's a fertility doll," said Alice. "Dino from the coffee shop gave it to me to give to you."
Elisabeth picked it up and examined it. "I guess he's trying to insure against me kidnapping more of his customers' children."
"Probably," agreed Alice.
"What am I meant to do with it?"
"I don't know," said Alice. "You could bring it sacrificial offerings?" Elisabeth rolled her eyes. There was a glimmer of a smile.
Elisabeth put the doll on the bedside table next to her.
"It would be due in January," she said. "If it ..."
"Well, that seems like a good time to have a baby," said Alice. "It wouldn't be too cold when you got up in the night to feed."
"There won't be any baby," said Elisabeth viciously.
"We could ask Dad to put in a good word for you," said Alice. "He must be able to pull some strings up there."
"Do you think I didn't ask Dad with the other pregnancies?" said Elisabeth. "I prayed to the lot of them. Jesus. Mary. Saint Gerard. He's meant to be the patron saint of fertility. None of them listened. They're ignoring me."
"Dad wouldn't be ignoring you," said Alice, and her father's face was suddenly clear in her mind. So often she could only remember the face that appeared in photos, not the face from her own memory. "Maybe he's got to deal with a lot of bureaucrats in Heaven."
"I don't think I believe in life after death anyway," said Elisabeth. "I used to have all these romantic ideas about Dad taking care of my lost babies, but then it got out of hand. He'd be running a whole bloody day care center."
"At least it would take his mind off the sight of Mum and Roger salsa-dancing," said Alice.
This time Elisabeth definitely smiled.
She said, "Mum remembers all my due dates. She calls first thing in the morning and chats, doesn't say anything about the date, just chats away."
"She seems good with the children," said Alice. "They adore her."
"She's a good grandma," sighed Elisabeth.
"I guess we've forgiven her," said Alice.
Elisabeth turned to look at her sharply, but she didn't say "Forgiven her for what?"
It was something they'd never really talked about (well, as far as Alice knew they'd never talked about it); the way Barb had stopped being a mother after their dad died. She'd just given up. It had been shocking. Overnight, she became a mother who couldn't care less if they left the house without warm clothes, or if they cleaned their teeth, or if they ate vegetables--and did that mean she'd only been pretending to care before? Even months afterward, she just wanted to drift around all day, holding their hands while she cried over photo albums. That's when Frannie had stepped in and given their lives structure and rules again.
Alice and Elisabeth had stopped thinking of Barb as their mother and more as a slightly simple older sister. Even when she eventually recovered and started trying to exert her authority, they didn't really let her be the mother again. It was a subtle but definite form of revenge.
"Yes," said Elisabeth after a while. "I guess we did eventually forgive her. I don't know when exactly, but we did."
"It's strange how things work out."
"Yes."
They watched an ad for a carpet sale, and Elisabeth spoke again. "I feel really angry. I can't tell you how angry I feel."
"Okay," said Alice.
More silence.
"We've wasted the last seven years trying to create a life for ourselves, just a standard suburban life with two-point-one kids. That's all we've been doing--we haven't been actually living--and now this will put everything on hold for a few months longer until I lose it, and then I'll have to get over that, and then Ben will be at me to fill in the adoption papers, and everybody will be all enthusiastic and supportive. 'Oh, yes, adoption, how lovely, how multicultural!' And they'll expect me to forget this baby."
"You might not lose it," said Alice. "You might actually have this baby."
"Of course I'm going to lose it."
The cooking show host drizzled honey into a pan. "You must use nonsalt butter. That's the secret."
Elisabeth said, "All I need to do is pretend I'm not pregnant, so that if I lose it, it won't hurt so much, but I can't seem to do that. And then I think, Okay, just be hopeful! Assume it will work. But then every moment I'm scared. Every time I go to the bathroom I'm scared of seeing the blood. Every time I go for an ultrasound I'm scared of seeing their faces change. You're not meant to worry, because stress is bad for the baby, but how can I not worry?"
"Maybe you could delegate the worrying to me," said Alice. "I could worry all day long for you! I'm an excellent worrier, you know that."
Elisabeth smiled and looked back at the television. The cooking show host pulled something out of the oven and sniffed rapturously. "Voila!"
Elisabeth said, "I should have driven over straightaway when Gina died, and I didn't. I'm sorry."
How strange, thought Alice. Everyone had to apologize for something to do with Gina's death.
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't know if you'd want me there," said Elisabeth. "I felt as if I'd say the wrong thing. You and Gina were such a pair, and you and I, we've ... drifted."
Alice moved closer to Elisabeth, so their thighs were touching. "Well, let's drift back."
The credits were rolling on the cooking show.
"I'm going to lose this baby," said Elisabeth.
Alice put a hand over onto Elisabeth's stomach.
"I'm going to lose this baby," said Elisabeth again.
Alice put her face down close. She said, "Come on, little niece or nephew. Why don't you just stick around this time? Your mum has been through so much for you."
Elisabeth picked up the remote, turned off the television, and began to cry.
Frannie's Letter to Phil He kissed me. Mr. Mustache, I mean. Xavier. In the backseat of a cab.
And I kissed him back.
You could knock me down with a feather, Phil.
"I like the lions," said Dominick.
It was nine o'clock at night and he was standing at the front door, holding a packet of chocolate biscuits, a bottle of liqueur, and a bunch of tulips. He was wearing jeans and a faded checked shirt, and he needed a shave.
Alice looked at George and Mildred, back in their old places, guarding the house. It had been an exhausting effort, cleaning them up, and then she'd had to use a wheelbarrow to get them out to the fron
t of the house. Now she couldn't decide if they looked quirky and fun, or grubby and tacky. "I just thought I'd drop by on the off chance you felt like some company," he said. "If you're too busy planning for tomorrow ..."
Alice hadn't been doing anything, except lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and thinking vague thoughts about Elisabeth's baby, and Nick: "trying again." Nick seemed to think they should start out with a "date." "Maybe a movie," he'd said, and Alice had wondered how hard they would have to "try" as they sat in the movie. Would they have to eat their popcorn really enthusiastically? Have an especially animated conversation afterward? Score each other on how many times they'd been funny, their levels of affection? Would they have to try to kiss as romantically as possible? No, she didn't want any of this "trying." She just wanted Nick to move back home and for everything to be the way it should be. She was tired of all this nonsense.
It had been an exhausting day. All the children had sports, one after the other. Olivia played netball (lots of histrionic leaping about but not much actual contact with the ball), Tom played soccer (excellently--scored two goals!), and Madison played hockey (abysmally, miserably). "Do you enjoy it?" Alice had asked her as she came off the field. "You know I hate it," Madison had answered. "So why do you play it?" "Because you say I have to play a team sport," she'd answered. Alice had gone straight up to the coach and pulled Madison from the team. Both the coach and Madison were thrilled.
Alice had various duties at each game that she had somehow fulfilled smoothly, almost as if she wasn't an impostor in her own life. She'd kept score at Madison's hockey game. She'd helped cook the sausage sizzle at Tom's soccer game. Incredibly, she'd even umpired Olivia's netball. Someone had handed her a whistle, and even as Alice was saying, "No, no, I couldn't possibly," the cool shape of the whistle felt right in her hand. Next thing she was striding up and down the sideline, blowing sharply on the whistle, while strange words and phrases flew from her mouth. "Step!" "Held ball!" "Goal attack, you were off side." The children obeyed without question.
Nick had been there at all the games. There had been no time to talk. He had duties, too. He had to be the referee for Tom's soccer game. We're such parents, Alice had thought with a mixture of pride and fear--because, was that the problem? Was that why they would have to "try"? Because she was a "mum" and he was a "dad," and mums and dads were generic, boring, and not very sexy. (That's why kissing still went on in laundries at parties? To remind them that they were once randy teenagers?)