Keep Her Sweet, page 7
Tell him I understand why he’s not responding. Tell him I know he might not be able to come and see me. Tell him I’m praying hard. I’m not going to stop. I won’t give up. Tell him I love him.
The second part of the favour was to ask her friends to the open house.
I asked her which friends; what were their names?
She said everyone at the meeting were her friends, which meant I had to ask everyone there to travel 80k to our mortifying domestic selling ordeal.
I told her this was very short notice.
She reminded me they’d all know about it from Facebook.
I said even evangelicals might have other plans for a Saturday night.
She said she doubted it, but just in case, sell it, Camille, make them want to come.
I said I’d do it. I promised.
I was wondering how to get the job done, when someone tapped my shoulder.
‘Camille?’ a man said in a kind voice. He was sitting beside me. He put his hand out to shake mine. ‘I’m Richard.’
I didn’t recognise him. There were some photos that I’d managed to find online, although every time I’d searched there were fewer and fewer. Someone was sweeping the internet clean, drowning dramas about The Dick out with music videos and happy stories. In the photos I’d found, he had a beard, looked completely different.
Asha told me he took himself off social media after the affair came out. Damage control, she said. Pastors weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing. The affair was a huge scandal.
‘Why,’ I asked. ‘Did you both want to have sex?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s a cut above most religious institutions then,’ I said, ‘if no children were raped. Dance Said He should be proud if that’s all the blokes at the top are doing wrong.’
‘Honestly, Camille, you are disgusting.’
‘You’re the one who’s been excommunicated,’ I said.
The Dick’s hairless face was pretty nice, gotta say. So was his voice.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t messaged you back,’ he said. ‘It’s a difficult situation.’
The thirtyish-year-old woman who’d made me tea was suddenly sitting in the chair on the other side of me.
‘I believe you’ve met my wife, Rowena,’ Richard said.
I was sandwiched between the married couple my sister had tried to destroy. The blood rushed to my head. She had probably put rat poison in my tea. They were probably going to dismember me.
‘We’re so happy to meet you,’ Rowena said.
‘We really are,’ said Richard.
Dunno why, but I believed them. I have to say they seemed like the most normal people I’d talked to in weeks. But there was no way I could pass on Asha’s message with his wife present.
‘I’m just here to ask Asha’s friends to her party. She sent out invites but no-one’s responded.’
An old guy came on stage and took out his guitar. It was like an open-mic night, people getting up and down. He was catchy. Almost everyone got to their feet for a dance. I stood but I didn’t dance. They were not gonna get me, DD, I am not suck-in-able. He sang two numbers before we sat down again.
‘Would it be okay for me to get up and tell everyone about it?’ I asked.
‘Asha’s party?’ said Richard.
Before I could answer, Rowena said, ‘Sure.’
I did it Band Aid style, almost tripped on a stair racing up to the stage, almost knocked the mic stand over. ‘Hi my name is Camille.’ Felt like I should add ‘and I’m an alcoholic’. I didn’t. ‘My sister Asha Moloney-Singh wants you all to know she’s having a party in Ballarat tonight and would love for you all to come. I’ll leave details on the board at the back. Thank you.’
I headed straight to the board at the back, wrote down the name of the Facebook Page, then turned round to wave goodbye to Rowena and Richard. Shutting the shed door behind me, I put my earphones in and started the long, hot walk to the station. The thought of going back to our Ballarat hell hole was eased by the fact that food would be there. I had no money and I was starving.
I’d made it half a block when Rowena and Richard caught up with me.
‘Hey,’ Richard said. ‘We’re not stalking you, promise – our house is right there.’ He pointed two doors down.
‘Why don’t you come in?’ Rowena said. ‘We didn’t really get to have a proper chat.’
‘No pressure,’ Richard added.
I was wondering if they’d feed me; betting they had posh bread and stuff. And if I went in, I might get a chance to read Richard Asha’s message. Hungry enough to risk a poisoning, I said yes and followed them inside their picket-fenced weatherboard. So pretty, it had roses in the garden and an enclosed spa area at the side. They were defo gonna have decent food in the fridge.
Rowena was reading my mind, and began putting together a charcuterie of sourdough, olive ciabatta, different-coloured cherry tomatoes, Parma ham, dolcelatte, real butter. I stuffed my face.
The place was homely: flowers everywhere, colouring-in pads and pencils on a tiny school desk, a half-done child’s jigsaw and bunny cup with cordial on the dining table. On the kitchen bench was a Women’s Weekly birthday-cake book and wrapping paper and presents (a doll, a sticker book, a train). One of the living-room walls was filled with family photos: old rellies, their wedding, Rowena in hospital holding her baby, Rowena and Richard standing over the cutest toddler, her little mouth poised to blow out two lit candles on a multi-coloured train cake. I had no idea they had a child. I guess Asha never mentioned it because I’d rightly judge her for being even more of a prick. Imagine, wrecking a family like this.
‘I’m going to make some lemonade,’ Rowena said. ‘How about we have it in the garden? You go out and grab a seat, Camille. We’ll clear this up and bring it out in a sec.’
They probs wanted to talk about me. It was time for me to go. But I didn’t want to. The loungers in the garden were under the shade of a huge tree and had cushions that were so comfortable. Lemonade was on its way. I could hear ice tinkling. I love that sound. I was so sleepy and comfortable that I told myself to get up immediately and leave, that this was creepy and I was probably about to be strangled. I am going to die here, I said to myself, closing my eyes.
When I woke the afternoon heat was easing. I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms, wondering where I was and then wondering where Richard and Rowena were.
As if reading my mind, Richard opened the dining-room door and came outside.
‘She wakes,’ he said, handing me the glass of lemonade I’d been dreaming about.
‘Thank you. I am so sorry. This is embarrassing. What time is it?’
‘Six-thirty.’
‘What? Holy shit. Sorry, I just mean shit. I’m really late, I’ve got to go.’
Rowena hadn’t come out yet. I could see her wrapping the doll present in the kitchen. This was my moment to fulfil part A of the most recent favour.
‘Listen, before I go, Asha said to tell you something.’ I looked at my phone, read it to him as fast as I could: ‘I understand why he’s not responding. Tell him I know he might not be able to come and see me. Tell him I’m praying hard. I’m not going to stop. I won’t give up. Tell him I love him.’
There must have been a different door to the garden, because Rowena was behind me.
‘Shit,’ I said.
Rowena smiled. ‘Can you tell Asha…’
To fuck off? I was thinking. To kill herself? That I will kill her if she comes near me or my husband or my family ever again?
‘Tell her we’re glad she’s praying, tell her not to stop believing. She shouldn’t give up. God will never give up on her. But she needs to know it’s not possible for us to be in touch with her, not just because of the affair, but also the assault.’
‘I had ten stitches on my chin, see?’ Richard showed me the scar. ‘Actually, hon,’ he said to his wife, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to pass on a message. It wasn’t easy getting the interdict – any communication at all isn’t allowed. Apart from anything, it wouldn’t look good for her in court if it came out.’
‘Of course, scrap that. You do understand?’ said Rowena.
I said I did, completely, and that I had to go. I was so late.
‘You’re exhausted, poor thing,’ Rowena said. ‘We’re going to drive you.’
‘No, no,’ I said.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the two Rs.
*
‘Your daughter is so cute,’ I said from the backseat of their Audi. I was looking for small talk and this seemed easy. ‘Is she with a babysitter?’ I didn’t realise I could not have picked talk that was bigger than this.
Rowena put her hand on Richard’s lap.
He rubbed it gently, his other hand on the wheel. ‘She passed four months ago,’ he said.
‘Oh, no.’ I was shocked, sad. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
‘Brain tumour. She fought for three months. And we prayed so hard that she would get better. Asha came to our church just after she got sick. We were both weakened by it, very vulnerable,’ Richard said.
I’d have questioned his over-use of the word ‘we’ if Rowena hadn’t added:
‘The tumour reduced in size, you know, at six weeks. It was our prayers, we were all praying so hard. I thought your sister was supporting us. Turns out she was fucking my husband. So many couples split up after the loss of a child. You blame each other, you see grief in each other’s eyes. I understand why Richard sought comfort.’
Before today I didn’t know they had a child at all, and from what I saw in their house I thought they had a living one with a birthday coming up.
‘Nellie, she’ll be three next week.’
Hang on. ‘Her name was Nellie?’ I felt bad using the word ‘was’.
Rowena nodded. ‘Asha didn’t mention her?’
‘No,’ I said, not telling them the whole truth. Asha may not have mentioned her directly but she had said her name, many times. Yes, DD, Nellie. I’d heard her say it over and over when we shared a room, and a few times after, if I put my ear against the wall. In the middle of the night she would start off by praying like an ordinary crazy evangelical, then it’d turn into a chant about Nellie.
‘Rise, Nellie, rise,’ she’d say between some Gee-sussing. ‘Come to the light, Nellie, we need your smiles, we need your giggles, we need to dance with you, we want to push you on the swing, we want to do jigsaws with you, see you play with Mr Potato Head once more, we need to hear your voice, Nellie, rise, rise up, come back to us.’
‘She’s actually buried over there,’ Richard said. We were just passing Meredith Cemetery. I was so moved, I wanted to cry with them.
They explained everything to me as we drove, and now I do understand Asha. I understand completely. She is even crazier than I thought.
*
Women have conned themselves into believing the stupidest things when they’re in love with a married man. They believe he’ll leave his wife next weekend, for example, or next week, next month, next year, or when his wife’s had the baby, or as soon as the kids start school, finish school, when he finds a better job, when the wife’s through the chemo, when her work eases, when the housing market picks up, when he gets back from holiday, tonight baby, mmm right there, I’ll tell her tonight, I promise. But I have never heard anything as stupid as what Asha talked herself into:
She believed Richard would leave Rowena as soon as Nellie rose from the dead.
According to The Dick – who I’m gonna call Richard from now on, because he’s not the dick I thought he was; my sister is – anyway, according to him, she had it in her head that he’d leave his gorgeous wife, Rowena, when little Nellie was resurrected, and that this would only happen if she prayed hard enough. He was crying when he told me this. Rowena had tears in her eyes too. They both felt sorry for Asha. Richard had sinned, he had cheated on the love of his life, his partner, his best friend. But worst of all he had caused a young woman to lose her mind.
I was wondering how Asha saw it all happening. Would Nellie’s little fingers pop out of her grave one dark night; would she walk around, zombie style? I was trying to find a way to ask how she actually saw it happening, and how she became so deluded, when they stopped the car.
‘Hope you don’t mind if we drop you here,’ Richard said. We were two blocks from the house. ‘Best if your sister doesn’t see us.’
It was nearly eight. They both got out of the car and gave me a hug. Richard asked again if I would keep our conversation private, especially about Nellie. They didn’t want such nonsense to be circulated again. It was very painful for them and very harmful to the church, took them ages to clear it off the internet. The elders were livid. Richard nearly lost his ministry. It was the last thing they needed – rumours that they believed in even worse things than grave-soaking.
‘Which we do not believe in!’ Richard said.
‘Of course not,’ said Rowena.
I had no idea what grave-soaking was, I’d have to look it up later. My mind was racing with the lies I’d have to make up. I am terrible at lies. And Asha was going to grill me. I’d been away eight hours.
As if reading my mind, Rowena said: ‘Why don’t you just tell Asha you met me briefly at the meeting, but not Richard. And that I didn’t say I was his wife. Say you told everyone about the party, and then went to the beach and fell asleep or had a rest; a lot of it is true.’
I promised this and one other thing, that I would message them later so they’d know I got home safe and sound.
‘Maybe text my number this time,’ Rowena said. ‘I’ve just sent it to you.’
‘We promise to answer this time,’ Richard said.
‘But don’t let your sister see,’ Rowena said.
‘Maybe delete any messages after,’ Richard said.
As I ran the two blocks to our house, I realised I now had a lot of secrets. It was almost as if I was the one having an affair, with both of them.
CHAPTER TEN
The Second-Born
I walked in the door at 8.10pm. There were only two guests so far and I could tell Mum was mortified. Dad was talking away in the kitchen with the red-head from the Eureka, and Mum was trying to show The Queen of England how to throw a jug on the pottery wheel. So far all she’d thrown were wet clumps of clay all over her face, all over her cardi, all over the walls and all over my faux sheepskin-covered gym mat.
Suddenly, red-eyed Asha appeared from her bedroom door – ‘Camille, in here,’ she said, grabbing my arm and pulling me in. ‘What happened,’ she said, not letting go – she was holding my arm ransom. ‘Where is everyone? Did you speak to Richard? What did he say?’
I thought about wriggling free. Her grip was getting tighter the longer I paused, but an arm pull would make her definitely angry and probably suspicious.
‘I went to the prayer meeting and I met a woman called Rowena.’
‘Hang on, hang on,’ she said. ‘What? Stop right there and tell me properly. You met Rowena? At the prayer meeting? Start from the beginning and do it in order. I want details. What do you mean you met Rowena?’
‘You need to let go of my arm,’ I said.
Asha let go of my arm. I shook her heat off it, took a step back. ‘She gave me tea and biccies, and I asked her if she knew the pastor, Richard, and she said she didn’t and walked off and didn’t come back again. I asked a few other people, but they said Richard wasn’t around. I got up on stage and told everyone about tonight, and I left details on the board at the back, but I guess none of them wanted to come, although maybe they will, I dunno, because I left straight away. I walked back to town, and I stopped at the beach to dip my toes in and paddle for a bit, and then I needed a rest and I fell asleep on the sand. Sorry, can you move out of the way? I need to get out of this room. I’m really thirsty.’
‘Wait, wait wait wait: “Richard wasn’t around”, “a few other people”. Go back. Really, Camille, are you trying to make me upset?’ She took a breath, gestured for me to start over. ‘So you’re outside the hall…’
‘More like a shed,’ I said.
‘Whatever. I know, I’ve been there, a lot, so you’re outside it, what time is it?’
‘I got the twelve-thirty train,’ then back-tracked as I needed to add as many hours as possible to my story. ‘Actually, not that one, I was late. The one-thirty, so the whole trip took yonks, I didn’t take note of the time.’ See what I mean? My lie was growing arms and legs already.
‘If you got the twelve-thirty you got in at two-thirty-ish – did you walk?’
‘Yes, I have blisters.’ (What am I like? She’d better not check, as I don’t.)
‘So add an hour, that’s three-thirty-ish, you got there about three-thirty.’
‘Right.’ I was never going to get away with this.
