Everywhere We Look, page 12
She’d have thought Melissa would be back by now. Bridie has spent a great deal of this weekend waiting for Melissa. She had felt a sense of duty to come here for her. But it’s hard to be there for people who are not around.
She picks up another hot chip, throws it back to the plate. She’s not actually hungry. She only ordered the chips for something to do. She’ll head back to the cottage. Yes: she needs to express anyway; her breasts are tightening inside her bra. And besides, at the cottage she can be truly invisible. She aligns her glass perfectly on the coaster, gathers her bag.
On her way to the door she passes the woman at the window. Her mobile phone bleats and she picks it up, says hello.
Bridie pauses, watches this spectacle a moment, eventually interrupts. ‘Excuse me, sorry, how are you doing that? Without reception, I mean?’
‘Hang on.’ She holds the phone away from her ear, speaks to Bridie. ‘It’s ’cause of them.’ She nods to the SES crew outside. ‘Their tower thing. Gets reception for everyone.’ She returns to her conversation: ‘Yeah, just some random . . .’
Bridie swings her backpack to her front, rushes back to her table and slams it down, gropes for the phone in the front pocket and switches it on, waits for it to power up. Five bars appear at the top of the screen. She clutches it to her chest, considers what to do next. She’d been so embarrassed to call Rob so many times yesterday, had longed to send a text message. Now, with this possible connection in her hands, she is completely thrown. She could call him.
Should she call him?
She walks back to the girl, waves to get her attention. ‘Sorry to interrupt again, but how long will this last?’
‘As long as they’re here.’ She gestures again to the volunteers outside, resumes her conversation.
The man at the bar burps and stretches, pats his flanks, leans forwards again. Bridie notices he’s typing into a phone as well, has most likely been doing so this whole time without her even realising.
She looks to her own phone. It’s astonishing, really, this rush of serotonin that having mobile reception has injected into her system.
She’s thinking about what to do when the phone vibrates against her: a missed call coming through from yesterday, two missed calls, and now a message from Robert. She clutches the phone to her chest again, hurries through the door to the balcony. She needs to be alone to hear this.
Outside, she follows the balcony around the corner, finds a spot in the moonlight, lowers herself to sit cross-legged on the timber slats, and looks at the phone’s screen, at the message there, pauses. What if this call is about the toilet flush? Robert had paused too, when it happened. He knew that Bridie had heard it. He’d rushed her off the phone.
What if this message contains bad news? What if this message is going to deliver news that will shatter her? What if sitting here on this porch is the last time she will know life as it is at this very moment?
Look, she tells herself, she will have to face it sometime, so maybe it is best for it to happen here, away from prying eyes, from well-meaning friends.
‘It’s better than not knowing,’ she says to no one, and presses play before she can change her mind.
The message is silent for a few seconds, and for a moment Bridie thinks he might have dialled her number by mistake. Finally, his voice sounds. ‘Bridie, it’s me.’ His serious voice. ‘Look, I . . . I have something I need to tell you.’
Pans clatter from inside the kitchen and she leans forwards. Listens hard.
‘I think you might have heard that someone was here when you rang.’ Bridie rubs at her eyes. This is happening. ‘That’s why I’m calling now. I thought you should know that . . .’
Another clatter and Bridie stands, paces down the steps and along the external cool room.
‘. . . it was Janice.’
Her stomach is coal. This is really happening.
‘She came by because Freya forgot her netball uniform.’ He pauses here. ‘And Oliver was just really worked up . . . I know you’ll probably think I’m an idiot but I was worried about him—he was all red and snotty and . . . distressed, you know? And she stayed to make sure he was okay.’ Bridie steadies herself against the cool room wall. ‘Anyway she was just leaving when you rang and, for some reason, I didn’t want you to know. But then I thought about that, and I thought I should just tell you and then you’d know, and now, well, now you know . . .’ Robert sighs into the phone and relief cascades through her body like water. She bites her lip. He is a good man. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. I love you and I hope you have a good weekend . . . Oliver really is fine, by the way. I think he just had gas, maybe from taking his milk too fast.’ He sounds so vulnerable. She wishes she could reach through the phone and hug him. ‘And I’m sorry that I didn’t want to tell you on the phone. I guess I was embarrassed or something . . . What an idiot.’ He laughs, desperately. ‘Okay, see you Sunday. Bye. Ah . . . yeah, bye.’
The message ends and Bridie leans her forearm against the wall. She prises her clamped jaw apart. Janice was there, but she was there for a perfectly practical reason. This whole debacle is just one enormous overreaction. The fact that she must contend with is that Janice will always be in their lives. Bridie’s not sure she’ll ever be completely comfortable about it, but that’s okay, she thinks—grimaces. Now she’s embarrassed again, for a whole other reason. What had she actually thought was happening? Did she really believe that Robert would rush back to Janice the moment Bridie left the house?
She looks at her fingers, curled around the phone, and brings them closer to her face. She surveys the lines, the knuckles, the cuticles. Why can’t she just have a conversation with someone without later analysing every utterance? Go away for a weekend without making huge irrational leaps about her own relationship?
Something bangs on the far side of the cool room and she decides it’s time to leave. She starts when she hears a voice nearby, steps backwards into a pile of horse dung. She directs the bottom of her boot towards the porchlight, finds shit in clumps along the tread. She wipes her boot along grass, dislodges the bulk, searches for a stick to get at the rest of it. Muffled voices continue while she works away at the dung, musty in her nostrils.
‘. . . drives that thing like a maniac. I pray to the universe to keep him safe every time he leaves the house.’ She recognises this voice as Sue’s.
The other woman’s voice is louder, twangs like an acoustic guitar.
‘What these kids don’t understand is that everything can change’—Bridie hears a click—‘just like that. They’re too young to remember Bob and that heifer.’
This stick is too large. Bridie wipes her sole along the ground again like a dog finished defecating, searches for something smaller.
‘True that. Maybe we should find some pictures and pin ’em up on the windshield.’
‘Now there’s an idea. Show ’em the lid of his truck peeled right back to the rear windows and that bloody giant cow wedged inside. That might slow ’em down on the roads.’
‘What a way to go, eh?’
‘You can say that again.’
She gouges at the last line of tread as best she can. It will have to do. She will leave, stop eavesdropping. She throws the stick into long grass, hears Sue say, ‘Thanks for picking this up. Tell her I took the mushrooms out. I know she hates ’em.’
‘Will do. You’re a good egg, Sue.’
‘Don’t you forget it.’
‘And if I see Jared on the road I’ll remind him about that heifer, eh?’
Sue laughs. ‘Like that’ll scare him. Been trying it for years.’
Bridie shakes her head, steps away from the shipping container. It’ll be a while before she will need to worry about Oliver driving. She stuffs her hands in her pockets and heads for the cottage, pauses, doubles back to the steps to the restaurant. She pushes down the tiny seed of hope taken root in her gut. It’s stupid, she knows, really stupid, but she has to check if Sarah’s still there, just in case. Bridie cranes her neck, looks through the window to the small table where Sarah had been.
Her insides drop, a petal falling from its calyx, because of course she’s not there.
So she turns back towards the cottage. On the road, she kicks a stone, watches it tumble into a tangle of lantana. She vaults a small divot and thinks again of home and the baby and the whole toilet-flushing fiasco. For the first time this weekend she is pleased with herself. She’s glad, so glad, that she didn’t mention anything about it to her friends. Glad that she didn’t make a huge fuss over nothing. It all worked out in the end, Rob’s reputation remaining intact.
It was the right choice to keep it to herself.
•
Robert was frazzled; they all were. The school had called an impromptu assembly to talk about the girls, invited parents to attend. Bridie had been at a prenatal check-up, and so Robert had gone alone. He had heard all of the details.
She called him the minute she got out of the appointment.
‘Brides,’ he said, ‘it’s bad, it’s really bad.’ There was a muffled sound and then he spoke again. ‘I’m just signing Freya out. We’ll be home soon. I’ve asked Janice to come over. I’ll explain when I get there.’
When Bridie pulled into the street, Janice’s car was already in the driveway. She parked on the street, sat a moment in the car, steadied herself. Freya. This moment is about Freya. Eventually, she gathered up the birthing pamphlets, stuffed them into her bag and walked up the path. She hovered at the screen door, couldn’t hear anything and so turned the handle and walked in.
Freya was sitting between her parents, eyes red and with her hands shoved between her knees. She looked so stiff Bridie thought she could pick her up and the girl would retain her shape. Robert and Janice were looking at each other, parents bonded in concern for their child. It’s a look Bridie would never share with Robert over Freya, no matter how hard she tried.
Bridie was embarrassed, out of place, intruding. She fought the urge to turn and flee.
Her phone beeped and the three looked up, realised she was standing in the hallway. Stared at her.
Bridie froze, not knowing what to say. What could anyone say?
Freya’s face glowed wet. Tears fell from her chin to her t-shirt. Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, shuddered out fits of poorly restrained tears, and Bridie looked away, gave him some space. Janice placed a hand on Freya’s knee, leaned across her to do the same to Robert.
‘Sweethearts,’ she said and buried her face in Freya’s hair.
Bridie was disgusted at herself. Even at a time like this, Janice’s remark had made her bristle. She put her things on the bench, said she’d make some tea.
Bridie placed mugs on the bench. Sarah prefers Earl Grey. She retrieved tea bags from the drawer. Sarah blows steam across the top of her cup. She placed the first two bags into cups with shaky hands, fumbled with the third. Sarah blows steam across the top of her cup of Earl Grey tea. Clumsily tore the tag from the string.
Robert’s hands were on her shoulders, his body warm and large behind her. ‘Brides.’
Sarah’s eyes are the brown of the earth.
She stiffened, shook off Robert’s hands. ‘You need to be there for Freya.’
Robert’s hands lifted from her shoulders, his warmth retreating from her across the room.
‘What happens to your bones when you burn?’ Freya asked.
Bridie paused, saw Robert and Janice search each other’s faces for the answer.
Robert’s mouth was open, trying to speak words that wouldn’t form. But Bridie knew how to answer this. She’d read an article about it just last week.
‘It’s okay to be curious, Freya,’ she said softly from behind the kitchen bench. ‘It’s very normal to want to know the details.’
Robert looked at her blankly. Then he looked to Janice, seeking direction.
Janice, back turned to Bridie: ‘I don’t think it’s helpful to think about that right now, Frey-Frey.’ She stroked Freya’s hair, plucked another tissue from the box and exchanged it for the wet one.
Bridie hid her face behind the pantry door. In Sarah’s pantry, there are boxes of Earl Grey. Not even Robert wanted her input. But this moment was about Freya, she reminded herself. There would be time to process all of this herself later. The kettle boiled and she poured hot water cup by cup.
Freya looked at Bridie, then to her mother.
‘Can I stay at your place tonight, Mum?’
Janice continued to stroke her hair, glanced at Robert, who nodded. ‘Of course, darling. Whatever you want.’
Freya nuzzled her head into Janice’s shoulder and turned teary eyes towards Robert.
‘Will you come too, Daddy?’ Her voice grew panicked. ‘Please!’
Robert looked to Bridie behind the bench.
Oh god, no. Anything but that. Bridie’s airways swelled deep in her throat and she felt for the asthma reliever through the fabric of her bag. Here is the key chain Sarah gave me as a gift. She imagined Robert and Janice on the couch, bent legs facing each other, talking for hours after Freya fell asleep. Sarah and I sit beside each other on the couch, talking and talking. Imagined him waking in the morning, pouring tea for Janice and himself, falling into old habits. Sarah keeps English breakfast in her pantry, just for when I visit. She wrapped her lips around the reliever, inhaled the medicine, nodded at Robert. ‘Yes, definitely, Rob. Whatever Freya needs.’
Robert sent her a small smile across the room and Bridie consumed it like oxygen.
‘I don’t think I can, Frey. But I’ll be here when you get back.’
On the couch, Freya launched into his arms. ‘Please, Dad.’
Robert shrugged her off gently, came to the kitchen, tried to put his hands on Bridie, but she moved away, frightened that affection would catapult her into a place where she would dissolve entirely.
‘Bridie, I can’t leave you. I mean, Sarah’s—’
‘It’s fine, Rob. Your daughter needs you. We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.’
‘But . . .’
‘Go, Rob. Really. I have to call the others anyway.’
He waited a moment longer. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll call you when I get there.’
‘Yep.’ She nodded, pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and put the box of tea bags back in the drawer, willed herself not to cry. She tipped each mug of tea down the drain and swallowed and swallowed to keep the tears at bay.
She wished they would just leave.
Finally, the three of them moved down the hall.
At the door, she waved goodbye, concentrated on taking long, slow breaths while they drove up the street and around the corner. I wave Sarah off from here when she drives away after tea.
She thought of bones, then, of what happened to them when they burned. She closed her eyes, tried to squeeze the image from her mind. She grasped frantically for a reason to explain all of this, to imagine how . . . No, she wouldn’t allow her thoughts to go there. Because some thoughts were simply too difficult to bear. She opened her eyes to tunnel vision, struggled to close and lock the door. She walked down the hall and collapsed against the back of the couch, slid to the floor—I sit cross-legged on the floor with Sarah during reading groups—remained there like a piece of furniture until eventually she felt the baby in her abdomen kick for the first time.
12.
CASSANDRA
Cassandra checks her watch, but it’s too dark to make out the time. They’ve been walking for what seems like hours. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, kneads her lower back, its hot ache deepening the longer this trek continues. Perhaps it would have been quicker to take the hiking trail, back the way they came. She has not asked this much of her body for the longest time.
There’s no use in going over things from the past, Cassandra knows that’s a futile exercise, and yet she cannot stop thinking about that moment on the side of the road, and that moment earlier when Maggie was in the car with them, asking them directly for help—cannot stop regretting her decisions.
A cheer erupts from further up the road, and Cassandra raises her head, shields her eyes from the headlights of an oncoming bus. Its hazard lights flash, blinking orange light through the scrub, and it pulls onto the shoulder. The door opens and Cassandra reads SES spelled in blue lettering along the flank. The volunteer searchers file onto the bus and Cassandra follows, collapses onto a seat, groans. Her feet hurt.
The seat beside her remains vacant, the volunteers all avoiding her, a stranger to them. She attempts to tune in to the conversations around her, hears the couple sitting across the aisle say something about a different plan but they hush when they notice her listening.
She leans her forehead against the glass, watches as the landscape flickers from forest to wheatfields, from wheatfields to grassland, and eventually from grassland to town centre. The bus circles the roundabout and Cassandra makes out the clock in the tower, sitting proudly in the middle. It’s almost seven. Melissa and Bridie are probably back at the cottage. She will tell them about the search when she gets there, about the town mobilising so quickly and methodically, about the utter lack of resolution.
The bus pulls into a compound surrounded by high wire fencing. She alights to find the SES building sharing the compound with the police station, all lit up like a sports stadium. Around her people say their goodbyes, disappear into cars in a flurry of headlights and swirling road grit, and suddenly Cassandra is standing alone in the middle of the car park, dust settling around her.
‘I’ll take that.’
She jumps at a voice and turns to see Tom, holding a hand out and requesting she take off the SES vest. He’s wearing a bicycle helmet. She slips it off her shoulders and hands it to him.
