Everywhere We Look, page 4
Cassandra grabbed Hunter’s hands, glared at him to stop and tapped the woman on the shoulder, apologised.
The woman didn’t turn, just smiled sideways and waved her off. ‘No trouble at all.’
Cassandra checked her watch, searched the door. Still no Alec.
At the front of the hall, Hunter’s teacher sauntered to the bottom of the stage. She fiddled with the microphone until it made a loud tonal thump and raised it to her lips.
‘Hello, parents, families, guardians, children, and welcome to the prep Christmas concert. We’ll be starting shortly, but in the meantime could I please have all of my little prep munchkins to the stage?’
Inside Cassandra’s womb, the baby shifted, ever reducing the size of her bladder. Cassandra tensed her pelvic floor while Hunter fixed his hands around her arm, determined not to move. She cursed Alec for not being there, stood, squeezed her swollen body along the row, pulled Hunter by the forearm behind her. Bailey followed, eyes fixed on Bluey the whole way, bless that TV show.
Hunter’s class gathered around their teacher.
‘Off you go,’ Cassandra urged Hunter. ‘It’s time to sing now.’
Hunter tightened his grip, shook his head.
Cassandra regretted everything. The soles of her feet hurt, her back ached; she might pee herself at any moment. She’d kneel down to talk to Hunter, meet him at eye level, if getting back up didn’t require as much effort as an Olympic clean and jerk. She shouldn’t have come. At home, Hunter and Bailey would be playing blocks on the rug while Cassandra rested on the couch, watched her belly contort as the baby shifted about. She was considering taking Hunter’s hand and evacuating when the woman from the row in front approached, knelt down beside him.
‘Hunter, would you like to go with Maddie?’
‘That’s okay,’ Cassandra said. ‘I think we’re going to—’
But Hunter, still grasping Cassandra’s arm and looking at his toes, did something unexpected. He nodded, relaxed his grip on her.
The woman took Hunter’s hand from Cassandra’s and put it in the hand of the little girl with reindeer ears. Cassandra watched the two of them walk towards their teacher, now herding children onto the stage. She turned to thank the woman, but she’d disappeared into the crowd—a guardian angel. At the far end of the hall, Alec rushed through the doorway. His timing, as always, impeccable.
After the concert, after ‘Silent Night’ and all the rest, Cassandra stood to leave, but the children escaped gleefully to the oval. Alec returned from the canteen and handed her a cup of tea and a stale biscuit. She smiled, watching Hunter dash about in a game of tiggy, laughed at Bailey lumbering behind, thinking himself part of the game.
The tea was warm and earthy on her tongue, and the baby now sat comfortably in her body. She was glad they’d come. It had all turned out alright. The image of Hunter grinning proudly at her from the stage would stay imprinted in her mind for a long time.
Cassandra noticed the woman from earlier with a man, both watching the kids on the oval, his hand resting on her shoulder. Beside them, a toddler slept in a stroller. The woman glanced at the toddler, brushed hair from the sleeping girl’s face, looked back to her other daughter cartwheeling on the oval. Cassandra motioned for Alec to follow and they approached the couple.
‘Thank you for before,’ Cassandra said, and the woman jumped.
The man stepped in front of her.
‘Sorry,’ Cassandra moved around him. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Cassandra.’
She held out her hand and the woman shook it, introduced herself as Sarah, her husband as Lindsay. Explained that her daughter Maddie was in the same class as Hunter, that she’d helped with reading groups through the year, that he’s improved so delightfully these past few weeks.
A shot of guilt hit Cassandra’s bloodstream. She’d never heard of this woman, Sarah, and didn’t know nearly as much about Hunter’s reading prowess as she obviously did.
Alec and Lindsay exchanged pleasantries, Alec’s large hand engulfing Lindsay’s.
‘He’ll be on to chapter books next year,’ Sarah said encouragingly, as if this was supposed to mean something to Cassandra.
At this, Lindsay tightened his arm around Sarah’s waist. ‘You talking about those reading groups again?’ He smiled over at them. ‘It’s all she ever talks about, really. Every Thursday, off she goes to school, all smiles, to help with the kids.’ He gave her a squeeze.
‘Wednesdays, actually,’ she said. ‘It’s changed.’
Beside Cassandra, Alec shifted his weight to his other side, chimed in, ‘That’s right. Last week H had himself all worked up because he’d forgotten his readers. Haven’t made that mistake again—Wednesday is readers day; it’s on the fridge!’
Cassandra located the boys, still running on the oval, remembered how Alec was actually the one who’d gone on and on about it.
She turned back to Sarah and Lindsay, but something had changed. Sarah was staring at the ground. Lindsay was glaring at her. Cassandra turned to Alec but he was watching the boys, now climbing the equipment.
She made to speak but was interrupted by Maddie, bounding up to her parents like a labrador pup.
Lindsay moved his gaze from Sarah. ‘Time to go, Maddie,’ he said.
‘We should hit the road too, hey?’ said Alec.
Cassandra nodded, waved the boys over.
•
Cassandra stretches her legs across the couch, crosses them at the ankles, contemplates the crimson ripples in her wineglass. She is content now that Bridie is here, expressing milk by the fireplace, and Melissa too, here in body at least, though her mind is clearly elsewhere. Metal clangs by the window and all three look to the glass, find three women looking back. This time, Cassandra draws the curtain.
She grabs the board of cheeses (handpicked from the deli) and passes it to Melissa, hoping that this will pull her friend out of her own thoughts. No one’s said it yet, but the way Melissa’s been this past year is not normal, not healthy. Cassandra fights the urge to seize Melissa by the shoulders and give her a shake, to slough off the stuff that’s been shrouding her so the person beneath can re-emerge. She wonders if Bridie would help, join with Cassandra in a kind of exorcism to free their friend from whatever has her in its grip.
Across the room, Bridie, breast pump stuffed under her shirt, extracts milk from her nipple in long, low draws. She switches off the pump and turns away, attaches it to her other breast and switches it on again. Drops of yellow milk bounce into the bottle at the end of the line.
Melissa, having picked a cracker from the platter, sets the plate on the coffee table, settles back into the couch, breaks the wafer into smaller pieces and eats them one by one.
The clock on the wall ticks.
The last time they’d been away like this had been for Melissa’s fortieth. They’d mixed cocktails, danced, made each other up in dated eighties make-up—blasted ‘Gloria’ until the people in the suite next door had banged on the wall, told them to shut the fuck up. We’re not all twenty anymore. They’d laughed at that, at the neighbour guessing wrongly at their age, at the noise they must have been making for him to do so. Of course, there’d been four of them then.
Bridie extracts the pump from her breast and Cassandra averts her gaze, waits until she’s finished packing everything up. When she’s done, Cassandra determines to say something, to rally together with Bridie and pull Melissa back into this world. To get this party started, for crying out loud.
But when Bridie returns from the kitchen, she speaks first: ‘I think I might call it a night.’
‘What? No.’
Melissa stretches. ‘Yeah, good idea—I’m beat too.’
‘Are you kidding me? It’s’—Cassandra consults the clock—‘quarter past nine.’
‘Exactly. We’re not actually twenty anymore, Cass.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Ladies, it’s nineties night at the pub. Nineties night!’
‘Oh god, no.’ Bridie rubs her temples, exchanges a look with Melissa—patronising parents rolling their eyes.
‘I cannot believe my ears.’ Cassandra spreads her arms.
Melissa says, ‘It does sound like fun, Cass, but it really has been a big night. It’s just, a lot’s happened, and—’
‘A lot’s happened? What do you mean?’
Bridie warns, ‘Cassandra.’
Cassandra holds a palm to Bridie, softens her tone. ‘Really, what do you mean when you say that?’ She will take this head on, bull by the horns. ‘Mel?’
Melissa’s face hardens; she sinks further into the couch, will be swallowed by it if she sinks much further.
‘I just mean the whole thing with the car. It’s been a long night.’
‘I don’t think that’s—’
‘Cassandra . . .’
‘It’s just, you can talk to us, you—’
‘You don’t need to say any—’
‘You know what?’ Melissa stands, throws the cushion she’d been clutching onto the couch. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I think you’re right, Cass. We should take advantage of nineties night. I was being a bore. I do want to go.’
‘Mel.’
‘I do, Bridie. Really.’
‘Okay then.’ Cassandra will take advantage of this moment, mobilise before anything changes. ‘I’ll get my bag.’
4.
MELISSA
The familiar smell of beer-soaked carpet permeates the pub like dust. Unlike dust, the smell cannot be wiped away and so the stench forever eludes capture, remains as stalwart and fundamental to the pub as the beer tap. Melissa knows this because the Marcoy pub is the same as the pub on the corner near where her parents’ bakery used to be: right down to the identical red carpet, spotted through with green diamonds. She remembers the surge of anxiety she’d endure every afternoon dashing past the pub after school—how the publicans would whistle and hoot at her from the outside benches. How she’d force a smile, just to make them stop.
Now, poker machines dial and screech from an adjacent room. On two large television screens, the same horse race replays on mute. A woman in a purple tassel dress announces that the band will take a short break, and muffled conversations fill the space. Melissa follows Bridie and Cassandra under low-hanging lights to the bar, where Cassandra orders drinks from the bartender. Loose curls grow untamed over his collar and he greets them with an open, honest grin. Cassandra collects a number and motions for the others to find a table. They choose one in the corner and perch on high stools. Melissa doesn’t look up at the other patrons. She’s familiar already with their gaping stares, the lingering size-ups; she’d endured an entire adolescence of it. She sets out coasters and pays attention only to her friends.
She will make a good go of this. She’d much rather be curled up in bed, but she’d made a promise to herself, and by extension to Rich and Kate, that she would not hide away this weekend. She would get out bed, get out of her head, and move through the world like a normal human being, even if she has to force herself to do it.
In fairness, she did not get off to a good start. The whole thing with the flat tyre had rattled her, left her wanting to turn around and drive home, where she wouldn’t have to deal with all the little uncertainties that moving through the world entailed.
The bartender arrives with a bottle of bubbly in a bucket and Melissa rubs her hands together at the sight of it, feigning the reaction she once would have had, an attempt to match Cassandra’s mood. He sets out the glasses one by one, and when the fourth one lands in front of the empty stool, Melissa’s stomach turns to stone. She considers her friends, also frozen in place. Cassandra silently mouths something unintelligible, and when the barman leans over to pour the fourth glass, it’s Bridie who stands, waves her hand frantically over it and says, We only need three.
‘Oh, apologies. I must have misheard.’ He gathers up the fourth glass and leaves.
Melissa studies Cassandra’s expression, sees that this has shaken her. She recognises a thought forming on her friend’s face and jumps in first. Because the last thing, the absolute last thing that Melissa wants to happen this weekend is the conversation. Just now, a gap had accidentally opened up for some form of it to take place, a moment she does not want to happen again. They’ve each had enough to deal with this past year without dredging everything back up again in some kind of weekend-long group therapy session. This weekend is about being together, about enjoying one another’s company. Nothing more.
Still, the nearness of it, that looming mass of tension, had set her heart racing. Melissa silently vows to keep things moving, to never let another opportunity arise.
‘Na zdrowie!’ She tilts her champagne flute to the centre of the table and clinks the glass of each friend. The wine is citrus and toast on her tongue and the bubbles pop in her nostrils. She takes in Cassandra’s expression, sipping wine, recovering.
‘Not too bad, I suppose,’ says Cassandra, examining her glass. ‘What do you think?’
Bridie shrugs behind a sip.
‘It’s okay,’ says Melissa, watching bubbles shoot skywards from the bottom of the flute. ‘I guess.’
•
Melissa met Cassandra and Bridie on her little girl’s first day of school. Kate had been up since dawn, dressed in her uniform with the skirt on backwards. She’d insisted on having her hair braided, and Melissa had watched an online tutorial to learn how. After Melissa’s third attempt, Kate could take no more, so she skipped merrily off to school with a part in her hair so jagged it resembled a varicose vein.
Rich had been away that week, leaving Melissa to navigate the first drop-off on her own. And she’d done alright. They arrived ten minutes before the bell, everything packed and ready in Kate’s bag, Kate looking neat and tidy, albeit with a varicose vein part.
They made it to the classroom, having located it the previous day at the transition session, and joined a gaggle of parents milling below the balcony. Melissa smiled and nodded to these fellow parents, who she supposed would soon become colleagues of sorts. They had formed a semicircle around one woman, holding court. The woman smiled at Melissa, extended a hand, introduced herself as Louise, the class parent representative. Louise introduced Melissa to the other parents, whose names Melissa immediately forgot.
Melissa hugged Kate, waited for the first-day nerves to appear. But Kate just hugged her back, skipped off through the door and away into her new life. Melissa smiled at the empty doorway, thrilled that the goodbye hadn’t caused Kate any distress. Swallowed the chunk of emotion that had swelled in her own throat.
‘Is she your first?’ Louise asked across the group.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She pressed her palms together. ‘She did so well.’
Melissa smiled at the other parents, all now smiling awkwardly at her. She was about to excuse herself when she noticed another woman dragging her son by the forearm; from the far side of the playground a toddler screamed violently at them both. The woman ignored the toddler, stopped by the gathered parents and folded down the little boy’s collar, kissed him on the forehead and pointed to the classroom door.
The smaller boy drew closer, his t-shirt covered in something like yoghurt or milk or . . . paint? His wailing had drawn the teacher outside. She appraised the crying toddler, directed her attention to the boy in uniform, cajoled him away from his mother and into class. The woman turned to leave, but Louise intercepted her.
‘Your first as well?’ she asked. ‘I’m Louise.’
The woman blew a tuft of hair from her mouth, picked up the screaming toddler and looked him in the eyes, said, ‘George, stop!’ The woman looked to Louise then and introduced herself as Cassandra. ‘That one’s number two,’ she said, pointing to the boy who had disappeared into the classroom. The toddler pointed after him, too, said Baywey.
Cassandra nodded, agreed, ‘Yes, Bailey. And their dad’s dropping off number one.’
‘Hunter,’ the toddler helpfully added, and Cassandra again nodded, deflected the toddler’s hands, now trying to turn her face to his. ‘This one’s number three.’
‘Well, I think you’ve done a great job.’
The woman flinched at this, eyed Louise suspiciously. The generous side of Melissa would say that Louise was trying to be nice; the direct side of Melissa would say that Louise was being patronising. But this new woman—Cassandra—was doing nothing to hide her contempt, and something about her suggested that she and the direct side of Melissa might be reading this moment the same way. Their gazes connected for a moment, and Melissa quickly looked away.
‘Now,’ Louise continued to the group, ‘just a couple of things. You’ve all done a great job of getting your children here today.’
Melissa looked back at Cassandra, who flared her eyes at her. Melissa contained a smile, looked to the asphalt.
‘But remember: no hat means no play, your children’s lunchboxes should contain no or very little landfill rubbish, and it’s imperative that you avoid all allergens when preparing their food.’
Cassandra turned to leave, paused.
Louise went on. ‘Not that I need to remind you. You all know how dangerous some foods can be to our little ones. Especially peanuts.’
Melissa’s neck tensed hard and she glanced around, hoped no one noticed her sudden movement. She’d forgotten about nut allergies. In fact, this very morning she’d made Kate a peanut butter sandwich, which now sat like a radioactive element in her bag, ready to send some poor child into anaphylactic shock. She could kill someone.
Another woman from the semicircle said, ‘Thanks, Louise, but I think we’re all aware of the dangers by now.’ The woman straightened her business skirt as she spoke, tucked her hair behind her ears.
‘Yes,’ said Louise, tapping her on the upper arm. ‘But you’d be surprised how many people do it.’
Melissa stood completely still, urging herself not to move one muscle, hoping this conversation would soon wrap up so she could rush to the bag racks and remove the loaded gun from Kate’s bag. But the group remained still, the conversation pivoting to the first school excursion, planned for next month. The toddler had collapsed against Cassandra’s shoulder, all long blinks. Melissa would have to excuse herself. She said something about checking on Kate before she went, pretended not to hear Louise advise her that it was best not to check so soon.
