Lola's Secret (4 page)

That fourth year Ellen and her dad made their own ceremony in Hong Kong, high up in the hotel they’d been staying in until their apartment was ready, looking out over Victoria Harbour. There were skyscrapers all around them, a bustle of ferries, freighters, and little boats in the water far below, so many at once it always amazed Ellen that they didn’t keep crashing into each other. They sat at a table right by the window, so high that Ellen felt a bit sick looking down. Her dad ordered two elaborate cocktails for them both, his with champagne, Anna’s favorite drink, and Ellen’s with three different fruit juices, four curly straws, umbrellas and enough fruit that it was more a fruit salad than a cocktail. They made a toast, to Anna and to each other and to everyone back home in Australia, and then her dad let her ring the motel on his mobile phone.

The whole family was there. She’d talked to Lola and her grandpa and grandma and her two aunties, Carrie and Bett. They all cried and laughed, the way they did whenever they spoke about Anna. Ellen talked to her little cousins too—well, she hadn’t talked to Bett’s twins exactly, as they weren’t born yet, but she insisted Bett hold the receiver against her stomach and she’d shouted down the phone to them.

Six months after that, she and her dad flew to Adelaide and drove up to the Valley to see everyone, and to meet Zachary and Yvette. All her memories rushed back at her again that day too, seeing Lola, the motel, her grandparents. She didn’t want to leave. But Lola took her to their bench and talked to her in that lovely way she did, saying that even if Ellen was on the other side of the world, it didn’t matter because they all thought about each other all the time, many times every day, even sometimes in the night, and all those thought waves shot across the sky. They didn’t even need phone lines or satellites or submarine cables. They were magic, and any time Ellen felt an itch, or she sneezed, or hiccupped, or her eye twitched, it was because at that exact moment, all the way across the seas and the countries, Lola or Bett or Carrie, or all three of them, were thinking about her. Ellen was old enough to know Lola was joking, but still, back home in Hong Kong, it was like a little secret any time she did sneeze or hiccup … Maybe there was some truth in it.

There was a knock at the door.

Her father again. “Ellen, Denise is here. With her daughter.”

All her guilt flew out the window immediately. “I don’t care! Go away!”

“Ellen, please. I’m sorry. Please.”

“No!”

She could imagine how horrified Lola would be if she heard Ellen talking to her father like that, but right now, she didn’t care. It was how she felt. Angry and sad and lonely and everything, all mixed up together. And homesick, a feeling like being homesick, for her mum. And for Lola. And for all her family, there, thousands of kilometers away while she was stuck here, stuck in Hong Kong with her dad being evil and some hideous, horrible witch. Not just a witch, a
bitch
of a woman out there with her fake smiles and fake nails and everything else fake about her trying to push her way into their lives. Well, it wasn’t going to work. Not if Ellen had anything to do with it. She would never, ever, ever be nice to Denise. She’d already had one mother, the best, kindest mother in the world, and she didn’t need another one.

She put the pillow over her head to try to block out the sound of her father’s voice. After a minute, he went away. She closed her eyes tight and tried to do what Lola had suggested—fill her head with only good thoughts and good memories. Trying not to cry, trying to ignore the murmur of voices from the living room that she could hear despite the pillow, she did everything she could to think of only good things—Lola, her auntie Bett, the funny twins, Carrie and her noisy, happy family. It didn’t help. It just made her wish even more that she was there with them, having fun, laughing and joking and feeling safe and happy and loved. All the things she didn’t feel now.

A
T HOME
in her renovated farmhouse south of Clare, Carrie was wishing she had never met Matthew, never married him, and definitely never had three children with him.

“Delia, stop hitting your sister. Freya, turn that TV down, George is asleep. And, Delia, put your toys away please. I’ve asked you five times already.”

“Four.”

“What?”

“Pardon, not what. Four times. You’ve asked me four times, not five.”

“And I’ll ask you fifty times if I have to. Go. Now. Do it.”

“Why are you always so cross?”

“Why are you always so naughty?”

“We’re kids. Kids get naughty.”

Carrie did her best not to scream. Where was Matthew? Off at work, allegedly. How convenient that he always had a lot of work to do whenever she happened to mention that the house had to be cleaned, or the garden needed weeding. Or, like today, when she’d sighed and said she wasn’t sure how on earth she was going to finish making all the relishes and chutneys she’d promised for the school street stall on the weekend, as well as plan for their Christmas trip to visit
his
family.

“You’ll manage, Carrie. You’re great at that stuff.”

His compliments had long lost their luster. At first, she’d fallen for them. “What’s the point in me cooking dinner?” he’d say. “It’s never as nice as your cooking.” “How come I can never get my shirts as white as you can?” She’d enjoyed the praise until she realized it was a way of him wriggling out of ever doing his share. She’d had to force him to cook dinner even occasionally, and force herself not to complain when it was invariably barbecued sausages and oven-baked chips. And why did he have to make such a song and dance of it any time he did do some housework? “I’ve emptied the bin. Look, Carrie.” “I’ve just swept the verandah.” “The grass looks great now that I’ve mowed it, doesn’t it?” What did he want, a medal? She did all of that and more every day but she didn’t present him with a printed list of completed chores every night when he walked through the door, did she?

He seemed to take great delight in stirring up the children, too, coming in most nights from work around seven, just as she’d got them fed and bathed and about to settle into quiet pre-bedtime activities. She’d asked him time and time again to keep his voice down, not to start tickling little George or playing chasey with Delia and Freya. “Not play with my kids at the end of a long day? They love playing with me, don’t you, kids?” Of course they agreed with him, and of course they hung off him, squealing with fake terror at his wild piggy-backing, shrieking with pretend-fright when he found them during games of hide-and-seek, dragging him by the hand to show him this or that. “Watch me, Daddy!” “Look at me, Daddy!” Carrie knew she should have stood by smiling, enjoying the sight of father-children bonding, been glad that she had a husband who took such pleasure in his children. So why did she feel only a burning combination of jealousy and resentment? Because as soon as Matthew came in, the children couldn’t care less about her. She became their maid, their cook, their cleaner, relegated to secondhand citizen.

She loved them still, of course she did. Always. Hugely. She loved Matthew. Of course she did. Didn’t she? But sometimes … More than sometimes, more often than not lately, she wished she could spray them all with some sort of immobilizing potion, not just the children, but Matthew too, just for a day or two, to give her some breathing space. In her day, in her life, in her head. It was the constancy of it all that was killing her. The relentlessness of it all. The feeling of never finishing anything properly. Of being a mouse on a wheel, except the wheel was a conveyor belt of housework, children’s demands, children’s arguments and tears and squabbles. She couldn’t even have a shower without one of them either coming into the bathroom to ask her something, or standing outside knocking until she was forced to turn the water off. “Mum?” “Mum?” Their voices were an endless soundtrack in her head. Delia had wanted to get a cat, and Carrie had shocked her and herself by her vehement “
No!
” One more voice in the house, asking, begging, pleading for attention and food? At least the cat would have washed itself. Perhaps she should have turned into a cat-lover rather than a mother. But knowing her luck, she’d have ended up with a house full of cats, and turned into a mad old lady smelling of …

“Mum, Freya bit me!”

“So bite her back,” she said to Delia. The mobile phone rang in her handbag. Someone else wanting something from her? She had nothing else to give. She let it ring out. When it rang again a few minutes later, she let it go unanswered then as well.

I
N HER SMALL COTTAGE
on the northern edge of Clare, Bett put down the phone, cursing under her breath. Where could Carrie be? She had just one last-minute favor to ask her younger sister, something she’d never done. Right now, though, she had no choice. The friend she’d lined up a week ago to be her babysitter this afternoon had just rung, full of apologies, to say her elderly mother had twisted her ankle and needed to go to hospital. “Of course I understand,” Bett had said, also assuring her she’d easily find a replacement.

Who, though? Carrie was the obvious choice. Not that Bett could tell her why she needed a babysitter. As she tried her sister’s number again, she decided to say she had a medical appointment. There was still no answer.

“Damn,” she said, loud enough to get the attention of Yvette, wide-eyed and alert as ever, in her bouncer on the floor beside her. Next to her, in his chair, Zach was on the verge of sleep, his eyes fluttering. “Sorry, sweethearts,” she whispered. “Mummy’s not cross, I promise.”

Tiptoeing out of the room with the phone, she dialed another number. Jane, her nearest neighbor. Bett could probably have shouted across the dry yellow paddock that separated their properties, the sound carried so well on hot days like today. As Jane answered, Bett sent up a prayer of thanks. Her neighbor was a stay-at-home mother too, but unlike Bett, she was rarely at home, filling her and her daughter’s days with a constant schedule of playgroups and outings around the Valley.

“Of course I can mind the twins,” she said, even before Bett had finished asking. “See you soon.”

It was all Bett could do not to throw her arms around Jane and kiss her when she arrived, smiling, her equally smiley three-year-old daughter, Lexie, beside her. Bett signed a hello and got a hello back, a quick movement of her little fingers. Lexie made another sign and Bett looked to Jane for a translation.

“She wants to know how you are.”

Bett gave her a thumbs up and got a thumbs up and big smile from Lexie in return.

“Thanks so much, Jane,” Bett called from her bedroom a moment later, trying to zip up the one good summer dress she’d found on the rail. “The twins are due a sleep, but when—”

Jane interrupted her. “When they wake up, would I look after them and perhaps feed them and change them if they need changing?” She laughed. “Bett, I know what babysitting means. Go. You look like you’ll burst a gasket if you don’t get out of here now.”

Bett did kiss her that time. Five minutes later, having pulled a brush through her short, dark-brown curls, cursed her size-sixteen-figure, wished she had her sister’s petite blonde looks, found a lipstick that had something left in the tube—too red for this time of day, let alone for a sleep-deprived thirty-six-year-old, but beggars couldn’t be choosers—and changed her clothes after discovering a splodge of unidentified something on the left shoulder of her first dress, she was on her way into town, driving too fast.

She made herself slow down. It was difficult. She’d got into the habit of doing everything too fast these days. Dressing, showering, sleeping—they all seemed to happen in record time. Conversely, things she did wish could be over in an instant—crying sessions, sleepless nights, with two unsettled babies—seemed never-ending. She couldn’t understand it. Time felt as if it had taken on a different shape in the seven months since the twins had arrived.

She thought of Jane, so happy, so relaxed, taking in stride the fact that her daughter had been born deaf. She and her husband had just got on with it once the diagnosis was made, both of them learning how to sign, teaching Lexie as soon as she was old enough. Bett had never once heard Jane complain, or express anxiety about how life might be for Lexie. And here Bett was with two healthy babies, doing nothing but stress and worry. She should be grateful, shouldn’t she? Happy every moment of every day? And yet …

Even keeping to the speed limit, she managed to arrive into the main street of Clare fifteen minutes early for her appointment. She found a parking space and sat for a moment to collect her thoughts.

She’d set up today’s meeting a week before. It was with the editor of the
Valley Times,
the newspaper she’d worked at for more than four years, right up until she’d left for maternity leave eight months previously. Officially, she was supposed to be on leave for another five months. Unofficially, she was beginning to worry for her sanity. Seriously worry.

She hadn’t talked about it with Daniel yet. When did they get the chance to talk about anything much, apart from the twins? It wasn’t that she regretted having them, not for a second. She didn’t. They’d talked about starting a family from the earliest days of their marriage, and had been overjoyed when she finally got pregnant. Her pregnancy hadn’t been easy, bad morning sickness combined with day-long tiredness. But then to learn that she was having twins! It seemed like the most wonderful present anybody could ever get.

And it was. It
was
. She loved her babies so much, with a fierceness that surprised her. She’d done everything she could for them. Breastfed even when it seemed so painful and strange. Stayed up all night if she had to. Slept for only an hour here and there for weeks on end. She hadn’t brushed her hair or changed out of pyjamas for the first few months. It had all been worth it, to be with the two of them, to see Daniel with them, to be able to think “we’re a family.” It felt magical, amazing, special. Precious.

She’d also loved being at home initially, being a full-time mother, with no office politics or deadlines, the world simplified to the day-to-day, hour-to-hour practicalities of caring for two small babies that she adored. That euphoria had lasted for the first three months, even if it had taken the occasional buffeting from a kind of exhaustion she’d never thought she’d feel. Until, recently, something had started to change. When she looked at her son and daughter, the overwhelming love was still there, but underneath it was a new, different but equally strong sensation. It felt like claustrophobia. As if the walls were closing in on her. It wasn’t only unsettling. It was becoming frightening.

Something had changed with Daniel, too. She’d started to feel something other than rushes of love when she looked at him. To feel jealousy instead. But how could that be? She loved her husband, didn’t she? His kindness. His humor. His lanky body, his kind eyes, his dark shaggy hair. How amazed he looked, every time he held his son or daughter. How happy he was.

That was it. She was jealous of how happy he was. It’s all right for
you
, she kept hearing a voice say at the back of her mind. It
was
all right for Daniel. She’d never seen him so content. He loved his new job, as photo editor and production manager on a rural newspaper based in Gawler, less than an hour’s drive from their house. Off he went every morning, transparently happy to have that time in the car on his own, listening to music, or the news, or just silence. Back home, she was buried alive in nappies, in mess, in dirty clothes, dirty dishes, sterilizers, bibs, noise, and chaos. She still wasn’t sleeping properly. She was eating badly and too much, putting on weight, not losing it. It’ll get better, won’t it? she kept asking herself. Once the babies were a bit older? Less helpless? Less dependent?

But what if it didn’t? What if the older they got, the bigger they got, the hungrier they got, the more of her they needed? What if this was all that her life would ever be from this moment on? What if this was the truth of motherhood, the feeling that she was slowly drowning, slowly losing herself, slowly shedding any independence, leaving her old, free, happy life behind her, tangled on the ground, like a snake and its skin?

Night after night, it was all she could think about. It was as if she could see her life in split-screen—how it should be and how it was. In the “should be” section was a happy, smiling Bett, loving wife, mother of two adorable babies, content with all the riches in her life, organized, cooking nutritious meals, exercising daily, and yes, having regular, terrific sex. In the “how it is” section … she didn’t even have to imagine it. That’s how it was. Chaos, exhaustion, and about as much sex as she was having exercise. None.

A week earlier, a solution had come to her in a middle-of-the-night flash of insight. All she had to do to fix things was return to work part-time. Just for a couple of days a week. One day. A couple of hours a week even. Just enough to get a bit of her old life back, regain some control. She hadn’t discussed it with Daniel yet. But in her daydreams, he’d agreed immediately. He thought it was a wonderful idea. He wished he’d thought of it first. He’d go part-time too, so they could take turns caring for the babies. It was the perfect solution all round, he’d tell her.

It wasn’t just Daniel’s reaction she imagined, either. She pictured telling her sister Carrie too.

“It’s fantastic, Carrie,” she’d say. “I’ve got the work—life balance I’ve always really wanted. When I’m with the twins, I’m really with them one hundred percent, but my time at work gives me the independence and space I need too. It’s the best of both worlds.” It didn’t seem to matter that Bett didn’t speak in glib soundbites like that in real life. Then she would ask Carrie the big question. “And you’re happy being a stay-at-home mum? Great! Good for you! If that fulfils you, that’s great, really. It comes down to personal choice, doesn’t it?”

There was always a whole range of imaginary reactions from Carrie. The tearful one: “I’m so jealous of you, Bett. How have you managed to get everything sorted out so well?” Angry: “Not everyone has a husband as supportive as Daniel, Bett. You don’t have to rub it in.” In one daydream, Carrie even stormed out, leaving Bett to explain to imaginary onlookers. “Sorry, she’s finding motherhood! a bit tricky.”