Across the Water
Last year ended terribly for Adam. One thing after another went disastrously wrong for him and it was so hard to watch. My upbeat, generous husband – then, my fiancé after only a month’s courtship – was screwed over by the business partner who had not only stolen his girlfriend (he caught them in bed together a couple of months before he met me) but had cleared out the company’s joint bank account, leaving him penniless. And this year hasn’t been the easiest so far either. He says more often than I’m comfortable hearing from someone so dear to me, that I’m the only thing that’s keeping him holding on.
Adam has felt the loss of his father more than he’s let on, and I suspect that, in part, it might be that he’s mourning the relationship he wished he’d had with his father. They were never close and, according to Adam, visits between them were brief and strained.
I think part of Adam blames his father for his mother walking out on them when he was little. We have that in common, Adam and I. Absent mothers, both of whom shirked the role of motherhood and chose to lead lives separate from their families. I sometimes wonder if this has anything to do with us not wanting children, or whether some people just prefer their independence to willing slavery. Personally, I’d prefer to regret not having children than to regret having them. And there’s no way of knowing which way it will turn out until it’s too late.
Whenever Adam speaks of his father, which isn’t often, I get the sense that he’s never really respected him. ‘He was weak,’ he’s said more than once. ‘He should have tried harder – with both of us. I can hardly blame her for getting bored.’ And then he’ll get a faraway look in his eyes and, as I often do when I think of my own mother, I wonder whether he’s wondering why she didn’t take him with her. Perhaps it’s easier for him to blame his father than accept the terrible truth: his mother simply didn’t love him enough.
Adam’s father, Tim, only became successful after his wife, Diane, left and moved to France with a wealthy banker. Perhaps he thought he was showing her, in her absence, that she’d made a mistake. That he could succeed in business and provide the sort of life she wanted, after all. But with the exception of a brief phone call when Tim died, Adam hasn’t spoken to his mother in years.
In the end, I suppose we should be grateful to Tim because, for all his quirks and flaws, he raised Adam single-handedly, and he’s the reason Adam gets a second chance. And now – fingers crossed – we’ll have enough money to buy a house back in London and to rebuild the business. I want Adam to achieve his dream so badly it hurts. And I want him to make peace with the memory of his father.
***
I roll onto my side and drape an arm over Adam’s waist, kissing the patch of skin at his neck. ‘The woman across the creek has a baby,’ I say conversationally, determined to change the subject and coax back Adam’s good mood. ‘A new one, five, six months old maybe. Lucky we’re on this side of the creek, hey?’
‘Erica?’ Adam’s brow furrows.
‘No, not her. The younger one, the one in the middle house.’
Adam shakes his head. ‘No, that can’t be right.’
I laugh. ‘What, you think I’ve imagined it? I saw her! She was holding a new baby. It was crying, I could hear it from here.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘Long, red hair. Quite beautiful, actually.’
Adam taps a finger to his lips. ‘I don’t think I actually ever met Rob’s wife, but I’ve seen photos on Facebook and I’m fairly sure she had red hair. Hmm. Maybe she was babysitting or something.’
‘Ah. I didn’t know breastfeeding was part of babysitting services these days.’ I blush at what I’ve accidentally confessed. ‘Er, not that I was looking. I couldn’t help but see. She was standing right in the window.’
Adam looks strangely pensive.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s just I’d heard they … you, know. Couldn’t. But maybe I’ve got that wrong. What did Rob say her name was …? Oh, I have it. Delilah! Like the song.’
I stare at him blankly and he laughs. ‘‘Hey there, Delilah’. No?’
‘Must be before my time,’ I quip and Adam grins. He leans in and kisses me on the lips.
‘Dee, Rob calls her. He’s been a local since Dad bought this place. Decent guy. I had a few pints with him at the pub once or twice and he got quite pissed one night … I’m pretty sure I remember him saying he was keen for kids, but …’ He looks thoughtful, then breaks into a warm smile. ‘Well, that’s great news! Good for them.’
I think of the woman, the jaybird cries of the flailing infant. ‘Is it?’ I say with a snort.
Adam tugs me to his chest, his stubble grazing my cheek. ‘I said it’s good for them,’ he repeats. And we both laugh.
Chapter 4
Dee
December, 2016
Monday, 9:45pm
Recovery Unit, Brave Cove Hospital
‘That’s not how you do it, little one,’ the midwife, Lisa, is cooing while another midwife I’ve never seen before hovers at my bedside. ‘You need to open your mouth, darling.’
Lisa’s been here since 7:30 this morning, and until recently I’ve been glad to have her around, but right now I just want her to fuck off.
I’m exhausted, numb with shock and disbelief, and the tiny creature she’s trying to coax to suckle at my breast looks bizarre and alien to me. She’s too skinny and doesn’t look right. Her features are unfamiliar; nothing about her is anything close to what I expected.
Lisa’s persisting with the breastfeeding, even though nothing’s happening. The baby doesn’t even seem to realise I’m it’s mother. I’m feeling more than faintly irritated. I don’t give a shit about breastfeeding right now. I don’t give a shit about anything. I just want to sleep. The lights are too bright in here, and I’m so groggy I feel half dead. I want everyone to go away and leave me alone instead of expecting me to pass some fucking breastfeeding exam when I’ve been in labour all day and was just drugged to the eyeballs after my emergency C-section went wrong. It’s all I can do not to shout at them all; except of course I haven’t the energy for that.
When the epidural wore off during the operation, the pain was so excruciating I screamed. I begged the anaesthetist for some relief (I swear to God he was the only person in the hospital who actually listened to what I wanted) and he was very obliging. He’d been there when they first started cutting me open; I asked him whether it was happening yet, as I was feeling a faint pulling around my abdomen. He told me yes, it had begun, and I remember lying there looking up at Rob, both of us paralysed by the enormity of what was happening.
I can’t remember what drug I was given, but it knocked me out so much I could barely process anything. Once it – Ruby – was out, they allowed Rob to cut the cord before taking him away. I couldn’t believe it. Why had they taken Rob away? Where was the baby? It seemed appalling that after what I’d just endured, my husband got to see our baby before I did. When I’d done all the work, made all the sacrifices, and was still lying on an operating table with my abdomen sliced open.
‘Come on, sweetie, you can do it,’ Lisa’s coaxing me again, and I can’t take it anymore. Where is Rob? Does he know where I am? That the baby and I are okay? It seems ridiculous that family aren’t allowed to be in the recovery room.
I try to speak but I can only croak. The midwives are oblivious to me anyway; the focus is all on Ruby. Is this the way it will be, now? Am I to be invisible forever?
How long do I have to lie here and let them do this to me? I just want them to take it away – for everyone to just leave me alone and let me rest.
Finally, finally, they accept defeat and they tell me Ruby needs to go to the special care unit. I’m not sure why and I don’t have the strength to ask. I know in some deep part of my brain that I shouldn’t want her to go, I should be wanting to hold her, to bond with her. But I feel none of that. I only want to close my eyes and have everything disappear. When they take her, all I feel is relief.
In the furthest corners of my consciousness, I’m aware that this isn’t right. My baby shouldn’t be an ‘it’ – it should be a she, Ruby. The name we chose for her the moment she came out with flame red hair. And I should be wanting to hold her. But the pain is creeping back in, even though the drugs are clearly still in my system, as my head feels like it’s full of concrete and I can barely keep my eyes open.
***
10:30pm
The next thing I know, I’m in a hospital bed in a tiny space with half-drawn curtains all around me. I’m in agony, the whole lower half of my torso feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t seem to move; I can barely lift my pinkie finger. Has something gone wrong? I can’t even call for help. I can barely breathe, let alone speak.
Every part of me yearns for sleep, but the pain keeps me conscious. It’s dark in here; the only visible light is a soft orange glow coming from behind the curtain next to me, and the one in front. What time is it? I don’t remember being brought here, and I don’t know where Rob and Ruby are. Why have I been left here alone? I want to die. The pain is too much; I simply can’t bear it.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here when Rob appears. His eyes widen when he sees me. ‘Are you okay?’
I try to speak but the pain is too much and I can only whisper. He leans in and puts his ear near my mouth. ‘Please. Help.’
‘What is it? What do you need?’ Rob looks panicked.
‘Pain. I’m … in … pain.’
Rob nods and springs into action. He disappears for a minute then reappears with a nurse who tells me they’ll contact the pain team, but it might be a while as they’re in the operating theatre.
I don’t know if I can survive that long. Every breath is agony.
‘Hold on, baby,’ Rob says, kissing my forehead, his eyes bright with tears. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
But I can’t imagine it’s ever going to be okay again.
***
Tuesday, 7:12am
Post Natal Ward, Brave Cove Hospital
Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace.
I can’t remember the rest, but that’s what’s going around in my head as I gaze at Ruby’s funny, squashed face. She is a Monday child, but so far the poem is proving to be inaccurate. At this moment she kind of reminds me of an old man. I don’t think she’s going to be very pretty, but I’m sure I’ll love her anyway. I can’t work out who she looks like just yet. But her colouring is all mine.
It’s bizarre to be holding this creature. I’m not one of those people who think all newborns are beautiful, and it seems my own child is no exception. But she is pretty miraculous, even if the very sight of her fills me with a panic so intense I almost can’t breathe.
Rob is in love. It’s almost worth it, seeing his face. He got to feed her her first meal while I was in recovery, after they couldn’t get any colostrum from me. It’s all fine, now, though, as she’s breastfeeding like a champion. I didn’t get to see her until this morning, however, because the pain team didn’t make it to me until three fucking thirty in the morning and once the morphine finally kicked in I passed out cold from sheer exhaustion.
The social workers have been in, as apparently the entire medical team who witnessed the birth, and learned of what happened afterwards, was worried that I might experience some post-traumatic stress. But seriously. I’m not worried about what happened before, that bit’s over. I’m worried about what on earth I’m going to do next, how we’re going to work out how this tiny creature fits in to our lives. Everything feels different now. And all I feel is a distant sort of terror.
Ruby makes a face and a different feeling takes over. I go cold. The expression that passed across her face in that moment was so familiar that I knew. I knew with cold-blooded certainty that the very thing I hoped wasn’t true, is. I glance worriedly at Rob. He meets my gaze and there’s the tiniest of frowns between his eyebrows, as if he is carefully considering something.
It’s then I feel the stab of an entirely different sort of terror.
Chapter 5
Liz
June, 2017
Monday, 6:45am
It’s the first time we’ve been separated for any significant length of time. Well, aside from Adam’s brief trip to Australia when his dad was first diagnosed with cancer. But at that time, I was still so consumed by what had happened at work I scarcely noticed.
This is different. I get the distinct feeling that the honeymoon is over – and, I suppose, technically it is. Adam kisses me on the nose and smooths my bed hair down behind my ears and though I put on a brave face, I can already feel the empty day stretching ahead of me. Bleak, pointless hours. I can’t think of it, I have to focus on something, so I pull my husband closer and kiss him on the mouth. I draw him in, gratified by the immediate hardness against my hip and the surprised, slightly annoyed look he gives me.
‘You can’t do that, Lizzie. It’s not fair,’ he says, slightly breathless.
‘I miss you already. We’ve barely even had time to speak this morning.’
‘I know. And I’ll miss you like crazy. It’s not ideal, I know.’ He pins me with that intense gaze of his that makes me feel both treasured and unsettled. ‘God knows this is the last thing I want to do.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Adam’s gaze softens. ‘Don’t be. I understand.’ He presses his lips to my forehead. ‘Take the chance to relax. Remember what the doctor said about exercising and keeping up the meds.’
I nod, once.
‘And now I really have to go.’ He kisses me, too briefly, and lifts his satchel over his shoulder. ‘Bye, darling.’
And just like that, I’m alone.
***
8:30am
Back in London, I’d be on my way to work by now. Hell, I’d probably have already made my way from Liverpool Street to Euston, stealing sips from my precariously balanced refillable coffee cup, having inserted myself into a crammed tube carriage and lugged that cumbersome old briefcase I keep meaning to replace the two and a half blocks to my office building. I can almost smell the petrol fumes, the summer air, the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and bacon grease.
As a case worker for a counselling and respite centre for woman in crisis, my job could get pretty intense. You’d think I’d be grateful for the break from it all, but in truth it was a matter of necessity. After my client, Christy and her six-month-old baby Bella were found murdered, I didn’t take it too well. I felt guilty, started having nightmares. Night terrors more like. I felt I’d failed her as her case worker. I should have seen the signs, listened to her fears. This had never happened to me before, and I simply couldn’t process it.
And then it was politely suggested by my boss that I might want to take some compassionate leave. They provide free counselling for employees, he said. You’ve been through a trauma; it’s the best thing for you.
I took the hint.
I saw a counsellor, was put on some meds and over the last few months I’ve been improving. But I know Adam worries, and he wishes we didn’t have to go through all this business with selling the house when I’m still recovering. I stare out of the grimy kitchen window as I pour the cold remains of my coffee down the sink. I find myself longing to be with Adam in Sydney, but if we’re to get out of here as soon as is humanly possible – and God knows that’s what I want – someone is going to have to sort through and get rid of all of Tim’s things of which, thankfully, there are few. I thought Adam might want to do it, but he’s said he doesn’t care what happens to any of it. I suppose I’ll see if there’s anything of value to sell and then throw away the rest.
Pinpricks of light sparkle like stars on the surface of the creek and the houses over the other side, shadowed by night when I saw them last, stand gleaming white in their grand, colonial-style glory. Large bay windows look out like lidded eyes and lush green lawns slope down towards the shimmering water.
London feels a world away from here.
I look for the woman from last night, but her curtains are drawn. The house to the right appears empty, but on the left, in the least grand of the three houses, the one with the peeling paint and shabby awnings, the curtains are open on the top floor. There’s movement in the window. A man – no, a boy? I can’t tell as his back is to me – stands shirtless, lifting weights. I watch him for a moment, mesmerised by his rhythmic movements. Then I shake my head and look away.
Someone’s in the backyard of the house on the right. It’s surrounded by a beautiful garden, full of brightly coloured flowers and lush with shrubs and trees. A woman stands beneath a row of trees that descend in size from left to right. What did Adam say her name was? Erica. Erica and Samir. She’s on her knees on the grass, her face in her hands.
It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like she might be crying. Short, pale hair fluttering in the breeze, Erica stands and pulls something from her pocket and runs it across her face. A tissue, most likely. She reaches up towards one of the four trees and runs a hand over the leaves and then – wait, is it my imagination or did she just plant a kiss on one of the branches? I rub my eyes. Ridiculous. I must be seeing things.
I make another coffee, hoping to muster the energy for a jog. It’s the least I can do to occupy myself since I’ve sworn I won’t look at or touch anything work-related (doctor’s orders, literally) and the thought of starting on the piles of junk makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Besides, it might be nice to see the town, take in the scenery, ‘let myself relax’, as Adam says. Pearl Bay is ‘a little slice of paradise’, they tell me. Might as well make the most of it.
***
1:15pm
I wasn’t hungry – I rarely am, these days – but I forced down some soggy, left-over salad and managed to locate my running shoes at the bottom of a suitcase, and now I’m looking for a way across this God-forsaken creek. Adam’s taken the motorboat, of course, and I’m not keen on trying out the rickety-looking thing with oars. I’m sure he said there was a footbridge not far along the way, but I’ve been walking for at least five minutes now and all I’ve encountered is sludgy, marshy earth and dense bush.
I hadn’t known I’d be so isolated here. Adam painted this stop gap as if we’d be on an extended honeymoon. It’s a house by the water in sunny Australia, after all! But the reality is entirely the contrary. It’s creepy, if I’m honest. I’m trying not to get lost down a rabbit’s hole of negativity, but I really am starting to think we could have organised things a bit more sensibly. That I could have had some forewarning of what staying in this place, if only for a few weeks or months, would really be like.
The sun is so hot here, even at this time of year, and despite the wet season being over and winter creeping in, Adam’s warned me it can still get humid during the day. I wipe the beads of perspiration from the back of my neck, remembering how I hate the heat.
Something crunches loudly under my foot and I rear back in fright. I look down to see the long, curled up body of a snake.
‘Fuck!’ I stumble backwards, my heart pumping, before realising that it’s not a live snake, merely its discarded skin.
A whimper of relief escapes before I feel a surge of anger. For fuck’s sake, let’s admit it, this place is a nightmare. I’m either going to be killed be some horrible Australian creature or go mad imagining I might. How could anyone choose to live in a place like this?
Gathering myself, I trudge along, determined to find the footbridge and, in turn, civilisation. After a minute or two, the rhythmic thud of my shoes on the pebbly shore sounds suddenly amplified. Confused, I stop for a moment, listening. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Silence. I whirl around, straining to see through the dense trees, but I can’t see anyone. My pulse leaps in my throat. No one lives over this side of the creek. Adam said the other two houses are abandoned. Why would anyone be here?
It’s then that I notice it. In a small clearing just a metre ahead, something dangles from a tree. Squinting, I see it’s a plastic baby doll. Something has been placed on its head, vaguely representing hair – dark green tendrils of seaweed, still glistening with moisture, and its painted eyes stare vacantly ahead.
An unpleasant tingle travels down my spine. There’s what looks to be the remains of a campfire, some empty beer cans and a pair of tattered and muddied trainers strewn about beneath the doll. Has someone been camping over here?
There’s the crunch of leaves behind me, and instinctively I break into a run, feeling foolish after a time when no one materialises. I tell myself the campsite could have been there for a number of days – weeks, even. Except the seaweed was still wet …
I’m out of breath when I finally reach the bridge. It’s made of wood that looks partially rotted and is covered in moss. I sigh in disappointment, unsure I can trust it to carry my weight. Vines dangle from two large, moss-covered trees flanking its entrance, and the other side seems very far away. The river has widened here and when I look into its murky depths I can no longer see the bottom. From the direction of the water flow, it seems the tide is coming in.
I shiver, suddenly cold despite the humidity. It seems everything is damp here – the air, the earth, the plants. No wonder the house is full of mould.
I hesitate, pressing the ball of my foot down onto the first mossy plank. To my surprise, it doesn’t give an inch. Tentatively placing one foot after the other, I make my way across, breathing a sigh of relief when I reach the other side. I’m safe.
Chapter 6
Liz
June, 2017
Monday, 4:15pm
I’ve made it across the three-mile beach that runs along the other side of town, parallel to the creek, and now my lungs ache with each breath. I’m out of practice. Adam and I spent our three-week honeymoon over-indulging on everything imaginable (not to mention sending us knee-deep into debt) and now I’m paying for it in more ways than one.
The sun has passed over the mountain and a fog has descended. The air is thick with moisture and beads of perspiration cling to my forehead. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been gone, how early it would grow dark.
I reach Cockle Street on my way back to the house and stop to admire the three matching houses all in a row. They’re vastly different street-side; less decorative than the grand facades facing the creek. I’m staring at the house on the left with it’s perfectly trimmed hedge when a heinous screeching fills the air. I stop and cover my ears, looking up towards the sound. A flock of large white birds with yellow crests fill a tall, gnarly tree, one of several lining the street. They’re making an awful sound, like harpies squawking, and then another sound chimes in, battling to be heard over the din. The baby crying again, I think, but it isn’t that.
I turn to see the red-haired woman, Dee, standing in her driveway, the blue door slightly ajar. A fair-haired woman – Erica, I assume – is blocking her exit, waving her arms, screaming something incomprehensible, too hard to hear from where I stand, beneath the raucous birds. Dee’s cowering, shoulders hunched, head down. She’s shaking her head, the baby clutched to her chest, its chubby legs flexing at her hips.