Mr Lee brought over the sheaf of papers that was my statement. I’d thought about memorising it like a movie script, but decided against it. For one thing, this wasn’t a movie. Secondly, I worried I’d forget my thread and dribble to a stop. The papers felt like a lifeline.
Mr Lee smiled and then went back to his place next to Dad, who gave me a thumbs up. Mum did the same and I almost laughed. They had so much in common. Why had they fallen out of love? It was a tragedy. All of this was a tragedy.
I cleared my throat and adjusted the microphone.
‘Your Honour,’ I said. Then I paused, cleared my throat again and wiped sweat from my forehead. Where had that come from? It wasn’t even vaguely warm in the courtroom. I looked down at the first sheet. ‘Your Honour, I was six years old when I saw a unicorn.
‘I want to tell you about it, but I also want to tell you what happened in the six months before I saw it. Some of my memories may not be trustworthy because I was only six and things get confused at that age. But I remember some things and I certainly remember the atmosphere of that time, the texture of it. It was harsh and scratchy. It was dark and there was a weight, as if something was pressing down on all of us: my mother, my father and me. Looking back on that time I see us all as figures bent and buckled by worry.’
Was I reading too fast? I took a deep breath and tried to slow everything down.
‘My parents split for reasons that have never been clear to me. I haven’t asked because … well, sometimes it’s best not to look too closely into closets for the skeletons and other grisly stuff that might leap out. They talked to me about what would happen after they separated because that’s what good parents do and, until this day, no one has ever suggested that either my mother or my father are anything other than brilliant parents.’
I looked up then. Mum and Dad were both smiling.
‘But I don’t remember the whole conversation. What I do remember is waking up one day in my bed and feeling my father’s absence from the house. Until that moment I didn’t know you could feel an absence. I went down to breakfast and Mum poured out some cornflakes for me and I put in the milk and she sprinkled in the sugar because I always put in too much if I did it myself. And we pretended everything was normal, that the father-shaped hole in my life simply didn’t exist.
‘I think it was about a month before I went for my first weekend with Dad. He had to find somewhere to live and get things organised for a six-year-old girl. But he called me every day. I was really excited when I packed my bag that first time on a Friday evening. It felt like a holiday. I put in all the normal stuff – pyjamas, toothbrush and toothpaste (Mum insisted on that in case Dad forgot), but I also put in my favourite toys. At that time, Dad didn’t even have a television because the divorce meant Mum and Dad were both broke and he had to save up for it. And Mum drove me to his house because they only had the one car and Mum got it because she needed it to take me to school. When I got to Dad’s place, though, I realised that Mum shouldn’t have worried. He had bought all the things I would need – the toothbrush, the paste, the shower gel, the shampoo and conditioner I always used, the shower puff and toys … so many toys. I think he’d got most of them, if not all, from a charity shop, because some things had bits missing and there was a rip in one doll’s dress. I was six. I didn’t care. It was all strange and exciting and it felt so good to have him back in my life. He read me a story that night. He still reads me a story at night and I’m nearly fourteen. It’s a routine and we like our routines.’
I paused again. Dad wiped something from his eye. Mum was apparently studying the wood grain of her table.
‘On the Saturday, Dad got me all dressed up in warm clothes. It was winter and I suppose it was chilly out. I don’t remember that exactly, but I know I was wearing a scarf and I seem to remember seeing my breath mist the air. We went for a walk in a forest. I don’t know which forest and I can’t remember whether we walked there or if we took a bus. Those things are lost. But we didn’t see other people. There was a faint walking track and there were lots of trees and I noticed how the sunshine filtered through them and made everything seem mysterious and fairytale like. Sometimes there was birdsong and sometimes things scuttled in the undergrowth and made me scared. But this I do remember, Your Honour. This is burned in my memory.
‘I walked up a slight incline and there was a bank ahead. When I got to the top I saw a clearing down below. And in that clearing was a unicorn. It was all by itself and it turned its head as I stood there and looked at me. It was pure white and on its forehead was a horn of burnished silver. I don’t know how long we stared at each other, but it seemed a long time. I think I was holding my breath. The unicorn pawed at the ground and then turned and trotted away. Not scared. Not in a great rush. Moving quietly and purposefully. It moved between trees and then it was gone and I could breathe again.
‘I turned and asked my father if he had seen it too.
‘He had.
‘“But unicorns don’t exist,” I said. I might have been only six but I knew that unicorns don’t exist. I began to have doubts about Father Christmas the year after that.
‘“Who says they don’t exist?” asked my father.
‘“Everyone,” I replied.
‘“Maybe everyone is wrong, Caitlyn. Did that not occur to you?”
‘It hadn’t.
‘“Close your eyes, Cate,” he continued. I did. “Now I want you to think about what you just saw. Can you do that? Can you build that picture in your mind? As many details as you possibly can. The way the light fell, the colour of the unicorn’s coat, the way its mane moved as it turned, the shape and colour of its horn. Can you fix all of those things in your mind? Can you see it again now, Cate?”
‘I could. Although my eyes were closed I could see it all again. I nodded.
‘“It’s there in your head now, Cate,” said Dad. “And if it’s in your head it must be real. It will always be real as long as you remember it.”
‘“It’s a miracle, Daddy,” I said. When I opened my eyes, Dad was kneeling down in front of me, his eyes on my level.
‘“It is,” he said. “It’s a miracle and we both believe in miracles, don’t we?”
‘I nodded. I did then. I do now, Your Honour.
‘I don’t know how my father arranged for that unicorn to be in that forest at that particular time. I can guarantee the small horse he used wasn’t hurt by having something attached to its forehead. My father couldn’t be cruel to animals. If I think about it now, then I can probably guess. He paid someone for the use of the horse, he arranged its transport to that location so that I would stumble across a miracle he had designed. He had made a theatre, he had written a script and he’d arranged for the actors to be in their places. It was the most amazing thing any child could have witnessed. I get goosebumps even now, thinking about it.’
I took another sip of water. The silence was overpowering. I was glad to carry on speaking just to shatter it.
‘There were little miracles nearly every time I stayed with my father after that. Oh, most of them weren’t spectacular – bread and butter miracles, Your Honour. A metre-wide web with a golden orb-weaving spider at its centre as we walked through the botanical gardens. A new ice-cream shop that had just opened and we stumbled across. A street magician doing the most amazing tricks. Buskers who seemed always to sing my favourite songs, as if someone with insider information had briefed them before we showed up. Mixed in with these were some “ordinary” adventures. Things like a balloon ride in the early Saturday morning, a houseboat he had booked, theatre trips where we had front seats. But then there were others that were like the unicorn adventure. I saw a Tasmanian tiger once, Your Honour. It ran across the road as we were driving in Gippsland. I still have no idea how he arranged that. And I don’t want to know, to be honest. Just recently we saw some UFOs in formation in the early hours of the morning, just outside Melbourne. Our car was lit up by one, fixed in the beam of something from another planet. How much does it cost, Your Honour, to arrange for drones to appear way out in the middle of nowhere? How do you go about arranging that, even if you can afford it? Probably a lot harder than paying a couple of buskers to turn up at St Kilda beach and sing a song to me.’
I sat up straight in the chair. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the judge leaning towards me, concentrating. But I kept my focus on Dad.
‘My father is a director of miracles, Your Honour. He has spent countless hours arranging his theatre. I don’t want to think how much money he’s spent on them. He would doubtless say that doesn’t matter. The last miracle he’d arranged was a simple weekend away in a hotel. A cheap hotel, it seems, but that was part of the narrative. We were going to be cast in a thriller. Shadowy people, maybe from the underworld, maybe from the authorities, were after us and we had to keep ourselves alive. He hired a car – Dad was always careful about realism – and picked me up from school. And this is where he made his mistake. It would have been better if I’d just got into the front seat and put on the wig for my disguise there. But Dad wanted more drama. He told me to get into the well at the back. But I think he knew this was a bad idea. He was just about to pull over and get me into the front seat when that vehicle ploughed into us. A million to one chance, really.’
Now I turned slightly to face Mum and in particular her lawyer.
‘But here is something to think about. That four-wheel drive hit us as it came through red lights at speed. It hit us smack in the passenger door. Dad was severely injured. Lying in the back of the car, I was hurt but not as severely as Dad. It’s not unreasonable to believe that if I had been in the passenger seat I would have been killed instantly. I genuinely believe my father’s mistake saved my life. This was a miracle he hadn’t scripted.
‘Your Honour, I understand the counter argument to this. My father failed in a duty of care and although this might have had accidental positive outcomes, it doesn’t change the fact he failed in that duty of care. But if you rule that my mother can take me away from my father, then it seems that this is one huge and unreasonable price to pay for one mistake in thirteen years.
‘I also understand that it is my best interests that will govern your decision in this case. It is hard for me to argue that my mother has not done her very best for my wellbeing. She has clothed me, fed me, protected me and loved me. My mother once said – and I cannot quite remember her exact words, since we were both very upset at the time – that she and her partner, Sam, had dealt with the dull, everyday responsibilities of bringing up a child while my father had the luxury of playing games with me. She implied that he was trying to get me to prefer his company over hers simply by refusing to deal with the unglamourous side of parenting. But while my mother fed my body, my father fed my imagination.
‘We have heard arguments that these “games” demonstrated his immaturity. Some very famous people disagree with that view. Albert Einstein once said that logic will get you from A to B but imagination will take you everywhere. George Bernard Shaw was of the opinion that we don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing. My father and I have never stopped playing. I have had some success as a writer, Your Honour. I believe this is a direct result of my father giving my imagination permission to flourish. Yet it has been implied in this court that somehow this is evidence of a psychological problem. But here’s what another famous person, celebrated for his supposed craziness, thought about this. Robin Williams, the American comedian and actor, once said, “You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.”’
Now I turned towards the judge.
‘Your Honour, I don’t want to lose my little spark.
‘My mother has two enduring loves in her life: me and her partner, Sam. My father has only me. Now it has been argued that his lack of a partner is a reason why judgement should be made against him. Yet I know that my father has deliberately kept away from relationships that might compete with ours. All he wanted when we were together – a few days every couple of weeks – was that nothing could come between us. He was one hundred per cent focused on me. It would be a strange logic to say that this is a failing. It isn’t. It’s a huge sacrifice that he has made willingly.
‘Finally, I would like to make this point. My father has not been well since the accident and he needs support, both emotionally and physically. He doesn’t have a partner to provide that support and he needs me. Mum, I repeat, has Sam. I could go to visit them whenever they wished. Because my place is here, Your Honour. With both my parents, if possible. But that can’t happen. So given I am forced to choose, I choose my father.’
I addressed my last sentence directly to the judge.
‘I humbly request that you honour my wishes in your ruling. Thank you.’
I sat still. I really wanted to get the hell out of that chair, out of that spotlight, but I knew that I might have to answer questions from Mum’s lawyer, maybe even Mr Lee. I just hoped it wouldn’t take too long.
‘That’s quite a speech, young lady,’ said the judge. ‘Well done. Ms Morgan, do you have any questions?’
Mum’s lawyer stood.
‘Just a couple, Your Honour. Very brief.’ She looked at me. ‘I’d like to add my congratulations, Caitlyn,’ she said. ‘I can see how you’ve enjoyed success as a writer. But tell me. Do you think imagination is something you either have or don’t have?’
I must have looked puzzled because she tried again.
‘Can you learn imagination?’
‘I don’t think it’s something you can learn, exactly,’ I replied. ‘But I do believe it’s something that flourishes when properly tended.’
‘Well expressed,’ said Ms Morgan. ‘But your mother does this as well, doesn’t she? Play games, I mean? There’s your dancing sessions and she takes you to movies and the theatre. You all dress up for Halloween, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘So encouraging your imagination is something that both parents have done, yes? Not just your father?’
‘My dad more than my mum,’ I said.
‘I’m sure,’ said Mum’s lawyer. ‘But that’s all he has to worry about, isn’t it? Whereas your mum has to look after all the other stuff as well as feeding your imagination.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Never mind,’ said Ms Morgan. ‘I have no other questions, Your Honour.’
The judge looked at Mr Lee.
‘Nothing from me, Your Honour.’
‘Then you can stand down, Caitlyn. Thank you for your testimony.’
I was glad to sit next to Dad again. He patted my knee.
The judge glanced at her watch.
‘I believe this is a good time to adjourn for the day,’ she said. ‘Please reconvene at nine thirty am tomorrow in this courtroom when I will deliver my judgement.’
The court official stood.
‘This court is now adjourned,’ he said. ‘All stand.’
We stood until the judge left the room. Then Dad went over to Mum and shook her hand. I joined them. Mum smiled at me.
‘Okay, Cate,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you home.’ She turned back to Dad. ‘I suppose it’s okay for me to bring Cate here with me tomorrow, is it, Mike?’
‘Of course,’ said Dad. ‘It’s all over now, whatever the decision, so it really doesn’t make any difference.’ He ruffled my hair. ‘And apparently we’re both brilliant parents.’
‘It seems that way,’ said Mum. She put a hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ll do takeaway tonight, Cate. I think we all deserve it.’ She turned to Dad. ‘You could join us if you want to, Mike.’
Dad smiled.
‘I think that might be a bridge too far,’ he said. ‘Thank you, but I’ll leave you to it. And see you both in the morning.’
‘You didn’t tell me what happened when you spent the weekends with your dad.’
We went for Indian takeaway this time, which meant I didn’t have to embarrass myself with chopsticks. I ordered butter chicken with garlic naan as always. I love spicy food, but too much chilli upsets my stomach. Not so with Mum. She sometimes bemoans the fact that it’s difficult to get a vegetable vindaloo, so she ordered a paneer chilli masala and asked them to ramp up the heat content.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But then I don’t tell him what we do at home with Sam.’
Mum nodded and speared a cube of cheese. ‘It’s a shame you feel the need to keep secrets from both your parents.’
I thought about this. It was an angle I’d never considered before.
‘I don’t think about it as keeping secrets,’ I said finally. ‘More protecting worlds.’
‘One of which will be closed tomorrow,’ Mum said. ‘To all intents and purposes.’
I’d thought about this. Of course I had. But I still felt a lump come to my throat hearing it expressed as bluntly as that.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I learned a lot today,’ said Mum. ‘Your statement was … well, it was wonderful, Cate. I don’t know what I thought happened when you went to your dad’s. I guess I assumed you’d be doing what you do here. You know, bit of homework, maybe watch TV, talk to Elise for hours on the phone. I figured the world there was no different from the world here.’ She tore herself a chunk of naan bread. ‘Now I know better.’
‘Do you still resent Dad for … I can’t remember how you expressed it, but something like having the easier job as a parent?’
‘No. If anything, what I learned today was that maybe my role was easier. Your father gave of himself every second he was with you, it seems. I can’t claim that.’ Mum put her fork down and rubbed at her forehead. ‘It’s easier to wash your school uniform than it is to create miracles.’
‘I need both,’ I said.
Mum laughed. ‘Well, there’s no point rocking up to a miracle if you’re in dirty clothes,’ she said. Then the smile vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘What do you think the judge will say tomorrow, Cate?’
‘I don’t know. Seriously, no idea.’ I hadn’t heard Dad’s testimony, of course, so it was hard for me to come to any informed conclusion. ‘But it would be a brave decision to go against you.’
‘Brave?’
‘We’re meant to believe that men and women are treated equally under the law, but that’s not right, Mum, and you know it. Women still earn less than men. Men dominate positions of power.’
‘Yup. It’s a man’s world,’ said Mum. ‘Always has been.’
‘But the judge is a woman,’ I said.
‘Which means she will be fair and not be biased by gender, as many men are.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But she will also know that I was a part of your body for nine months, that you gave birth to me, breastfed me and shared – still share – a bond unlike any other. I don’t think a man would have that kind of … understanding. That’s what I mean by brave.’
Mum took up another forkful of curry, put it down again. She seemed tired and defeated.
‘I was confident about winning this, Cate,’ she said. ‘Until today. Until I heard your dad speak and until I heard you speak. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’
‘I was …’ Mum picked up the rest of the bread, shredded it between her fingers and dropped the mess back onto the plate. ‘Never mind. Are you done?’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. What were you going to say?’
Mum sighed. ‘If you and your father win … if you’re staying here in Australia, then I’m staying too. That’s all.’
There are times when your emotions ambush you. You don’t know when and sometimes you don’t even know why. It just happens, which I guess is in the nature of ambushes. There was a hot coal of anger deep within me that I hadn’t even realised was there, and Mum’s words had fanned it.
‘What? Are you kidding? Tell me you’re kidding.’
Mum met my eyes and there was no longer defeat in there. It had been replaced with steeliness.
‘I cannot leave you here and go to England, Cate. It’s as simple as that. If you’re staying here, then so am I. Okay, we’ll probably have to renegotiate access and official custody status and …’
I’d sworn not to cry and I didn’t, but it was close.
‘So what was all this about then, Mum?’ I yelled. ‘This court case that I seem to remember you made me feel guilty about. What happened to my daughter would be better off with me and Sam in England, huh? Shit, what happened to you and Sam, the love of your life, apparently?’
‘Don’t swear, Cate.’
‘And what happens then, Mum?’ The words were pouring from me, an undammable flood. ‘Sam comes back to Australia and I’ve screwed up his career? Or he doesn’t come home and I’ve screwed up your life? Well, thanks for nothing, Mum. I’ll just carry that guilt with me, yeah?’
I might have banned myself from crying, but Mum hadn’t. She wailed.
‘I can’t go off without you, Cate.’ She wiped at a small trail of snot creeping from her left nostril. ‘I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m just telling you what I can’t do. I can’t leave you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I understand. I understand that if I win, then everyone loses.’
And I got up from the table and went to my bedroom, slammed the door. The nightmare wasn’t ending. It seemed it was just beginning. I got into bed and it was barely seven thirty. I thought I would never sleep, but almost immediately sleep found me.
I didn’t dream. That was good.