Finn’s back. You know it as soon as you pull into the driveway on Friday afternoon, before you see the light on in his studio. Before you come across the grass and spot him stretched out on the cane lounge on the verandah, asleep.
You missed him last night. The loneliness had a different quality. He’s banished from your bed, but you still sense him hidden across in his studio, still sense you can rely on his presence.
You reach the verandah and stop. He stirs.
‘Back early,’ you say.
Finn rubs his eyes, eases himself onto his elbows. He looks dreadful. Lines carved into his face that you don’t remember. He swings his legs over and gets to his feet.
‘We need to talk.’
Your heart shrivels. Anything he wants to talk about can’t be good. His legal advice. Your night away from the house. His night away from the house. Anything to do with Toby. There’s nothing you can look forward to in this conversation.
‘Is Jarrah home from school?’ you ask.
He pauses, glances at his watch. ‘He came and went out again, I think. I dozed off.’
‘We need to keep a closer eye on him,’ you say, following him inside. ‘I’m worried about him.’
‘I agree.’ Finn sits on the lounge.
You hoped there’d be some preamble, some making of hot or cold drinks, something. You kick off your shoes, loosen some buttons and sit down.
You feel, rather than hear, that he’s crying. The shake of his shoulders is an earthquake tremor that travels down the lounge, into the floor and up into you. As if the foundations of the house are shuddering. The legal news must have been bad. You’re so close to reaching over with your hand and grasping his that it almost feels like you’ve done it.
When he speaks, his voice is choked.
‘The buyers pulled out.’
You don’t understand the words, and when you do, you don’t understand the meaning. Is he talking about one of his sculptures? Is it something to do with Edmund? When you realise that he means the house, something akin to relief seeps into your body. You do reach over then and place your hand on his, and he turns his hand upwards and grips you like it’s him who’s drowning. It’s terrifying, and you want to pull away from his downwards momentum. It takes all your strength to stay steady and not wrench your fingers out of his grasp.
‘It was a crap price anyway,’ you say.
He doesn’t respond and your anger starts its familiar burn. The house sale is hardly the most important thing going on. He’s been charged with manslaughter and you haven’t even talked about it.
‘Weren’t you going to Sydney to get legal advice? What happened?’
You can feel him fighting for control, literally wrestling down the urge to sob, and you hope he wins. It’s selfish, but you can’t even manage your own pain, and the tidal wave of his will swamp you.
His shuddering recedes a little; he gains control. Withdraws his hand from yours, wipes his eyes on his arm, fishes in his pocket for a tissue and blows his nose. He balls the tissue up in his fist.
‘I want you to hear me out.’
When you give a guarded nod, he continues. ‘We can’t stay here. It’s ruining us.’
A clenching, down low in your belly. Did he even hear your question about legal advice? ‘Hang on—’
‘Edmund’s offered us his home. He’ll stay somewhere else. Jarrah can go to school, you can start looking for work. We can get away from here.’
It’s not what you expected. ‘In Sydney?’
‘Just until we sell the house, or you find a job in Tasmania. Or I sell some pieces. I want us to pack what we need this weekend, leave the rest. We can be out of here by Sunday.’
The moment you felt softly towards him, the moments of missing him last night, are disappearing. ‘This is hardly the most important thing we have to talk about, for Christ’s sake. What did the barrister say?’
He shakes his head. ‘We can talk about that later. This is the most important thing.’
‘Have you thought of asking Jarrah and me how we feel about it?’
‘I’m asking.’
Rage starts, low in your belly. ‘Do you even know your son has a girlfriend?’
A strange expression crosses Finn’s face. ‘Yeah, I do.’
‘Has it occurred to you he might not want to be dragged off to Sydney with two days’ notice? And what about me? I just walk out of the job? Don’t go back on Monday?’
‘Yes.’
You’re floundering. There’s nothing to fight in these replies, nothing to grasp and shake. You change tack. ‘What if we don’t want to go?’
‘We need to think about what’s best for us as a family.’
‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ you snap.
He looks up, shocked, and you know you’ve stepped over some line. You shut your mouth.
‘Bridget,’ he says softly. ‘I’m begging you.’
Your head is shaking of its own accord. ‘I can’t leave Toby.’
It’s out of your mouth before you know it.
Finn looks at you, old and creased and confused. ‘He’s gone,’ he says, as though you’re a child.
You’re wrong, you want to yell at him. My son is out there in that pool. Instead you challenge him. ‘What if we won’t come?’
Finn looks at you for a moment, then his eyes drop. His head sags into his hands. You expect him to begin sobbing but instead he becomes completely still.
You don’t want to know the answer. You get up, walk quickly to the door and outside.
It’s dusk, still hot, and there’s no sign of Jarrah. You take a few breaths, and without thinking too much, you turn for the pool. Let yourself in the gate, close it softly behind you. Walk to one of the wooden chairs, drag it close to the edge and sit down, feeling the warm air lick the bare skin of your arms.
Nothing in your scientific training can support what you know without doubt: that Toby is somehow in the water. You don’t want to know Finn’s answer to your question. You don’t want him to force a choice. You can’t leave Toby. You won’t.