21

DB

Dear Jonesy,

I have of late found myself perusing the online biographies of life’s great men: Weary Dunlop, Whitlam, Mawson and the Ice Men. And what fascinates me is the obvious connecting strand – and one I see in myself, and you – of a benevolent sense of command and restraint. Of control and serenity. A mastery of

There was a hammering on the toilet door.

‘Other people in this house need to use the bathroom too.’

DB saved the draft email on his mobile and hastily pulled up his pyjama trousers. He opened the door to find Sylvie dancing about like a child, her knees clenched together.

‘Are there not other toilets in this house you could use? I distinctly remember this being a selling point when we picked this place.’

Sylvie ignored him, pushing past. ‘This is our toilet.’

The door slammed shut and DB stepped into the adjacent bathroom. He stood for a moment washing his hands, working the soap around the joints of his fingers and under his wedding band. As he did, he leant forward, peering into the bloodshot eyes reflected back in the mirror. He’d hit a rough patch of insomnia of late, his mind poring over the details of the pro bono case as the court date drew nearer. And of the terrifying potential fallout from losing. There was much riding on it – Old Man Williams had made this clear at Malcolm’s wake and in the smattering of exchanges they’d had in the elevator since. And the thought of letting him down – of letting them all down – well, it didn’t bear thinking about. But he wouldn’t, of course. He was onto it. They were onto it, he and Nell. Madeline was working on a second affidavit. A better version. So it would all be fine. And he believed her, didn’t he? And thus things would all be fine.

He raked his fingers down his cheeks, catching the sharp overnight stubble. It was all fine, all going to plan, on course for a win and that plum new office. Chin up, game face on, off we go! DB twisted the tap then leant forward to splash his face with water a few times. As he emerged, he noticed Sylvie’s contraceptive pill packet sitting amid the clutter of toiletry items strewn across the vanity. He was peering at it as she came in, nudging him aside to wash her hands. When she was done, she reached for the packet, popping a pale yellow pill and swallowing it.

‘That was Saturday.’

‘What?’

‘Saturday,’ he replied, pointing at the writing above the pill casing. ‘Today is Thursday.’

‘Oh, that?’ she said dismissively. ‘They don’t match up.’

She reached past him for her toothbrush. DB continued to stare at the packet, his brow furrowed.

‘But how are you meant to know?’

Sylvie brushed this off.

‘I forget sometimes and then make up for it when I remember. The days don’t align anymore because I guess I’ve forgotten it a couple of times.’

DB considered this.

‘But it’s four days off.’

Sylvie spat toothpaste into the sink, then shrugged. DB did not know a great deal about contraception but he knew enough to know that it was meant to be taken every day. That if you didn’t, the baby might be made. And if the baby was made, the baby was often born, and the baby being born was not part of their current schedule, and certainly not part of their current budget. It wasn’t part of the plan. Suddenly, his heart seemed to be racing. If they abandoned the plan, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the mortgage, not on his current wage. And if they couldn’t keep up with the mortgage they would have to go further into debt. And Rudy wouldn’t ever be able to go to private school because they’d have to dip into the money DB had been saving for this, and this meant he would most likely do drugs, or sell drugs or, as was increasingly the case, cook drugs, and then sell them and do them, and then they’d never sell the house because no one wanted to buy a former crack house. He watched his wife calmly flossing around her top left incisor.

‘How often does this happen?’

‘Does what happen?’ she slurred through the floss.

‘The forgetting. Are you . . .’

Suddenly everything seemed to click into place. The mood swings, the fighting, the perpetual displeasure at everything he did. He stepped back, surveying his wife with shock.

‘You’re pregnant! This is why you’ve been so grumpy.’

Sylvie’s hands dropped from her mouth and she spat into the sink.

‘That’s why you think I’m grumpy?’

DB thought backwards.

‘When was your last period?’

Sylvie glared at him. ‘I don’t know. I skip them sometimes. A month or two?’

DB sank down onto the edge of the bathtub, head in hands.

‘Stop being so dramatic,’ Sylvie sighed. ‘It hasn’t happened before and I’ve been forgetting for years.’

‘Years?’ The whole carefully planned timeline of their life was now flashing sporadically. It could have happened at any time?

‘Would it be such a bad thing, anyway?’ Sylvie asked. ‘We certainly don’t want Rudy to be an only child.’

Sylvie thought only children were emotionally fragile. DB was an only child.

‘It would be terrible timing,’ DB wailed. ‘We’re not ready for this. Our finances aren’t ready. Rudy isn’t ready –’

‘– what has Rudy –’

‘– and you’ve been drinking and eating all that salami your father keeps hawking on us and –’

‘– do you hear yourself right now –’

‘– and I haven’t done the maths. I’m not ready. My spreadsheets aren’t –’

Sylvie’s hands flew up and she stormed out of the bathroom, shutting him in. DB slid gently backwards until he rested in the bathtub, curling his legs to fit. He stayed there, his head alive with figures, as he tried to adjust their life to this potential – probable? – new course. Sylvie would take maternity leave – that was fine – but there’d be a shortfall if she went the full year, but by that time he’d have the promotion so presumably he still had another, what, eight months until the birth plus thirty-two weeks mat leave, which was surely enough, provided they took no holidays and did no more renos, which meant they’d have to wait on the plan to upgrade the second car, which wasn’t ideal, but perhaps they could look at some kind of refinancing of the current car . . . Eventually, DB awoke from what had been an unexpected exhausted slumber. The cool of the porcelain had crept into his skin and his neck ached from the strange angle it was on. He eased himself awkwardly out of the bath, washed his face under the tap, then made his way out of the bathroom. The house was empty. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Ten am. Bugger. He’d have to drive. He dressed hurriedly, then made his way to the garage. Sylvie had taken the good car, so he folded himself into the little sports car. They’d joked when they bought it that it would never fit a baby seat and this suddenly didn’t seem so funny anymore. Shit shit shit. As he sped towards the city, DB tried to calm himself by running numbers through his head again. He hurried into the office, avoiding eye contact.

‘Breakfast meeting,’ he announced loudly, though no one was listening. ‘That’s where I’ve been.’

He slid into his office chair and roused his computer to life.

‘I didn’t realise you had a meeting,’ Nell said, peering over her computer screen.

‘I did,’ he assured her, then pretended to take a phone call.

A few hours later, he felt himself caught up enough on work that it was okay to take a little break. He opened a new internet tab and typed in, Can you get pregnant if you skip the pill? Then he searched, How many pills do you need to skip to get pregnant? Then, What happens if you are pregnant and are on birth control pills? This last one, at least, relieved him. At least it wouldn’t be a mutant baby. Just a regular run-of-the-mill money-guzzling baby. He scanned a few more paragraphs, anxiously angling a wedge of Turkish Delight into his mouth.

‘Are you working on the Miller file at the moment?’ Nell asked.

‘Yes,’ DB replied, and minimised the tab.

He made himself focus on work, which wasn’t hard as there was enough of it to get through. The day dragged on and eventually the clock hit 6.00 pm.

‘Madeline’s just emailed through her new affidavit,’ Nell announced, her eyes on the computer screen. ‘Do you want to see it or do you want me to go through it first?’

DB’s mobile vibrated beside him and he glanced down. It was a text from Sylvie. Rudy and I are staying at my parents’ tonight. DB stared at the message, imagining his maybe-pregnant wife curled up in her childhood bed with their son breathing softly beside her. Nell cleared her throat. She was watching him, waiting for an answer. The pro bono case. It needed their attention now or else. Or else. If they got this right it might mean the promotion, which meant more money for the maybe-baby that was maybe on its way. He watched Nell watching him, one hand hovering near his mobile and the other at his mouse.

‘What do you want to do?’ she pressed, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

Columns shifted in his head, worlds, lives, pathways too.

‘You start on it and I’ll get the pizza,’ he decided, pushing his mobile into his pocket.