12

EVE

AUGUST 2015

Sweltering. Her chest is slick with sweat, and she throws the blankets off, scissoring her legs free of their weight. Outside, the day has dimmed to evening, but the light above the cabin door has been switched on, throwing yellow back into the small room. A rolling landscape of lumpen shapes has materialised on one of the bunk beds. Another person? Then Eve realises it is her own belongings from the tent: her clothes, and the plastic shopping bags of canned food. Even her tent has been packed down and folded back into its bag, the sleeping mat and bag bundled up beside, her jacket hanging from the back of one of the chairs. Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? She rolls over to face the wall, its imitation timber shiny in the dim light. A chirrup, an impatient buzzing. Her phone. On the bedside table, plugged in. It will be Tom calling.

Lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. How? How does one go on? All of these kind gestures, people willing to show they care and understand. But they don’t, they cannot. She can see already the distress and pity that would appear on Len’s face if she told him what had happened, what it is exactly she’s running away from. Shock followed by the relief that always powers the desire to help. Thank God that didn’t happen to me; that’s what they all think. She has even seen it on the faces of the other parents in the grief support group: people who had lost their children through illness, or accidents caused by others. By careless people.

The first time she went, in a meeting room in a community centre, she mentioned only that her three-year-old daughter had died. She was almost four, she had told the group. She had gratefully received the sincere condolences from people who were confident they understood. But the second time, standing by the hot-water urn and nursing a polystyrene cup, biscuit clinging to her teeth and refusing to wash down her throat, she mentioned to another mother what had happened to Mina.

It was an accident, Eve said. In the driveway. I was driving.

And she saw the horror in the woman’s face, the barrier shooting up between them. I am not like you, the woman’s body said, as she took a small step back, straightening her shoulders even as her words reassured Eve that she shouldn’t hold herself responsible. And for a small moment, Eve felt pleased to have been able to provide this woman with such a feeling of superiority, however fleeting. She did not go back to the meetings.

She can barely recall the days after the funeral. Tom tossed the flowers in the bin before they had a chance to wilt, and late summer rolled on, unperturbed by what had happened. Eve didn’t leave the house, sitting for hours in an armchair in the living room, looking at the crates of toys by the bookshelves, cataloguing their contents in her mind. In the evenings, Tom switched on the television, and they ate small bites of the food dropped off by friends and strangers. Odd, unfamiliar food: spaghetti bolognese that did not taste like their own; a Thai green curry that was accompanied by red capsicum and carrot that had been sliced into small spears and lined up in a ziplock bag, so they didn’t go soggy in the fridge.

After two weeks, they both went back to work; clinging to routine, leaving the house at the same time each morning, promising to see each other in the evening as though it was something to look forward to. Neither of them mentioned that they could have left the house later than they used to, as they no longer had to go past the childcare centre; both of them arrived early at their desks. All day, Eve would surf the internet, losing herself in endless banality. She avoided Facebook and its showy reminders of the unblighted lives of others. She hungrily added strangers to her Twitter list, so that every time she looked at her feed her mind was pulled in a dozen directions. Then she’d delete them all, unable to bear their relentless march forward, the trail of thoughts that became the past as soon as they appeared. Three seconds ago. Eighteen minutes ago.

One day, Eve went to an appointment with a client. A philanthropic couple had bought a three-storey monolith — the old Mechanics’ Institute library on the main street — and turned it into an artists’ collective. Photographers set up desks where fiction had been; graphic designers were in the alcove for biography. They wanted to know how to quieten the space while keeping it open. They’d torn up the carpets and pulled down the curtains, and then wondered why the previously cosy building had become draughty, with melancholy sounds of the aching plumbing echoing up the staircase, footsteps rat-a-tatting like hailstones on the floor.

After touring the building, Eve had stood on the upper landing, unable to hear a word the man was saying. His mouth moving, his hand gesturing.

She could hear the building, but not the man. Windows rattling in their cases; possums in the roof; the hum of loose wiring; the buzz of lights being set up for a shoot. She hurriedly gave them advice, waved away their offers of payment, and returned to her own office. Even there, the sound assaulted her. The sigh of the bar fridge as the motor kicked in; the stop-start traffic on the street below; the whoop and hurry of the pedestrian lights.

At home, she dug out her old minidisk recorder from the garage, shoeboxes full of the disks themselves. The words scribbled on them brought back few memories: Orange, Jindabyne, Majura Pines. But the moment she put on her headphones, she was transported. There was twenty-five minutes of the crackle and pop of red gum in a fireplace, the anticipation of the shifting and thud of the largest log as it burnt through, and suddenly, there it was, the coal sparking in response. Lotte had built that fire, Eve recalled — they were staying in a B&B in Orange, because some kids had smashed in every window down one side of the campervan. Lotte had forgotten to open the flue, and the room had filled with smoke, sending them springing to the windows, laughing, flapping their hands at the smoke detector that failed to squeal even when the smoke became so thick it made their eyes water.

There was a recording of cars rumbling over a plank-wood bridge: the rise and fall of the tarmacked planks — one, two, one, two — every time the same echo came as the back wheels chased the first. The bubble and slurp of a creek down by the coast, and she was immediately transported back to a long weekend spent camping with Tom, walking along the creek to the waterhole in the morning, then spending the afternoon at the beach, laughing as she threw up her arms, backing into the waves because she didn’t want to be thrusting her pregnant belly before her, to be using the baby as a shield between her and the elements.

Tom would come home to find Eve in the armchair, headphones on, eyes open but not seeing anything, and he would pause by her, a hand hovering by her shoulder, her head. She would always return his touch, one for one, but could no longer initiate it, so sure was she that she had lost the right to assert her own needs.

I think …

Tom stopped, folded the tea towel. They were wordlessly cleaning up after dinner, putting things back in their places only to pull them out again tomorrow.

What do you think about selling the house? he asked.

She felt another little bit of herself splinter, a crevice appearing where a hairline fracture had dictated it someday must. To be further from every single memory she had of Mina; to put her daughter so clearly in the past.

I think it’s a good idea, she said.

Because it was not up to her to take part in these decisions any more. Just as she instinctually knew she didn’t want to move, so she knew Tom needed it. The house held too many memories for him.

It would be a fresh start.

They bought a house on the fringe of town, in the foothills of the low volcano that disturbed the flat landscape. Their block was bestrewn with silver gums — beautiful, unworldly things, like lightning bolts speared into the ground, their white flesh peeking from ribboned bark. The house was only a few years old, a fortress of timber and steel that sidled into the landscape, large windows inviting the outdoors in. The master bedroom was up a flight of stairs, an eyrie amongst the whispering treetops, the blue-grey leaves politely carolling through night and day. She watched from the windows as Tom reconstructed his vegetable garden, ramming starpickets into the hard clay ground to hold the timber walls that would contain layers of soil, straw, and sand. She saw that he might be happy here.

Their bodies came together as easily as they always did. Afterwards, Eve settled herself in Tom’s embrace, her cheek pressed against his arm.

Eve, I’m not going to tell you to get past this. But you need to stop blaming yourself.

She didn’t say anything. He went on.

It was an accident. But I’m just as much to blame. I should have been watching Mina. I shouldn’t have left the door open.

It was a discussion they had had many times, Tom desperately keen for her to accept his responsibility, as though that lessened any of hers. There was a door that led from the backyard to the garage, and Tom had left it open as he gardened. It was this door that Mina must have run through, perhaps pulling it closed behind her and frightening herself in the near dark until Eve lifted the roller door. Mina running down the far side of the van towards the daylight, and Eve reversing without a second thought.

I was driving, she said.

Why couldn’t he understand that?

But that was one small moment in her life, said Tom.

He pulled his arm out from under her, sitting up in the bed.

Eve, I miss her. I miss our daughter, and I want to be able to talk about her, to remember her. But you won’t let me. Every time I mention Mina I can see it in you: you’re so angry at yourself and you just shut down. It’s not fair.

Of course it’s not fair!

She turned to face him, her thoughts clouding. How does he think such a concept even comes into it?

I killed our daughter. How do you expect me to react? Do you want me to just blather on about how wonderful she was, everything I miss about her?

Yes.

Tom’s voice was small.

You need to forgive yourself.

How can I? Every time I look at you, I think about how I’ve ruined your life, what I’ve taken away from you.

Tom shook his head.

No. It happened, it was one tiny little moment, and it’s done. But it’s now that you’re taking her away from me. You won’t let me talk about her; you’re shutting me out of your life. That’s what I don’t know if I can live with.

She had been waiting for him to say this. To let her know that she was no longer welcome in his life. It was as it should be.

I want you back, Eve.

Lying down, he reached out for her hand.

The next day, she packed her bag and took a train to Melbourne. A day later, she was on a bus to the coast.

She showers in the small bathroom, scrubbing at her scalp, the residue of sand stubborn beneath her fingernails. When she finally gets out of the shower, the hot water has hazed the air — she cannot make out her reflection in the mirror. She is crouching in front of the heater, drying her hair, when a shadow falls across the floor and there is a knock at the door.

I’m going to get some fish and chips for dinner — do you want me to bring you back some?

Len does not step into the cabin.

Eve glances at the food on the bunk. She hasn’t eaten anything all day.

Yes, that would be great, she says.

He shuffles his feet, looking away across the park.

Look, Bridget’s on a double shift. I could take Jordie with me, but he needs to rest. He can’t run around as much as most kids. Would you mind watching him for a bit?

Her breath catches in her throat, fighting to get through.

Are you sure? I mean, I could, but …

That would be great. Just come by when you’re ready. He won’t be any trouble; I shouldn’t be more than forty minutes or so and he’s glued to the iPad, you know what kids are like.

I’ll just put some shoes on.

She looks to her feet; she’s wearing Len’s socks.

No worries, come by when you’re ready.

She pulls damp hair back behind her ears, squeezes her feet into runners. Trudging across the campground, she is conscious of how loud her shoes are on the gravel road. Between the cabins and the reception office there is an unlit expanse, the unpowered sites that would be crowded with tents in summer. Her footsteps are quietened by the grass and she stops, looking up to the sky, a pale umbrella above the campground hemmed in by cliffs and trees. She sees the brightest stars first, the yellow of Jupiter perhaps, and only a slice of cutglass moon. The smaller, duller stars appear slowly as her eyes adjust, and she remembers Lotte correcting her years before. They weren’t necessarily smaller, those stars, just further away, many of them bigger than the sun itself. She had gone on in a long explanation of red giants and white dwarfs, the way stars become more unstable as they age, shrinking and cooling until the centre forms a black heart of dense diamond and ash.

How many of those black dwarfs haunt the heavens? Lotte hadn’t known. She was more interested in the spectacular clouds of the planetary nebulae like Orion’s Horsehead Nebula and the Cygnus Rift: the carcasses of dying stars that reflect and scatter starlight into glorious, billowing canopies. Every single star will eventually go out, Lotte had said, and with the last one will depart all possibility of life in the universe. She had laughed at Eve declaring it a miserable thought: after all, there would be no one around to witness it. The stars would continue as observant bystanders long after humans have taken their leave, just as they had played silent witness to the universe’s slow becoming.

Len answers the door, letting himself out as he directs Eve in.

Jordie, you remember Eve.

Jordie briefly looks up, nods, and returns his gaze to the iPad in his lap.

I won’t be long, says Len.

Eve sits down on the couch beside Jordie. He’s not wearing his helmet, soft hair curling over his ears.

What are you watching?

Pluto. A spaceship has gone really close and taken photos of it. Look!

He tilts the iPad towards her, wanting her to see but not taking his eyes off the video. A gif flicks through the history of images of Pluto, from pixellated blocks of light to a densely detailed image of the planet, a distinct love-heart etched into its face.

It’s the smallest planet, isn’t it? Eve struggles to think of something to say.

It’s not a planet. It’s a dwarf planet. Jordie is full of scorn. It has a sister. One that’s almost as big.

She knows this; it must have been Lotte who told her. Pluto, the lord of the underworld, and Charon, the ferryman of the dead.

It’s very exciting, says Eve. And Jordie nods his head vigorously, presses the screen to start another video.

Soon, Len returns with two paper parcels held in front of him; the assaulting smell of chips claws at Eve’s empty stomach.

Do you want to join us?

Len gestures at the kitchen. She wants to stay on the couch beside Jordie’s warm feet, stuffing as many chips into her mouth as possible, not make polite conversation. But she nods, pulls herself up off the couch and follows him across the room.

Len unwraps the paper, piling chips and a potato cake into a plastic bowl, squirting it with tomato sauce and delivering it to Jordie.

We usually all eat at the table, Len apologises as he comes back to the kitchen. Don’t tell your mum, he calls back over his shoulder.

The first chip burns the roof of her mouth, the second does the same to her tongue. They eat in silence for several minutes before Len gets up and puts a DVD on for Jordie.

They’re delicious, Eve says.

Best fish-and-chip shop on the coast, says Len.

Is it the one by the roundabout? Or the one by the golf course?

You know the town? He is surprised. Near the roundabout, he says. The other one only opens in summer, for the tourists, and it’s not as good. Have you been down this way a bit?

Not for a while. And only in summer. I was here a few years ago, with my husband, just before my daughter was born.

She breaks the battered flake with her fingers, jerking her hand back as the hot steam is released.

She must be around the same age as Jordie, says Len.

Eve shakes her head.

She’s younger. About four years ago. She was almost four …

She waits for him to ask, before realising that he isn’t going to. And she wishes he would.

She died, my daughter. Mina.

Mouth thick with oil, her fingers coated in it so she can’t brush away the tears.

Len shakes his head. I’m sorry to hear that, he says. He wipes his hands on a tea towel and puts them in his lap.

What was she like? Mina? Was she a little terror? He smiles at Eve. I was hoping for a girl when Jordie was born but my wife reckons they’re worse. That boys are straight up and into everything, but girls have got the smarts — they wind you around their little finger before you’ve figured out what’s happened.

She was a bit of both, says Eve.

She licks the grease from her hand, wipes at her cheek with a sleeve. She used to be so bossy, always telling me, Mum, sit! every time she wanted company, though she couldn’t sit still herself for five minutes. Eve nodded at the doorway. Every time we put a DVD on she’d be dancing around; she wouldn’t sit like that and watch anything from start to finish.

As they talked, Eve could hear Mina’s tuneless voice, picking up at the chorus, which always got belted out with due emphasis. She remembers Mina’s initially wary then tragically besotted love affair with Peppa Pig; remembers the crumpled face she could pull the instant she was overcome with tiredness. And then she finds herself laughing, rolling her eyes at Len’s description of Jordie’s breakfast routine, comparing it with Mina’s insistence of only eating her toast when it was cold and soggy.

There is a knock at the door.

Excuse me, must be a late arrival, says Len, getting up from the table. Won’t be a minute.

All the good humour scoots away with him. Left with her own thoughts, not stories for a stranger, Eve can again only see her action. Hauling up the roller door, pulling herself into the driver’s seat.

Eve.

Lotte has come into the kitchen, her cheeks flushed, just a scruff of hair visible beneath her woollen hat. Even beneath the knitted jumper, Eve can see she’s thinner than she used to be, and her eyes dart to Lotte’s chest, wondering. But all she can think is that she’s here. She came.

Lotte.

Stumbling as she gets up from the chair, falling into Lotte’s arms, hugging her fiercely, thinking her grasp is too hard — she’s been sick, after all. But she doesn’t want to let go, relief coursing through her, and something more, something close to joy.

I’m so glad to see you, says Eve.

Me too.

Eve looks up to see Len standing in the doorway, apprehension clear on his face.

I found her number in your phone, I called this afternoon, he says.

Thank you, Eve smiles at him, letting Lotte go. She cannot understand what she’s feeling, except relief that she’s feeling anything at all.

How are you? The surgery, everything, I’m so sorry, I should have—

Don’t worry about it, everything’s fine, says Lotte, cutting her off. I’ve come to take you home to Dad — Tom. I’ve been staying with him since you left. He’s worried about you; he wants you back.

She looks like she is going to say more, but Eve just nods, relieved. Home. It’s the only place she wants to be.