Sandra has the hide to actually call you. It takes a moment to register when the number comes up on your mobile, and you stare, indecisive, at the screen. You long ago deleted her from your contacts, but hers is one of the few numbers you know off by heart.
She was your best friend. You met at some playgroup you joined when Jarrah was a baby. She left soon after, as her son started preschool. From that short crossing-over, a circumstantial friendship survived and became something more. You thought she was the friend you could trust with anything.
You’d said something to her, something you later regretted. You’d told her, one night over a few glasses of wine, what you could barely admit even to yourself – that you were the tiniest bit bored in your marriage, and even, perhaps, the tiniest bit embarrassed that Finn, your stay-at-home husband, lacked ambition and wasn’t more successful. She’d rolled her eyes and told you she and Hans hadn’t had sex in two years, and she’d taken to watching box sets of TV series most evenings because he bored her so much. She was thinking of enrolling in a Masters just for something to do. You’d laughed together and that was that.
Except it wasn’t. It must have planted a seed in Sandra: the idea that she could fool around with your husband as a cure for her boredom. And he’d gone along with it. The two of them carrying on like they weren’t betraying a friendship and a marriage. Like it was no big deal.
The phone stops ringing. You wait a minute until the notification pings through. She’s left a message. You’ll delete it without listening, of course.
How different might this whole thing be if she was still your best friend. You could have asked her advice about Finn, or told her you’d started to believe in ghosts and were, in all likelihood, going absolutely, slowly, mad. You could have asked her why, instead of weeping, you felt angry all the time. At Finn most of all.
Bridget, I know you don’t want to speak to me. I just want to tell you I’m still here, and I’m thinking of you and … um … sending love, and if you need someone, just call.
You stab at the delete icon. You shouldn’t have listened. What’s the use? She betrayed you because she was bored. You won’t forgive her. And now, after everything, you’re a different person living in a different world. Sandra would hardly know who you’ve become.
It’s Sunday and you’re going crazy. Finn’s out in the studio, Jarrah too, and that boy Tom has come to help, and it’s the testosterone club out there and you’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go and the house is closing in, pressing against your skin, crushing you.
When Meredith sends a text asking how you are, it’s such a relief you nearly come to tears. You call and ask if she wants to meet for coffee. She hesitates, and at last suggests the truck stop on the highway. It’s no crazier than anything else, and not far from your mother’s nursing home anyway, and you agree. Leave a note on the table in case Finn wonders where you are, and head out.
The truck stop’s crowded with people on the way to somewhere else. You drink a weak coffee and toy with raisin toast until she arrives. Looks around, spots you, makes her way across. She sits down, but doesn’t take off her sunglasses.
She reaches across the table and clasps your hands. ‘You’ve been on my mind constantly.’
‘Thanks,’ you say, for the want of something else. ‘I suppose you saw the papers? Finn was charged.’
‘I know. Are you OK?’
The words rush out of you. ‘Finn wants us to go back to Hobart – he says he can’t stay living here any more. I’ve lost track of Jarrah and I can’t reach him. I’m scared about leaving. I don’t know what to do.’
She lets go of your hand and sits back. ‘I wanted to tell you in person, not on the phone. I can’t support you any more. I shouldn’t even be here today.’
Mid-rant, you try to collect yourself. ‘What?’
‘I found out yesterday. I’ll be called as a witness in the case against Finn. So I can’t speak to him any more, and probably not to you either.’
You struggle to understand. ‘But – you’re on our side. You said your foundation supports families in legal cases.’
She glances down. ‘It’s not about sides. We do support families during coronial inquests, but now Finn’s been charged it’s different. It’s a criminal matter. Our foundation has been lobbying for years for a case like this to go through the courts to raise awareness. Do you know how many other families lost their toddlers in swimming pools last year?’
You shake your head.
‘Sixteen. Sixteen families who lost their babies, mostly because someone was careless with a gate or a fence. Sixteen families destroyed.’
‘But—’
‘In my experience, when a child drowns, the mother always gets the blame, Bridget. But in this case, Finn modified the gates illegally, and now you’re all paying the price.’
‘Whoa!’ You stand.
‘Oh God,’ she says. Slips off her glasses and puts her head in her hands. ‘Let me explain.’
You hesitate, and sit again. She composes herself. Her eyes are red but she’s kept the tears from falling. When she starts again, her voice is soft.
‘If Finn’s convicted, this case will help save lives. If he goes to jail, even more so. It will be in all the news, all over social media. People will hear about it, and they’ll remember the message.’
Your head snaps up. ‘Could he go to jail?’
‘Haven’t you had legal advice?’
You skipped off to Chen’s instead of meeting the solicitor, you remember with a twinge of guilt as you shake your head. You haven’t been paying attention.
‘I’m not trying to hurt your family. I just want justice done and children protected. That’s worth something, isn’t it? If it even saves one child’s life?’
There’s no possible answer to that question. You look at her squarely. ‘What happened to you, Meredith?’
She looks away, out the window. The forecourt buzzes. Cars come and go, people pump petrol, and beyond, vehicles roar on the highway, heading north, heading south, travelling. You wish you had somewhere to flee to.
At last she answers in a flat voice. ‘I thought you might have guessed. My daughter drowned in the neighbour’s pool. She wasn’t quite two. My husband had taken her with him when he went over for a drink. Their gate was propped open.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Twenty-six years.’
‘And whose fault was it?’
‘Oh, no one could agree. My husband blamed the neighbours for leaving the gate open. The neighbours blamed him for not watching her. The coroner found it was an unfortunate accident.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault.’
She presses the tip of her car key into the top of her first finger, over and over. ‘I should never have trusted him with her. But no one paid for it, Bridget. No one had to get up and account for what they’d done. And it didn’t stop people wedging their pool gates open and children drowning. No one took any notice.’
‘And you think Finn should pay?’
‘They should all pay,’ she snaps. ‘Every one of them who left a gate open, or wedged it or tied it or—’
‘Or looked away for a minute, like me,’ you finish for her.
‘You believed your pool was safely fenced,’ she counters. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
A best friend would have told you what she thought. If it was your fault, or Finn’s, or no one’s, or everyone’s. You would have believed a best friend.
You stand. ‘I’d better go.’
She looks up at you. ‘It’s not personal. If you didn’t blame him yourself, Bridget, you’d be fighting for him right now. You wouldn’t even be talking to me.’
‘What happened to your husband?’ you ask.
‘Just what you’d expect.’ She puts her sunglasses back on. ‘Two more children with his new wife. All safely grown up now.’