You don’t like Malcolm. It’s not personal. Or maybe it is, maybe you wouldn’t have liked him even meeting him at a party or as a colleague. There’s something about him – some whiff of profiting from the misfortune of others, something you can’t quite put your finger on.
Plus he’s always catching you on the back foot.
‘Let’s get the small matters out of the way first,’ he says. ‘The house sale. You need to have some agreement about what happens to the money if your husband does end up with a custodial sentence. You both need your interests protected. You may want to consider appointing your own solicitor.’
He doesn’t like you either, you surmise. ‘I’ll consider it. But I’m here to talk about the case.’
He closes the house sale folder with exaggerated patience and you bite the jagged place inside your lower lip that keeps you calm. He opens the next, much bigger folder.
‘I feel your husband rushed into the decision to plead guilty. Did you discuss it?’
‘No. He decided the morning after our son’s accident. There was no chance to discuss it.’
‘Do you agree with his decision?’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think, does it? It’s done.’
‘Your attitude matters. You’ll still need to give evidence in the sentencing hearing in Lismore next Tuesday – I suppose Finn told you that? You should argue that you son needs his father. It all contributes to the judge’s decision about a sentence. All helps keep him out of jail.’
It’s been calmer since Finn left for Hobart. Without him around, your fury has abated. You and Jarrah coexist in an orbit of loss, but somehow, you think, you’re managing. You focus on Jarrah and your pond. The truth is, you don’t want Finn to come back, not just now. Jail might not be the worst outcome. Though you can’t tell this to his solicitor. And it makes you not only a bad wife, but a bad mother, because of course a boy needs his father.
You give yourself a jolt, sit up straighter. There’s no one in the world, with the possible exception of Meredith and DI Evans, who thinks Finn should be in jail. You’ll have to help him with this.
‘We should go through your police statement,’ Malcolm says. ‘You’ll be cross-examined and we can discuss our strategies and predict what questions they might ask. It would help to get evidence from your son. Finn says he doesn’t want him in court, though I’ve advised him it could be helpful. If he’s not going to give evidence, we should get that psychological assessment. Can you organise that? We can give you a list of court-approved psychologists.’
‘Tick,’ you say, though you can’t imagine how this will fit with concealing Jarrah’s suicide attempt.
He takes his glasses off. ‘I’m going to presume we’re all on the same side here, trying to keep your husband out of jail. You can sort out any differences much more easily afterwards, if he’s a free man.’
‘Differences?’ you say.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Brennan,’ he says, closing the file. ‘Don’t think I’m not. I can barely imagine what you’ve gone through. But I have a good idea of what’s coming up. A lot of people pin their hopes on court. They think someone will be punished, and they think they’ll have closure. But it’s not like that. Don’t think court will make anything better.’
‘You smell,’ your mother says, waving her hand in front of her nose.
‘It’s the cakes, silly.’ You open the paper bag, slide out the cardboard box. ‘Chocolate brownies. Fresh. Your favourite.’
She checks out your offering suspiciously. ‘Who’s that for?’
‘One for you, one for me, one for—’
‘Toby.’
‘Jarrah,’ you say at the same moment, speaking over the top of her.
‘Toby loves his chocolate.’
‘It’s too rich for him. He can have a banana. But don’t tell him, OK?’
These conversations with your mother should be devastating, but you find a strange comfort in them. For a moment you can almost pretend none of it’s happened and Toby is at home with Finn, ready to throw a tantrum over a chocolate brownie.
You cut one of the brownies in half and hand it to her in a napkin. She sinks her teeth in, closing her eyes in pleasure, chews noisily, bites again. While she’s occupied, you slide the remainder into the bag and put it out of her sight. She tends to forget she’s eaten and wants more. When she finishes, you take the napkin and wipe the chocolate from the corner of her mouth.
‘Something still smells,’ she says.
‘I can’t smell anything.’
‘Fish. I can smell fish.’
You busy yourself, carrying the napkin over to the bin and taking your time to pop the lid and drop it in and look out the window into the garden. You put your hands into the pool before you came here. Hoping for some development in the ecosystem. Hoping for Toby. It’s true, your hands smelled fishy afterwards, but you scrubbed them. Surely that’s not it?
‘Have I seen Toby lately?’
The question takes you by surprise and you turn. You have no idea, at any given moment, if a question is coming from an opening of lucidity or the fog. This one sounds lucid and she’s looking at you steadily.
‘Not for a while,’ you say softly.
‘I miss him.’ Tears form in her eyes.
Your own tears threaten and you’re sick of lying to her, sickened by pretence. ‘He’s gone, Mum.’
You have the sense of her in there somewhere, peering out through the thickets that have formed in her mind, catching sight of you in the world for once, knowing you, hearing you.
‘Don’t say that!’ she cries and presses her hands to her mouth.
You’re already regretting the words, wishing you could snatch them back, hoping they’ll find no purchase in her tangled brain, nothing to catch them and hold them.
‘He’s gone with Finn to Hobart,’ you say, forcing a smile. ‘To visit the family. I’ll bring him in when they get home.’
‘Can we go to Hobart too?’
‘Do you want to go back?’
She nods vigorously.
‘Sure.’ You’re under control again and you move to her side, rest your hand on her thin shoulder.
‘I’m packed,’ she says. ‘Let’s go now.’
‘OK,’ you say and squeeze her shoulder. ‘I’ll go and bring the car around. Wait here.’
It’s simplest this way, you’ve learned. You step out of her room. Use the toilet, wash your hands, flinch at your gaunt face in the mirror. Only days until Finn’s sentence hearing and it still seems unreal.
‘You should start preparing yourself,’ he said last night when you answered the phone. ‘I’ll organise Tom to help you pack up the house if it’s needed. Malcolm’s drawn up some things you need to sign. I’ve asked Conor to be my power of attorney.’
That, more than anything, said how far apart you were. He didn’t trust you.
‘Shouldn’t we talk before the hearing?’ you said. ‘About strategy or something?’
‘Nothing’s changed. Just tell your story and we’ll let the judge decide what’s right. And make sure Jarrah’s not there.’
‘When are you coming back?’
He hesitated. ‘I’ll stay in Sydney the night before and fly up early on the trial day.’
‘You’re not even going to see Jarrah?’
‘It’s too damned hard, Bridget. I’ll just see you in there on the day, OK?’
You hung up, not understanding any of it.
You envy your mother for her ability to live in the present, relatively unaffected by past and future. You run your fingers through your hair and step out of the toilet. The sun slants into the hallway window and onto the patterned carpet. You wait another few moments, breathing deeply. Head up, back in the door, as if arriving.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Why, hello dear,’ she says. ‘Lovely to see you.’ Then wrinkles her brow. ‘What’s that smell?’