The Nowhere Girl (ARC) Page 4

  The first thing I told her was that I didn’t speak to my mother. ‘Yeah, I figured,’ Natalia replied.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, stung that I seemed like the type of person who didn’t speak to her mother.

  ‘Well, you never talk about your family. I mean, like, you never complain about them, and I complain all the time because they’re such overprotective Greek parents, and even though you’ve been over to my place heaps, you’ve never invited me to yours so I figured that there was something going on there.’

  I felt some shame at how accurate she was. ‘My childhood is not my fault,’ I snapped because that’s what Ian, my therapist, made me repeat to myself.

  ‘Of course not,’ Natalia said. ‘How on earth can it be your fault?’ We were both curled up on the massive leather couch in the room Natalia’s family called ‘the media room’ because of the giant television with a VHS player and gaming consoles along one wall. Natalia had thrown together a big plate of nachos and we were both sipping on Diet Cokes. A rom-com was playing on the television.

  ‘Not everyone had a childhood like I did, and I understand that,’ she said. ‘I get that that’s not your experience. I don’t care either. I think you’re fabulous and you listen to all my shit without kicking me to the kerb so you’re patient and lovely as well.’

  I laughed. ‘I like listening to your shit.’

  ‘Lucky me,’ said Natalia.

  Our friendship only grew stronger from there and Natalia, after over twenty years, is still supportive and unsurprised whenever I reveal another piece of my childhood. But there is one part of my life I have never discussed with her. I’ve never discussed it with anyone – not Jack and not even Ian. I didn’t do the right thing. I didn’t make the right choice. And now there’s this email, this single line that I’ve deleted that could blow up my world entirely. Once again, my tongue finds its way into the gap in my mouth.

  I take a deep sip of my wine. I don’t think I could ever tell my husband the whole truth. I couldn’t bear to lose him, to have him look at me with horror and judgement. I simply couldn’t bear it. My guilt is an old-fashioned ball and chain I have dragged through my whole life. Some days I don’t feel its weight, but on others it feels impossible to move at all.

  Back then, I went along with Natalia to the party despite my trepidation. Five minutes after we arrived, I found myself standing in a corner of an overcrowded room. It was nearly Christmas. University was over for the year, and the weather was warm and sultry. I felt light and free in my new white sundress. I was clutching a brightly coloured glass of punch, watching Natalia flirt with three young men at once. I didn’t mind. Every now and again she would throw me a look that I knew meant she found all of them amusing but not really worth her time.

  ‘Your friend… your friend is certainly a live wire,’ a man said, coming to stand next to me. I noticed his ebony black hair and bright blue eyes and nodded. He moved his hands over his hair and then folded his arms, settling for putting his hands in his pockets.

  ‘She is,’ I said, ‘and if you wait a few minutes, I’ll introduce you.’ I was sure Natalia would like this one even if he was a little awkward.

  ‘Nah, I’m… I’m good. I thought I’d introduce myself to you instead. I’m Jack.’

  ‘Oh… I’m Alice.’ I couldn’t believe he wanted to talk to me. For the first time, I felt seen. I was used to being invisible when I was out with Natalia.

  ‘Med student or already qualified?’

  ‘Um, neither. I’m studying journalism, one semester to go.’

  ‘Interesting. Have you always wanted to be a writer?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘Maybe we could… discuss this somewhere else?’

  ‘Um… But we can’t leave the party? Can we?’

  ‘I think we can leave the party, Alice.’ He stopped fidgeting and seemed suddenly much more sure of himself, as though he had access to some book that explained how to be in the world that I had missed out on.

  Even after twenty years together I still find myself asking Jack if he thinks a choice I’m making is okay. He always has to think about the answer he gives me, but I always trust that it’s the right one.

  ‘You know you don’t need his permission, right?’ a frustrated Natalia said only last month after I’d called Jack to check if it was okay for me to stay out and have dinner with her after some shoe shopping.

  ‘I know,’ I said because it was difficult to explain how much I needed to hear his affirmation that I was doing the right thing. That’s what Jack has given me: the gift of someone in my life who is completely certain of his place in the world and of his own opinions, even if he’s never quite sure what to do with his big hands and long arms. I can never be as assured as Jack can, and I need him for that. Another reason on a long list of why I love him.

  I remember shivering in the warm room at that party as Jack spoke. His voice was low and deep and he spoke slowly and carefully and I felt something stir inside me, something I had never imagined I would feel.

  According to Ian, at some point in my past, I distanced myself from my own body and the awful things that were being done to it. I separated my physical and mental self in order to protect myself. ‘I want to try and bring those two halves of you back together,’ he said, ‘because one day that might be something you want.’

  When I met Jack, it was the first time that I thought Ian could be right. No one had touched me for nearly six years by then, not even a doctor. I didn’t like to think about my physical self. I showered and I made sure that I always looked presentable. I ate food, but I was always aware that I shouldn’t enjoy it too much in case there came a time when I didn’t have any. I exercised because exercise helped me keep my haunting, troubling thoughts in line, but other than that my body was just a vehicle to get from one place to another. I thought I would be happy with that for the rest of my life. And I could never ignore the small, spiteful voice in my head that sometimes spent entire nights repeating, ‘You don’t deserve to be happy. You don’t deserve anything good at all.’

  Jack took me to a late-night pizzeria and we talked over a spicy pepperoni pizza and some cheap red wine. Mostly Jack spoke and I kept him talking with questions about his family and his studies and what kind of doctor he wanted to be and why he had decided to study medicine.

  ‘So,’ he said when we were walking back to his car, ‘do I get to ask any questions?’

  ‘Um… sure, I mean there’s not a lot to know.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true… not true at all. I think there’s a great deal to know. I can see what you’re doing and that’s fine, but I’d just like to know if you’re holding back because you don’t… like me or if you’re holding back because your life is a little more complicated than mine.’ He fiddled with his keys while he waited for me to reply.

  I was afraid I was going to burst into tears right in front of him. ‘I do like you,’ I said, ‘and my life is a lot more complicated than yours.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ he replied. ‘Okay… we’ll take it really slowly.’

  And we did. We dated for a month before Jack tried to kiss me, and then he asked permission first. I didn’t expect the softness of his lips or the gentle way he cradled my head. I didn’t expect to feel it ripple through my whole body. I didn’t expect to want to push my body closer to his. I had never been kissed by a man before and I had always been terrified of it.

  ‘Abuse,’ I told him when I trusted him enough. But it didn’t really explain anything. It barely scratched the surface.

  After a few months he wanted to go further than a kiss, and I wanted to as well. All his awkwardness disappeared when he kissed me, when he touched me. I wanted, I yearned, but as soon as I stopped thinking and started feeling, my brain would reel me back in, a struggling fish on a sharp hook, and I would freeze up. My arms and legs would become rigid and I would have trouble breathing.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he would soothe, stroking my hair. �
�Enough for tonight.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ was all I could say. ‘I really want to be with you but it’s just…’

  ‘I know, it’s difficult. We’ll take it slow… I’m happy with slow.’

  ‘But don’t you want a normal girlfriend? Someone who isn’t damaged?’

  ‘No, I want you, Alice, with your beautiful brown eyes and those kissable lips and your knowledge on everything under the sun. I know you want to be with me, and I believe… I really believe we’ll get there. I can come and see Ian with you if that would help, otherwise I’m happy to take things at your pace.’

  Alice is afraid of her body. Alice is afraid of her feelings. Alice doesn’t believe she deserves to be loved.

  ‘Have a safe word,’ Ian suggested to us, ‘something Alice can say and then you know it’s time to stop.’

  ‘Would that help you?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It would,’ I said, relieved that I was allowed to protect myself without consequence. ‘It really would.’

  We chose ‘pineapple’, incongruous and so silly it made me laugh when I said it, which helped me relax. And then I let go.

  ‘Even if we break up one day, I will always be grateful to you for giving me the time I needed,’ I told him after we first had sex.

  ‘We’re not breaking up,’ replied Jack. And he was right.

  * * *

  The sound of the garage door drags me away from my memories. The lasagne is perfect, the rich, cheesy smell filling the kitchen, and I pull it out of the oven and cut two pieces.

  Jack’s arrival throws the whole house into delightful chaos as Gus and Gabe compete for his attention. ‘Let Daddy have some dinner, boys, please,’ I say, but I don’t really mind. I love watching their eagerness to share everything with their father. I love the way they climb all over him and demand his attention. They want to be near him and they eagerly await his arrival every night. They do not cower and hide and hope that tonight he will choose the pub instead of home.

  ‘Agreed,’ he says, ‘I’m starving. I’ll eat with Mum and then I’ll be up to continue our adventure with Gulliver.’

  ‘You know they can both read to themselves now, don’t you?’ I say.

  ‘I do… I do, but soon they won’t want me in their rooms at night. Isaac told me he didn’t want to be read to when he was about ten so I’m going to enjoy these last few months. How was your day? Anything interesting?’

  ‘Oh, you know, nothing much.’ I feel a twinge at my ankle as though I have just added some more weight to the ball of guilt. I shouldn’t lie to him. He deserves better than that. My tongue finds the space in my mouth.

  Jack looks up from his food. ‘Did you go and see your mother? I know you were thinking about it.’ Jack thinks that I should see my mother to make sure that I have said my piece, to tell her exactly how I feel.

  ‘I…’ I shake my head quickly, my appetite suddenly gone. It’s July already and I’ve only been to see her five times this year. ‘I just couldn’t.’

  ‘Fair enough. I know things are nearing the end though. It would be good if you could go.’ He cannot imagine not speaking to his parents. He calls his mother on his way home most nights, briefing her on his work and his family.

  ‘But I don’t want to say anything,’ I reply. ‘I told you I’ve forgiven her.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Jack as he cuts himself another slice of lasagne and fills up his wine glass, avoiding looking at me, which I know means he doesn’t believe me. And he’s right. I never imagined that forgiveness was a daily ritual. I thought that once I said it aloud, I would be done, but every time a memory surfaces, I have to do it again, affirm that I have forgiven her. It’s exhausting.

  But forgiving myself is not exhausting; it’s impossible, absolutely impossible. Stop it, I tell myself.

  The words in the email hit me again. I know what you did.

  I can’t forgive my mother but what worries me is that if she knew the truth, she wouldn’t be able to forgive me either. How could she ever forgive me for such a thing?

  Alice did a terrible thing. Alice made an awful decision. Alice is responsible for something wicked.

  That’s the trouble with bringing up the past. You can’t leave some of it buried.

  Five

  Molly

  * * *

  In the shower Molly concentrates on the hot water pounding on her neck. ‘You’ve been reading too much,’ she tells herself in a stern voice like her mother would.

  I need a drink, she thinks but she’s babysitting Sophie, and anyway she’s not drinking right now and definitely not thinking about why she’s not drinking.

  Chicken pie, she decides. I need a lot of chicken pie. Her brother-in-law, Owen, makes his chicken pie with a seasoning mix he refuses to share with anyone. ‘I will only pass it on to my first-born child,’ he has told everyone.

  Molly pulls on sweatpants and a fleece hoodie against the cold. She makes it to her sister’s house by 5.05 p.m. and triumphantly slides into a parking space right outside on the cramped street, overcrowded with semi-detached houses.

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten,’ says Lexie when she opens the front door.

  ‘I’m five minutes late, Lex, and you look amazing.’ Her sister’s long blond hair hangs down her back, silkily catching the light. Molly rarely sees it down these days because Lexie ties it up, out of her face and away from Sophie’s sticky fingers. Her new deep blue dress emphasises her small waist, rounded hips and full breasts. Molly wouldn’t be comfortable exposing that much cleavage but Lexie has always embraced her curves.

  ‘Ah, thanks, and you look…’ Lexie stops and looks at her sister, really looks at her. Molly’s light brown hair is pulled back and her sweatpants have a small hole at the knee but are so soft and easy to wear that she refuses to throw them out. She braces herself for a lecture from her stylish sister on not leaving the house looking like she’s homeless – a lecture she’s used to receiving – but instead Lexie is studying Molly’s make-up-free face intently. ‘Something’s happened,’ she says. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing. I was just running late.’

  ‘You’re… oh my God, are you?’

  ‘No!’ shouts Molly, louder than she meant to. ‘No, Lex, do not say it, do not jinx it. Just go out and enjoy yourself.’

  Lexie sighs. ‘Okay, okay… I’m sorry, but I’m… oh, Moll… I hope… I wish… I pray…’

  Molly feels her eyes fill with tears. She hasn’t even admitted the news to herself yet, not after last time. She wants to pretend for a little while longer that she has nothing to hope for. Maybe that’s why she’s had such a strange reaction to the blog. Hormones. The thought comforts her. It’s just hormones.

  ‘Moiee, Moiee,’ shouts Sophie, toddling in from the kitchen.

  ‘Yes, it’s Aunty Molly come to babysit you, you lucky girl,’ says Lexie.

  ‘Up, up,’ demands Sophie. Her face is covered in whatever fruit she’s been eating and her fingers are gummy with food.

  ‘Poor thing, I wouldn’t pick her up,’ Lexie says, stroking her daughter’s soft blond curls as Molly lifts her niece into her arms, earning a sticky pat from Sophie on her shoulder.

  ‘Come on, little one, let’s go finish dinner and then have a lovely bath. Off you go, Lex.’

  ‘We’ll talk when I get back, yeah?’ her sister calls as she rushes around the house looking for her belongings. Her phone lets out a chirp. ‘The Uber’s here. Where are my keys and bag, Sophie?’

  ‘Dey,’ says Sophie.

  The keys are hiding down the side of the sofa and her bag has been upended in her bedroom, courtesy of Sophie.

  ‘Lex, we’ll talk when and if there is anything to talk about, okay?’ Molly says. She gives her sister a stern look. ‘Take a coat, it looks like it’s going to rain.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ says Lexie, holding up her hands, admitting defeat. She grabs her raincoat from a hook near the front door, plants a quick kiss on her daughter’s and
sister’s cheeks and waves as she closes the front door.

  Molly breathes a sigh of relief when she and Sophie are alone. Her niece is easier to be with than her eagle-eyed sister, who somehow seems to know the moment anything happens in Molly’s life.

  Lexie has guessed every time Molly has been pregnant over the last four years, and she has grieved every time each pregnancy has ended right along with Molly and Peter. Six times. That’s how many times Molly has been pregnant. She has lost six babies for no reason that medical science can determine. She falls pregnant easily enough but each time at around ten weeks her hopes, her dreams and another little life are lost. She has tried everything from special teas to progesterone shots, and still her longed-for babies slip away, leaving her empty and devastated. She cannot hope or pray or wish anymore. All she can do is not think about it. It’s easier not to think about it. When she and Peter agreed to give it one more go before taking the adoption route, she almost hoped she wouldn’t get pregnant. But she did, just as she had with all the others, in the first month of trying. Now she doesn’t know if she can survive the heartbreak of yet another ending, so she’s not thinking about it, she’s simply not thinking about it.

  ‘I just can’t, I can’t,’ she had wailed to Peter as they both stared down at the test.

  ‘But look, babe, look how bright the line is. It’s a good sign. I’m sure it’s a good sign. Make the appointment with Dr Bernstein tomorrow. Go and see him. Maybe there’s something new they can do.’ Peter is an optimist. He goes through life believing that everything will turn out all right. He is certain that they will have a child. Just like he was certain that she would, one day, find a publisher for her work. Peter wakes up expecting sunshine every day, but rather than be upset if it’s raining, he merely looks forward to the next sunny day. Sometimes he drives Molly crazy but a lot of the time, especially over the last few years, she’s grateful for his positive approach to life. After each miscarriage he has picked her up, helped her dust herself off and handed her some hope so she can go on. It’s getting harder and harder for him to do, but he keeps trying.