The Nowhere Girl (ARC) Page 5

  ‘We’ve run all the tests we can,’ Dr Bernstein explained after the last miscarriage. ‘There is no reason for this to keep happening.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ Peter asked, leaning forward in his chair. Molly wasn’t able to say a thing. She was broken and silent in the doctor’s office.

  ‘I know it may sound a little callous, but when Molly is fully recovered you simply need to try again.’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Peter replied, incredulous. ‘That’s all we can do? There must be a way to solve this problem.’

  ‘I wish there was something we could fix or change but I’m afraid we simply don’t have an answer for you.’

  Molly has no desire to hear those heart-wrenching words again, so when Peter told her to go and see the doctor, she nodded her head but did nothing. ‘Just don’t talk to me about it,’ she told Peter. ‘If he says something you need to know, I’ll tell you.’

  She could see that he wanted to protest. He has grieved over the lost little souls as much as she has, but she can’t allow it to become real only to have her heart crushed once more. If she doesn’t see Dr Bernstein, then it isn’t real; if she doesn’t discuss it, then it isn’t real; if she doesn’t think about it, then it isn’t real; and when it ends it won’t hurt so much.

  It’s been three weeks now and she can see Peter biting back his questions. She hates that she has lied to her husband but she’s pretty sure that by the end of next week it will all be over anyway. Why waste the time or the money on a visit?

  She sits next to Sophie, who’s in the bath, blowing soap bubbles, making her niece shriek with laughter every time she catches and pops one. She can remember her mother doing the same thing for her and Lexie when they bathed together as kids.

  Her mother used to sit next to the bath when they were too little to be left alone and blow bubbles for them, perfect round bubbles, growing larger and larger as her hands acquired more and more soap. Occasionally her father would return home early and pop his head into the bathroom. ‘How are my two peas in a pod doing today?’ he would ask. ‘Peafect,’ she and Lexie would respond in unison, giggling. He always called the sisters that because they looked so similar, with their long straight blond hair and wide brown eyes. The resemblance in their face shapes seems to have lessened over time. Molly is thinner now than she’s ever been whereas Lexie’s shape has softened and rounded, even more so with the birth of Sophie. Molly’s hair has darkened to a light brown but Lexie’s has remained a golden blonde. Their father still calls them his two peas though. They have such similar opinions on everything and are as close as ever, sometimes speaking two or three times a day.

  Molly knows that not everyone gets on with their sister the way they do, and she’s grateful for their friendship. Even when they were younger, they never fought much. As a child, Molly had always acquiesced easily to her little sister’s demands, finding her feisty character amusing and endearing rather than aggravating.

  ‘You’re such a good big sister,’ she repeatedly heard from her parents and her parents’ friends as she grew up. So much so that if she did get irritated with Lexie, she squashed it as quickly as she could, conscious to remain the ‘good big sister’.

  She feels like the roles are somewhat reversed now with Lexie checking in on her constantly, always trying to make sure she’s okay. Lexie is a good little sister, always careful to gauge Molly’s mood before she talks about Sophie, and even though Molly knows her sister and Owen want more children, Lexie never discusses this with her, because sometimes hearing about babies hurts so much that Molly feels like she can’t breathe.

  Now that Lexie has realised she’s pregnant, Molly knows she’ll want to talk about it because when it comes to Molly being pregnant Lexie can’t help herself.

  ‘Only one more week, hey little Sophie, and then it will all be over,’ she says, despair colouring her voice. Sophie giggles and reaches for another bubble as it drifts past her.

  Molly feels weighed down by sadness. It’s more than just the anticipation of losing another child. It is something dark and heavy and old, something she has never felt before. The more she thinks about the cupboard and the frog, the more concrete the memory becomes. There was a smell – a damp, mouldy scent – and her blanket was frayed and pink.

  ‘I’m just making all this up,’ she says to Sophie. ‘I must be making it up.’

  But she is sure that the inside of the cupboard was painted white, and if she couldn’t sleep, she would pick at the chipped paint with little fingers, peeling off bits to reveal the board underneath. If she was awake, she felt that she would be locked in the cupboard forever, that she would never be allowed out again. ‘Just making it up,’ she comforts herself.

  ‘Up, up,’ demands Sophie, and Molly wraps her little body in a towel, revelling in the feel of her niece’s weight and trust as she rests her head on Molly’s chest. Once Sophie is dressed in her lemon-yellow Babygro festooned with white ducks, they sit in the rocking chair. ‘Goodnight Moon,’ reads Molly, and Sophie points and touches and occasionally says, ‘Moon.’ All too soon their time together is over and Molly’s niece is in her cot, quietly drinking her milk. Molly checks that the heater is on low and half closes the door to Sophie’s room.

  She tidies the kitchen as the evening yawns before her. Lexie is a haphazard housekeeper, worse since Sophie has gotten bigger and begun the time-honoured toddler tradition of unpacking every drawer, basket and cupboard she can get to. Molly thinks of her own pristine flat. Her black-and-white kitchen was spotless when she left earlier and it will be spotless when she returns, with only an extra coffee cup in the sink if Peter gets home early enough to have one.

  Molly clears Lexie’s sink of small cups with lids, brightly coloured bowls and cutlery, and tries not to let the loneliness of her clean kitchen and their empty second bedroom overwhelm her.

  Once she’s done, she cuts a piece of the chicken pie Lexie has left her and puts it into the oven. While she waits for it to warm, she tries Peter at work.

  ‘Babe?’ he answers, already worried and panicking, but she senses that he doesn’t want her to know he feels this way. He tries to always be positive for her.

  ‘I’m just calling to say hello. I’m babysitting for Lexie. Just thought I’d let you know in case you get home before me.’

  ‘Oh, okay, sorry I just…’

  ‘I know, but let’s not talk about it. I’m fine, I promise. I’m about to eat a giant piece of Owen’s famous chicken pie and watch some rubbish on television.’

  Peter sighs. ‘Wish I was there with you. I’ve just eaten some awful Chinese and I don’t think I’ll be home before midnight. The computer system mucked up some of the returns and now everyone is in a flap. But I’m sure we’ll sort it out.’

  ‘Sounds like a fun day at the accountancy firm then.’

  ‘It’s a riot. Anyway, I’ll try and be extra quiet when I get home. How did work go today?’

  ‘Okay… I’m reading too much stuff online. I’m starting to feel like I’ve experienced some of the things I’m reading about. The whole thing is starting to feel depressing. I just want it over now.’

  Peter is quiet for a moment. ‘Maybe it’s more than that. Maybe you need to talk about the… pregnancy. If you don’t want to talk to me, I get it, I really do, but maybe go and see that woman that Dr Bernstein suggested. She could be really helpful.’

  Irritation flares in Molly. ‘I don’t want to do that. I don’t need to know how to prepare for a miscarriage, Peter. More than anything I know how to have a miscarriage. Please, I know that this is difficult for you, but I need to just let this lie for now. Please?’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘I understand, I do. Please don’t be angry with me. I know you only call me Peter when you’re angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry… I’m just…’

  ‘It’s okay. I get it. But I think things will be… Look, I better get back to it. I’ll be home as soon as I can be.’

  ‘Okay
, love you.’

  ‘Love you too, with all my heart.’

  Molly puts down the phone, pushing down on her chest where she imagines she can feel pain. ‘Love you with all of my heart’ is something Peter’s parents said to him and something she’d always imagined she and Peter would say to their children. The possibility of those children never existing takes her breath away. It’s so unfair. There are people who get pregnant by mistake and then neglect and abuse their kids. There are drug addicts and alcoholics who somehow find themselves parenting, and there are so many hurt children in the world, and yet she and Peter can’t have just one to give a lifetime of love to.

  Molly resolves to stop thinking negatively, to stop thinking anything, really. She eats far more chicken pie than she wants to and watches a silly movie on television. I’m not thinking about it, she keeps telling herself, but even as she laughs at the antics of a couple of teenagers on a road trip, she is aware of a part of her running through different scenarios over and over again. If I lose the baby tonight, if it lives until next week, if I go for a scan and there’s no heartbeat, if I go for a scan and there is a heartbeat, if I manage to get to three months, if I get to four months, if I feel my baby kick. When Lexie was pregnant, Molly used to sit next to her with her hands on her stomach, waiting for Sophie to turn and kick while her sister read a book or watched television, seemingly unaware of the absolute miracle going on inside of her.

  Molly cannot even imagine what the final, joyful scenario, the place she cannot see herself getting to, would feel like. She has never let herself go there, not since the first miscarriage.

  Beneath the scenarios playing out in her head there is a darker picture, the one she keeps dismissing. It’s a little girl curled up tight on top of a pink blanket clutching her favourite toy. She somehow knows she can hear sounds she doesn’t understand. Soft whimpers that are not coming from her and low grunts that sound like they come from a man. The big man, she thinks. That’s what she called him: ‘the big man’. The phrase surfaces in her mind as though it has always been there.

  Molly mutes the television and looks around the living room. She feels like someone has spoken the words aloud. The big man. She gets up and checks on Sophie, who is sprawled across her cot, arms above her head, deeply asleep. Unsettled, Molly makes a tour of the small house, looking in Lexie’s bedroom, where clothes litter the floor, and making sure the back door is locked.

  When there is nothing left to check, she raids Lexie’s chocolate jar, pulling out a handful of mini chocolates. She wishes she could have a drink. Finally, she sits back down on the couch and turns on the sound again. ‘The big man?’ she says aloud. Where did that come from? Is it something she’s remembering from a movie or something she’s seen on television? Is it something she’s read that she’s somehow made her own?

  The blog she read didn’t mention ‘the big man’. She’s sure none of them have. Molly gives herself a little shake. ‘Enough of this now,’ she says aloud.

  * * *

  When Lexie and Owen arrive home, they are both slightly drunk. Lexie’s cheeks bloom red and Owen keeps touching her hair, her arm, her back.

  ‘Owen, stop,’ says Lexie, giggling.

  ‘Time for me to go, I think.’ Molly grins.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ says Owen and he stumbles towards the bedroom.

  ‘Someone had a good night.’

  ‘I did,’ sings Lexie. ‘We did. Thanks so much, Moll – you can’t imagine how much it means to us.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. Sophie and I had a great time.’

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?’ says Lexie, and Molly simply nods. She doesn’t want to spoil her sister’s good mood, but tomorrow she’ll tell her she doesn’t want to talk. Not now and maybe not ever.

  Six

  8 January 1987

  Margaret

  * * *

  This morning Margaret opened her eyes with the rising sun and somehow found the energy to get up. She is grateful she is up, grateful she managed only a sip of vodka before she got out of bed.

  She finds the girls in front of the perpetually on television, watching an endless parade of cartoons.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ she asks Alice brightly as any mother would.

  Alice turns at the sound of her voice. ‘You’re up,’ she states.

  ‘I’m up.’ Margaret smiles, hoping for one in return, but her elder daughter simply turns back to the television. ‘There’s nothing to eat,’ she says to the cartoon mouse.

  ‘Li, Li, Li,’ says Lilly, patting her sister on the head. It was her first word – her sister’s name. Not Mum, not Dad but Li for Alice.

  ‘Stop that, Lills,’ replies Alice mildly.

  ‘Do you want to come and help me make breakfast, Lilly?’ asks Margaret, but the child doesn’t even reply. Her younger daughter regards her as an infrequent visitor. Alice is her real mother. Alice is where she goes for comfort and food and care.

  Margaret stares at her daughters. They aren’t even grateful she’s out of bed. What was the point of her getting up at all? She thinks about her safe sheets and the relief of the bottle, but she is determined not to give in to oblivion today.

  In the kitchen she hunts through the pantry and the fridge.

  There is nothing to eat but the ends of a stale loaf of bread and two eggs. Alice could have made breakfast for both of them; she’s old enough to know how to use the stove. Margaret sighs. What kind of a useless mother won’t even cook breakfast for her children? the voice inside her asks. ‘I’m not useless,’ she mutters, ‘I’m just tired.’

  ‘What?’ asks Alice. She is standing in the kitchen doorway, Lilly’s hand clutched in hers.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ says Margaret. ‘I’ll make you both egg in the hole for breakfast. Would you like that?’

  Alice shrugs and Margaret gets to work, cutting careful squares out of the bread, avoiding the mouldy parts, concentrating hard when she twists on the stove and adds the last of the butter into the pan. I can do this, she encourages herself as her daughters watch on. Their silent judgement burns into her back. She knows if she walked out of the kitchen, leaving breakfast to burn, they wouldn’t be surprised. They would simply accept it.

  I won’t do that, she tells herself, not today.

  She puts the meals in front of them. Alice looks at her for a minute and then she sighs and gets two forks and a knife from the kitchen drawer. She patiently cuts up her little sister’s food before beginning to eat her own. Margaret feels shame wash over her. She didn’t think to cut up her own daughter’s breakfast.

  She makes herself a strong cup of coffee, happy to do without the milk and sugar, needing the bitterness to focus her mind and body.

  She needs to go shopping, but already she can feel the slithering exhaustion coming to claim her. Why do even the simplest things feel so impossible?

  If she can stay away from the bottle for a little while longer, she can stay awake, but she’s so tired and now her hands are shaking. It’s all just too much.

  ‘Mum,’ says Alice, ‘we have to go to the shops today.’ Her voice is shrill and demanding. Margaret starts, realising that she must have fallen asleep standing up, holding her hot mug of coffee.

  She hates the way Alice sounds, the judgement in her voice. She can’t stand the disappointment written all over her daughter’s face. You’re a failure, you’re a failure, you’re a failure, bounces around inside her head.

  ‘I know what I have to do!’ she shouts, more to drown out the bouncing words than because she’s angry. She’s too tired for real anger. She has long given up on anger.

  Alice folds her arms and purses her lips. Her mother shouting doesn’t bother her anymore; her mother sleeping doesn’t bother her either. Margaret knows that if she just disappeared, her daughter wouldn’t be bothered at all. Not true, not true, not true, she tries to tell herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just need a little time, okay? You get Lilly ready and I’ll ju
st shower quickly.’

  ‘Okay,’ agrees Alice. ‘Do you have some money?’

  Margaret blushes because she has no idea. She sees her bag on the counter and grabs it to look through. He has left fifty dollars for her with a note: Fill up the bloody fridge, idiot.

  She crumples up the note. ‘Yes, see here, Vernon left us fifty dollars.’

  * * *

  She stands under the shower until the water grows cold. She pulls on jeans and a T-shirt, already sweating in the heat, conscious that she hasn’t done laundry for a very long time. The smell of dirty nappies pervades the house so the rubbish bins in all the rooms must be full. ‘You need to get your act together,’ she mumbles and then she sits down, sweating and shaking from the effort of simply being out of bed. She leans down, grabs the bottle and takes a quick, deep drink. Just to tide me over, she thinks and then she takes another. The burning sensation is a balm for her soul. ‘Right, let’s do this,’ she says aloud.

  When she comes out of the bedroom, Alice is standing at the front door with Lilly strapped into her pram. It’s a wonder she can lift her little sister, who seems about half her size. I wonder how old she is now, thinks Margaret. Lilly’s clothes are stained and grubby at the edges. Alice’s are as well. She stares at a dark spot in the middle of Alice’s chest. It looks like chocolate. When last would Alice have had chocolate? How long hasn’t the laundry been done for? Her daughter tugs at the T-shirt self-consciously.

  ‘I need to do the laundry when we get home,’ says Margaret.

  ‘He said he would do it today.’

  ‘Please don’t call him “he”, Alice. Call him Vernon or Dad – you know he wants you to call him Dad.’