The Soulmate, page 2
A light mist of rain coats us. Through the window I see the police have arrived. Kat is in the kitchen talking to them and pointing outside at us. Heaven knows what the girls are thinking.
Gabe has stopped vomiting, at least temporarily. He looks up at me.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
But my question is lost in the crash of the ocean, and the sound of the sliding doors as the police and paramedics file outside. I recognise them all. Johnno and Aaron; Fiona and Amir. They’re not my friends, exactly, but definitely acquaintances. We’ve drunk countless cups of tea together at the end of evenings like this. I even purchased a packet of English Breakfast tea after Johnno turned up his nose up at my Lady Grey. But on those nights, there was never a body at the bottom of the cliff.
Johnno and Aaron walk directly to the cliff’s edge with torches. They know as well as we do that there is no point, but they go through the motions anyway. No person who’s jumped from The Drop has ever been retrieved alive (I’d read that in the news article, but having seen the cliff I would have known anyway). Still, I suppose they need to be sure.
‘Have you called out?’ Aaron asks.
Gabe and I shake our heads. Gabe is trembling visibly now.
‘Tide’s in. We’ll have to call Water Rescue,’ Johnno says.
‘Hey, Gabe,’ says Fiona, the paramedic, kneeling beside him and wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. ‘Why don’t we go inside and get you something warm to drink?’
Gabe allows her and Amir to help him to his feet.
As we step inside, I hear the bath running. There is no sign of Kat and the girls, and I thank my lucky stars for my sister. Knowing Asha, she’s likely to be dishing out some tricky questions and there’s no one I trust more to field them than Kat.
Fiona and Amir settle Gabe on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, and I bring him a glass of water and wet facecloth to clean up. I flick on the kettle, then find a large plastic bowl in the kitchen and put it at his feet, just in case. Gabe nods his thanks, even smiles a bit, but he’s still worryingly pale.
After a few minutes, Johnno and Aaron come inside.
‘No signs of life,’ Johnno says. ‘Water Rescue is on their way. They’ll have to retrieve her via the beach.’
‘Anything we can do to help?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘The crime scene team will be here soon. They’ll do as much as they can tonight: photographing and fingerprinting – if there is anything to fingerprint. They may have to come back in the morning when it’s light.’
We all nod soberly. I wonder what the girls will make of it, having the house swarming with police.
‘We’ll need to get a statement from you, Gabe,’ Johnno says after a moment. ‘Are you okay to do that now? It’s better to get it sooner rather than later.’
Gabe nods, and Johnno pulls out a chair from the dining table and sits. Aaron also drags out a dining chair. Gabe stays on the couch. I deliver cups of tea to everyone.
‘So, what happened?’ Johnno asks. ‘In your own words. Take your time.’
‘We saw a woman on the cliff. I don’t know what time it was, but Pip called you as I headed outside.’ Gabe is gazing straight ahead, at the coffee table, and his fingers are steepled together. ‘As I got near, I asked if I could help her with anything.’
Johnno picks up his tea and blows on the top to cool it. ‘Can you describe the woman?’
‘Dark hair, in a ponytail. Clothes were all black. Black pants. A black puffer jacket.’
‘Young or old?’
‘Youngish . . .’ Gabe says. ‘Maybe thirty-five? Forty? Maybe even fifty. She was . . . well looked after. Seemed young at first but then you realise she’s older than you thought, you know?’
Johnno nods his understanding. Sweet Johnno. I think of all the times he must have showed up on doorsteps in much worse circumstances than these. Situations where he has had to give people bad news, telling them that they have lost a loved one. It reminds me that someone is going to be getting bad news soon about this well-maintained woman aged thirty-five to fifty. A husband, partner . . . maybe even a child?
Johnno makes a note, then looks up. ‘Did you get her name?’
Gabe shakes his head.
‘Then what happened?’
Gabe looks at his own cup of tea but doesn’t pick it up. ‘She said her husband was unfaithful.’
Johnno writes this down. ‘Did she say his name? The husband?’
‘No.’ Gabe goes on: ‘It was hard to hear her, because of the wind. I think she was mostly ranting about her husband. I came closer, to see if I could talk to her. And she just turned and . . .’ He inhales, closes his eyes. ‘It was so fast. She was there and then . . . a scream . . . and she was gone.’
There’s a quiet moment, a respectful silence. Johnno writes furiously on his notepad. After a few more seconds, he looks up again.
‘She screamed then, did she?’
Gabe frowns, then appears to reconsider this. ‘I mean . . . I think so. It might have been the wind. To be honest, it’s all a little blurry.’
‘Why?’ I ask Johnno. ‘Is that unusual?’
‘Not necessarily. Just worth noting.’ Johnno duly makes a note of it. When he looks up, he says, ‘Anything else that might be important?’
Gabe frowns as he appears to think about this. After a moment, he shakes his head. His eyes close.
Johnno puts down his pen. ‘It’s not your fault, mate. Frankly, it’s amazing that you’ve saved as many as you have. So don’t blame yourself, okay?’
Gabe nods, his eyes still closed. Johnno shoots me a look and I nod as well.
‘Well, we better go secure the site,’ he says, and he and Aaron stand. Johnno takes the notepad over to Gabe. ‘Have a read over this, and if you’re happy it’s accurate, sign and date it at the bottom.’
The two men make their way to the back door. Just before he slides it open, Johnno pauses. ‘You didn’t see anything, did you, Pip?’
It’s an afterthought. His gaze is on me, but light, as if his thoughts are already outside.
The question takes me by surprise. It’s straightforward enough, but I don’t know how to answer it. The fact is, I did see something. I saw Gabe, cliffside, talking to the woman. I saw her throw up her arms, and I saw him take a step towards her. Then I saw Gabe alone, his arms extended, palms forward. The more I think about it, there’s something about his stance that bothers me. I can’t get it out of my head. He was holding his hands the way you would if you’d pushed someone.
Johnno is still looking at me, waiting for my response. Gabe’s head is still hanging, clutching Johnno’s notepad, his eyes closed again.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
3
PIPPA
NOW
I lied to the police. No matter how many times I tell myself this, I still can’t get my head around it. I lied to the police. Why did I do that?
Admittedly, it’s quite common, if police procedural dramas are anything to go by. In every one I’ve watched, at least the first three suspects are lying about something. Usually, it’s an affair. Or another, more insignificant, crime. I’m hiding neither. And yet, here we are.
I’m not the kind of person who lies to the police. I am the epitome of a good citizen. I have no unpaid fines of any sort. I ceased parking my car in the mother-and-baby spaces the moment the girls grew out of the pram. The time I found a cash-filled wallet I handed it to the police immediately, even though I was a student at the time and desperately needed the money. More importantly, I am a lawyer. I understand the importance of being truthful, and I know that providing a false statement to the police is against the law. I could be struck off the register for it, I realise, with sudden horror. I could lose my ability to practise law. And for what? Gabe didn’t even do anything wrong!
It’s 9 pm, and I’m folding laundry at the coffee table while our garden swarms with cops. The crime scene team arrived an hour ago, along with the State Emergency Service, who set up tents and huge lights. Police Search and Rescue are also here, apparently. As it turns out, retrieving a body at night from the bottom of a cliff during a downpour when the tide is in isn’t easy business.
Kat left once the girls were tucked up in bed, promising that she’d be back in the morning, and Gabe is running around after the police, switching on outdoor lights and offering warm drinks and umbrellas. Which leaves me with laundry. Normally folding laundry is the antidote to anxiety for me, but tonight I find it lacking. I’ve already put away the toys and vacuumed. The dishwasher is on. I’m running out of ways to self-soothe.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask Gabe at intervals, as he hurries past on his way to do one thing or another. He nods. I suppose there’s nothing to say. It’s too soon for him to be all right. It will take time for him to process what happened. My job will be to provide the support he needs. A listening ear. Counselling. Perhaps even yoga? Recently Mum raved to me about a ‘laughing yoga’ group she attended down at the beach on a Wednesday morning. Bunch of mad ladies wetting their pants, she said. Maybe not that kind of yoga.
Perhaps we’ll take a meditation course together? We could practise that thing that everyone talks about . . . mindfulness! Or maybe we could try adult colouring books. If it doesn’t work out, we could give them to the girls. But I’ve always found colouring quite soothing – all those lovely colours staying neatly within the lines. I go online and order a couple, and a new set of Derwent pencils. It doesn’t completely relieve my anxiety, but it helps a bit.
*
It’s nearly midnight when the police confirm they have found the body, and the victim is indeed dead. The rest of the police work has been postponed to the morning, when it’s safe to continue, though a couple of ‘guards’ will remain overnight to ensure the integrity of the crime scene.
‘Gabe,’ I say, after waving off everyone but the guards, but before I can continue he holds up a hand.
‘Can I just . . . take a shower?’ he says. ‘Then we can talk.’
I nod, because after everything the poor man has been through, how can I deny him a shower? He trudges wearily towards the master bathroom, and I make my way around the house, locking doors and switching off lights. Outside, I hear the great crash of the ocean. Gabe always talks about how calming he finds that noise, but I’ve always found it ominous. Tonight, it is the most horrible sound in the world.
I check on the girls, who both lie horizontally across Freya’s bed, their tummies rising and falling in unison. Asha’s arm is outstretched across Freya’s face and their legs intertwine in such a way that I can’t tell which belong to who in the dark. It never ceases to delight me that each night we put them to sleep in separate beds, and each morning they wake up in one – a habit Mum tells me they inherited from Kat and me.
My phone pings, once and then again, and I know without looking that it’s Mum and Dad. Kat will have texted them the news. They are night owls both, and they’ll be worried.
I glance at the screen.
Mum: Kat told us what happened. Give Gabe a hug and kiss from me.
Dad: Send my love to the big man. We’ll be around in the morning.
My parents’ relationship with Gabe brings me great joy. When Gabe married me, they didn’t just become his in-laws, they became his parents, something Gabe was particularly grateful for, since he had no living parents of his own. Eighteen months ago, when our lives hit rock bottom, it was my parents who supported us through it, who helped us to restart our life at the beach – with me as the full-time breadwinner and Gabe as primary carer of the girls.
‘Everyone should have the chance to start over,’ Mum used to say back then, to no one in particular.
And that’s exactly what we did. I shouldn’t have been surprised when, in our usual co-dependent fashion, Mum and Dad, plus Kat and Kat’s wife Mei joined us in our sea change, finding houses within walking distance of our place. Our family has always taken togetherness seriously, but this was impressive, even for us. As Mum always says, ‘Family is thicker than water.’
Indeed it is. And that’s the reason, I suspect, why I was reluctant to offer the police any information that might reflect badly on Gabe, even though I know he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s been a different man – a better man – since we moved to the beach. Better than I had even allowed myself to hope. He’s like a man who has come off drugs, or found God, or both. Only a few days ago, I looked at him and thought, You’re fixed. I didn’t say it out loud, obviously. Believing people can be ‘fixed’ is a dangerous idea; it encourages young women to stay in relationships with men who ‘just get a little too angry sometimes’. And yet, some people can be fixed. Gabe is living proof.
So I know there will be a reason why Gabe was holding his hands out in that way. He’ll explain it to me and I’ll feel that glorious sense of relief spread through me. Then we’ll fall asleep holding each other, and tomorrow we’ll get through this together. I’m looking forward to it! Which means I’m disappointed when I enter the bedroom and find Gabe, still fully clothed and still wearing his shoes, lying on top of the bedcovers, fast asleep.
4
AMANDA
AFTER
So, this is it. I’m dead.
The police are retrieving my body. An arduous process, apparently, and they are out of practice to boot.
I’ve heard it said that the most difficult death to process is that of a loved one who is taken from you without warning. I agree that that is difficult. But I can now confirm that it is equally traumatic to be the one taken without warning. The whiplash of it. One minute you’re here and the next you’re gone – yanked from one world to the next as if torn with forceps from the womb. Except, instead of being placed into the arms of a loving mother, I’m alone.
The moment of my death was distinct. There was no slowing down, no light at the end of the tunnel, no moment in which to choose. No decision to make at all. There was a crack, like glass breaking, painless and clean. By the time I realised what was happening, it was done. Nothing to fear in death, I realise. No pain or suffering, at least physically. And yet, I feel a feverish desperation to claw my way back. Because unlike the scores of people who have come to this spot before me, I did not come here to die.
5
PIPPA
NOW
It’s still raining when I wake. I enjoy three blessed seconds of calm before the horror of the previous evening collapses over me. The woman. The cliff. Gabe’s outstretched arms. My lie to the police. It’s a wonder I managed to fall asleep in the first place.
I reach for the lamp, switch it on. Gabe’s side of the bed is empty, his clothes from last night draped over the bedside chair. Gone for a surf, probably. This is a regular occurrence for Gabe, and probably exactly what he needs. Still, I worry that the distance he seems to be putting between us is the opposite of what he needs.
I pull on a robe and head out to the kitchen. The half-empty coffee cup on the counter and muted television (on the weather channel) provide evidence that Gabe was here. I check the back deck for his surfboard and wetsuit, and find them both missing, confirming my surfing theory. The weather is awful, but that has never stopped him before.
I take his coffee mug, empty the last of it into the sink and put it into the dishwasher. Usually, I love the quiet of early morning, when the kitchen is spotless, the benchtop clear of clutter, and the floors clean. It is my time to take care of household admin before the girls wake up. Sometimes it’s the only time in the day when I’m alone, and I’ve learned to savour it. Today, though, as I book the girls’ four-year-old vaccination appointments, and transfer money for a spa voucher for their preschool teacher’s birthday, I find myself watching the door, yearning for Gabe to return.
‘It’s not normal, the way you love your husband,’ Sasha Milinkovic said to me recently. We were at a trivia night, to raise money for the preschool’s new eco playground. Gabe had volunteered to perform in the talent quest segment of the evening. He played the guitar and sang ‘Annie’s Song’ by John Denver, and I cried. It was, most likely, the three chardonnays I’d consumed. Also, I loved ‘Annie’s Song’. But as I wiped my eyes, everyone gave me hell.
‘I’d cry too if Stew sang,’ Emily Kent said. ‘But not for the same reasons.’
Everyone laughed. I had to admit, there were moments that I felt in the outer because of my adoration of Gabe. There was something about the camaraderie of women good-naturedly slandering their husbands, each of them competing to have the worst.
‘Stew fed them McDonald’s? Dave didn’t feed them at all for twenty-four hours! I came home and found Lenny in the pantry, scavenging for crackers!’
‘They got crackers? Ours had to survive on fresh air!’
Occasionally, I tried to chime in for friendship’s sake. ‘Gabe forgot to pick up the milk last night,’ or, ‘He put Asha in two different shoes!’ but it always sounded a bit lame.
It would be arrogant to say that our marriage is better than other marriages. Arrogant and, let’s face it, farcical, if you look at our history. But it is, quite simply, the truth. It’s the way Gabe looks at me, even when we’re in our tracksuits ambling around the garden, as if I’m the most beautiful, most interesting woman in the world. It’s the way he touches me – whether I’m un-showered, postpartum, saggy or soft – without hesitation, as if I’m a cherished gift. It’s the way he leaps to my defence, almost involuntarily, when he hears someone say something that could be perceived as critical of me. We’ve been through the fire, probably more than most couples. I think of our marriage as the reward for sticking it out.
