The Younger Wife, page 22
‘She didn’t. That was my takeaway.’
‘Your takeaway! Rachel, can you please explain why in the world you would think that? Have you ever known me to be abusive? Have I ever laid a hand on you or your sister?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But Mum . . .’ She stopped, finding she could barely project the words.
Dad waited. ‘Mum what?’ he prompted, when she didn’t continue.
‘Mum was always getting injured.’
A long silence. Dad kept blinking and screwing up his face as if he just couldn’t process what she was suggesting. ‘And you think . . .’
‘I’m trying to piece things together, Dad!’ Rachel burst out. ‘You lied about an ex-wife who tells me you hurt her terribly. Mum left a hundred grand hidden away with a note with your ex-wife’s name on it. Now, whenever I visit Mum, she says something awful about you. And I’ve started remembering all her funny little injuries – her falls, her knocks on the head, her broken bones. What am I supposed to think?’
‘Not this!’ Dad bellowed, clearly forgetting to keep his voice down. It reminded Rachel about Heather.
‘Heather is a heavy sleeper,’ Rachel commented.
‘Yes, well, we had a late night,’ Dad said.
There was something about the way he said it that piqued Rachel’s interest. He had a flush of . . . guilt or something. ‘Did something happen?’ Rachel asked.
‘Heather had a fall. She cut her wrist and needed stitches, so we were at the hospital late.’ His face was resigned, as if he knew how she would read this. ‘It was an accident, Rachel,’ he said. When Rachel didn’t reply, he added: ‘You don’t believe me.’ It was a statement rather than a question. There was something heartbreaking about it.
‘It’s just . . . a lot of accidents,’ she said.
Dad nodded. ‘So your theory is that I abused Fiona. Then I left her for your mother, whom I also abused. And now I’m abusing Heather. Is that right?’ He watched her, as if waiting for a reaction, but Rachel didn’t give him one. ‘So tell me this: how is any of it related to a hot-water bottle full of cash?’
‘I think Mum was saving up to leave you,’ Rachel said. ‘She would have had to save for a long time, since you only ever gave her housekeeping money. But then, as her mind started to go, she forgot about the hot-water bottle.’
‘And Fiona’s name was in there because . . .?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to reach out to her?’
‘As fellow abused former wives of Stephen Aston?’
‘Why not?’ Rachel said. ‘She needed support from someone.’
Dad lowered his head into his hands. ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind. What is it you want from me?’
‘I want the truth, Dad,’ she said. ‘All I’m asking for, is the truth.’
50
HEATHER
Heather was lying in bed when she heard the raised voices. It sounded like Rachel, which was strange for a Sunday morning. She lay there for a while, to give them privacy. The last thing they would want if they were having a disagreement was Heather showing up.
She rolled over in bed. Her wrist wasn’t hurting anymore. The pills Stephen had given her seemed to have taken care of that. She’d slept well too. She hadn’t even got up to pee – which was a first since she’d become pregnant. It was amazing how different things could look after a good night’s sleep.
Just after 9:30 am, Stephen poked his head around the door. ‘Heather? How are you feeling?’
Still lying flat, she did a scan of her body. ‘My wrist feels better. I just feel a little . . . achy. Like I ate something bad.’
‘You had those pills on an empty stomach,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you some toast.’
Stephen returned a few moments later with two pieces of sourdough spread with jam.
‘Was that Rachel I heard before?’ Heather asked, as he sat on the end of the bed.
Stephen nodded. ‘She dropped by. She’s going through a strange time at the moment.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Heather said.
‘I am too. I worried so much about Tully when Pam got sick. Rachel always seemed so competent, so emotionally in control. I went to her for support, for heaven’s sake. But I don’t think she’s coping as well as I’d thought.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, don’t you worry about that. How are you feeling?’
‘Fine, just . . . still not feeling the best. I need to use the bathroom.’
Heather walked into the bathroom. It was bizarre, eating toast made by her abuser. Sharing a bed with him. Talking to him about his daughter. She was so distracted about the strangeness of it that when she sat on the toilet, she almost didn’t see the blood. It was just a tiny bit; the barest stain. Only when she saw it did she register the low, dull ache in her lower belly and back. The absence of nausea. The fact that last night had been the first night she hadn’t needed to get up and use the bathroom during the night. She took some paper and wiped. This time the blood was darker.
Heather thought about the painkillers Stephen had given her before they left the hospital.
‘Heather?’ he called. ‘Everything okay?’
51
TULLY
Tully’s marriage was over. It was, she realised, just the last item on the never-ending list of things she’d lost. Her mother. Her father. Her dignity. Now Sonny. He’d been unhappy with her for weeks, even when she was trying her best not to steal. There was no way he would stay with her now.
She was at the police station around the corner from the hardware store, and Sonny was on his way to get her. It was one of those old-school police stations with a small foyer, a desk and a window that slid open. She was in a tiny interview room alone, because she’d refused to give a statement. She knew things didn’t look good for her. The police had CCTV footage of her taking the items.
The shame had taken longer than normal to come, perhaps due to the shock of the arrest, but now that it was here, it was epic. And not only did she have the shame of the theft, but also of being caught. What was wrong with her? Her whole life her family had joked that she was mad. Was she? Not just a little peculiar, a little quirky, but downright crazy? Perhaps she’d be admitted to some kind of asylum? Maybe, while mounting her defence, Sonny would enter a plea of insanity to keep her out of prison? The horror and shame of that was tempered only by the idea of a stint in a cool calm hospital with clean lines and muted furniture. Meals delivered and ‘talk therapy’. She’d probably befriend a whole lot of whackos in there. Maybe she could write a book about it? A memoir of her experiences in a sanatorium. It could be a career to help her get back on her feet once she was discharged.
She was startled from her fantasy by Sonny’s arrival. She heard him before she saw him. ‘Sonny Harris. My wife Natalie is –’
‘Through here,’ the guy at the desk said, and then the buzzer sounded, the one that had buzzed to let Tully through. Men were so dry in terms of greetings, Tully thought.
A moment later, Sonny stood in the doorway to her little room.
‘Have you admitted to anything?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Given a statement?’
‘No.’
He nodded, looking relieved. Then he turned to the police officer. ‘Is my wife under arrest?’
‘We haven’t arrested her,’ he said. ‘But we have CCTV footage that shows her leaving the store with goods concealed under her clothing, plus two witnesses. And the items amounted to nearly a thousand dollars, so it will go to court. This is your notice to appear.’ He handed the paperwork to Tully.
Tully tried to read Sonny’s expression. He didn’t look angry exactly, nor did he look forgiving. He just looked . . . tired. ‘Is she free to go?’ he asked.
‘She is,’ the policeman said.
Tully followed Sonny out of the room, through the buzzing door, across the foyer and out into the car park. They were almost at the car when he grabbed her arm, spun her around.
‘Tully,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘I can’t stop,’ Tully replied, starting to cry. ‘Even though we’re standing here outside a police station. Even though you’re probably going to leave me and take my children away. Even though I’m a laughing-stock in my community. Sonny, I can’t stop.’ She was sobbing now, so hard she had to stop for breath. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
For a moment, Sonny stared at her, genuinely shocked. Then something changed in his expression. Tully saw the precise moment he got it. It was like a dawning, an awakening. Finally, he understood how powerless she was.
‘All right,’ he said, putting his arms around her and letting her sob into his chest. ‘Shhh. It’s going to be all right.’
52
HEATHER
Heather and Stephen had just returned home from the hospital, the second visit in twelve hours. She lay in bed, staring at the wall.
‘An anembryonic pregnancy,’ the doctor had said. ‘Also known as a blighted ovum.’
The doctor explained that an anembryonic pregnancy meant the sac and placenta had grown, but the baby had not.
‘It’s like the body was tricked into thinking it was pregnant,’ he explained. ‘It stopped your periods, started creating the hormones, but eventually your body figured out it had been tricked and that’s why you started bleeding. It could never have been a baby.’
This information, which perhaps should have come as a comfort to Heather, felt like more of an assault. Not only had she lost the baby, she’d never been pregnant in the first place. She’d been tricked. Her body had been tricked. Why hadn’t she and her body been smarter? It brought on a fresh wave of tears.
‘I’m so sorry, Heather,’ Stephen said.
Now, he sat on the side of their bed, the epitome of a man in pain. It was as though the fact that he hadn’t wanted this baby – the fact that he’d been involved in the death of this un-child – didn’t matter now that it hadn’t been a real baby anyway. And perhaps that was the case? Did it matter if you killed a person who was already dead to begin with? Heather didn’t know anymore.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I know what a loss this must be.’
‘For me,’ she said.
She winced at the sound of her own voice. It sounded flat. Toneless. Lifeless.
‘I won’t pretend that having a baby was something I wanted,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t want it to end this way.’
‘How did you want it to end?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know how to answer that.’
She rolled over onto her back and looked at him. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said. ‘Those pills . . . did they bring on the miscarriage?’
He reared back, as if not quite believing what he was hearing. ‘I can’t believe you would ask me that.’
‘You didn’t want a baby,’ she said. ‘It makes sense.’
He peered at her, like he was trying to read the fine print at the back of her eyeballs. ‘Heather, people don’t drug women they love to make them have miscarriages, even if they didn’t want the baby. That is just madness!’
She held his gaze. ‘Is it?’
He threw up his hands. ‘I don’t know what to say. Get some rest. I’ll come back and check on you in a little while.’
And he left.
She had to admit, it had worked out well for him. The baby was dead, and he didn’t even have blood on his hands. Now he got to play the role of the grieving father-to-be. It was perfect.
Heather must have fallen asleep, because when she woke up, it was to a knock at the door. By the time she opened her eyes, there was a head poking around the corner.
It was Mary. Stephen’s friend Mary. The lovely dinner party host, Mary.
‘Sorry to barge in, I just wanted to give you these,’ she said, opening the door wider to reveal a large bunch of flowers.
Heather started to sit up, but Mary held up a hand. ‘Stay where you are. You need to rest. Do you mind if I come in?’
Heather shook her head. Oddly, she felt glad to see Mary. There was something comforting about her neatly bobbed hair, her crisp white shirt and the scent of her perfume. Like she was being looked after by a warm, very competent mother or nurse.
Mary sat on the edge of the bed and laid the flowers gently on the bedcovers. ‘I heard about your loss. I’m so, so sorry.’
She did indeed appear to be sorry. The genuine emotion on Mary’s face undid Heather a bit.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ Mary said, and then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, she wrapped her arms around Heather, enveloping her in her comforting scent. ‘I know. It’s awful. Go ahead and cry.’
It was unimaginably gratifying to hear someone give her permission. It turned on a tap that Heather couldn’t seem to turn off. When she finally managed to, several minutes later, she felt a little embarrassed by her outburst.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what –’
Mary held up a hand. ‘Don’t you apologise. You’ve suffered a terrible loss. Your hormones will be going crazy. It’s absolutely normal for you to feel this way.’
‘Is it?’ Heather said.
Mary nodded with wonderful certainty. ‘I’m not sure if Stephen told you, but I’m a psychologist. I actually worked in pregnancy loss and infertility for many years, so I’m very familiar with what you’re going through. I’ve also experienced two miscarriages myself.’
Heather and Mary talked for over an hour, about the women Mary had seen in her practice, about the two babies Mary lost, about the emotions Heather would go through in the coming weeks. Heather couldn’t remember the last time someone had spent this much time with her, devoted to her, caring for her. There was something about it that made her feel both vulnerable and powerful.
‘Thank you so much,’ Heather said, when Mary looked at her watch and commented on how the time had flown. ‘I didn’t realise how much I needed to talk about all of this.’
‘Everyone needs to talk sometimes,’ Mary said. She stood up, reaching for her handbag. ‘If you ever wanted to talk to anyone in a professional sense, I’d be happy to recommend a colleague of mine. No pressure. You might be fine. But the offer is there if you need it.’
If she had been sent here to see if Heather was crazy, she’d concealed it well. Heather felt completely disarmed. She actually thought she might take Mary up on her offer of a referral to her friend.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ she said. ‘Maybe I will.’
Mary smiled, putting her bag over her shoulder. ‘Well. I’m here if you need me. Please, please, please don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything at all. Promise?’
Heather smiled. ‘Promise.’
Then, in her most disarming move yet, she leaned forward and kissed Heather’s head.
‘Mary?’ Heather called after her, when the older woman was almost out the door.
‘Yes, my love?’ she said, turning.
‘Do you think Stephen is a good man?’
A pause. Heather scanned her face for surprise at the question. And she did find a little. But within a second or two Mary’s comforting knowingness was back. ‘I think he’s a very good man. And he cares a lot about you, Heather.’
Heather nodded. She trusted Mary. And if Mary said Stephen was a good man, he was. That was the end of the story. She guessed she’d have to contact Mary’s friend after all. Because the jury was in . . . and she was clearly crazy.
53
TULLY
Sonny handed Tully a cup of tea and sat down beside her on the floor. The room felt large and echoey without furniture. She and Sonny had been talking for hours, about everything. They’d talked about Dad and Heather, about Fiona Arthur, about the possible abuse – which Sonny didn’t believe. They talked about what happened to Rachel when she was sixteen. They talked about the kleptomania and the hold it had over her. They talked about Tully’s fears about Miles.
Now, Tully sat with her back against the wall and sipped her tea. The boys were in bed, or ‘on their mattresses’ to be more accurate, now that the beds had been taken away. Sonny had put them to bed single-handedly, much to Tully’s frustration.
‘What is wrong with me?’ she demanded. ‘Why is Miles perfect for you but not for me? For me, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t sleep. He shits on the carpet!’
‘Maybe because he feels safest with you? Maybe with you he feels like he can finally let his guard down.’
For some reason this brought tears to Tully’s eyes.
‘Everyone needs someone with whom they can let their guard down,’ Sonny continued. ‘That said, you’re right, this has been going on for a while. Maybe it’s time to get some outside help.’
Tully nodded. ‘Yes. For me and Miles both.’
Sonny placed his tea on the floor beside him. ‘I wish I’d known how much you’ve been hurting, Tully. I knew you were upset about your mum. And I assumed you weren’t coping too well with your dad remarrying. But you never talked about it, and I was so busy with trying to sort out our financial situation . . . And I can’t even begin to think about the kleptomania. To know that you’ve been doing this for as long as I’ve known you and I didn’t notice . . .’
‘I didn’t let you notice.’
‘Why didn’t you?’ Sonny asked. ‘You used to be honest with me once, didn’t you? At the beginning of our marriage, I loved how vulnerable you were with me. Remember that time you split your pants at the theatre but you still wanted to go to drinks afterwards so I spent the whole night standing right behind you so no one would see your bottom?’
‘You were very unreliable,’ Tully said. ‘Every two seconds I felt a breeze and turned around and you were gone.’
‘And remember right after we were married when you dyed your own hair and it turned orange?’
‘There was nothing funny about that,’ Tully said, appalled. ‘I had to wait two weeks for an appointment to get it fixed!’
‘And during that time, whenever you left the house you wore a woollen hat with all your hair tucked underneath it, which made you look like a homeless bald lunatic! But you insisted it was better than orange hair.’
