By the time Matt came home she was on the bed, feigning sleep. He was used to her sleeping in the afternoons, and excused it because everyone knew that babies tired you out.
Afterwards, on other days, she cut herself again. It was winter, and she was able to cover her arms with long sleeves, and managed to conceal the marks on her arms from Matt. Each time she gave in to temptation and damaged herself again she hated herself even more.
Finally, in August, after days of wind had buffeted the house so relentlessly she thought she would scream, she decided that she would go. Matt and the baby would be better off without her. Matt did most of the care of the baby anyway. He did it with love, smiling and talking to her and looking into her face with adoration. And the baby smiled back at him, squirming her body with pleasure. The closest Emily came to happiness was when she saw them together.
She packed her bag when Matt was out one afternoon. She'd already rung Charlotte and asked if she could stay with her.
It was better if it was done quickly.
Matt looked shattered when she told him that she was going. But he walked her to the bus station, holding the baby in a sling on his front. She tried not to think of the expression on his face as the bus pulled away.
The Indian family were packing up their picnic. It was almost nightfall. Emily watched them depart, lugging their baskets and empty pots, the women reaching out for the hands of the children, the men smoothing back the sides of their hair and dusting off the seats of their pants. A lingering child zipped down the slippery slide one last time and ran to catch up with the others.
A figure appeared through the trees. It was a silhouette, lit up round the edges from the rays of the setting sun and dark in the middle. As it got closer Emily thought it looked like the man she thought of as the shark man, but she didn't take much notice. The figure seemed to hover, uncertain, hands in pockets, and then veered off to one side, only to reappear a little later. She saw him pause and regard her, rather like a dog unsure of its welcome, and then he disappeared from her line of vision as she was staring steadfastly ahead, refusing to acknowledge his presence.
She only noticed him again when he landed like a large, clumsy bird on the end of the seat she was on, making the wooden slats shiver with his weight. She didn't want to get up and go straight away; she would rather not have to react to him. She thought he might just leave anyway.
And then he was right next to her, having slid somehow along the seat. He sighed, a soft, resigned sound. She caught his odour, which was sweetish and sickly, rather like musk sticks.
His hand, heavy and meaty, fell on her thigh, as though by accident. All this time he had said nothing, and Emily had not looked directly at him. She had a feeling of disbelief; that she must be imagining it.
In one swift movement she got to her feet and flung his hand from her leg. She stood rigidly, unsure of what to do next, holding up her hands stiffly next to her shoulders in a gesture that said,
Enough!
And still without looking at him she walked steadily away, out of the park, and up the suburban street, where there were at least signs of life and safety. Occasional families were arriving home in cars from which fractious children were emerging with arms laden with gifts.
Emily had no idea where she was going; she just walked, aware that he was following her some way behind.
When Emily had boarded the bus the night she left Matt and the baby, she'd shut all thought from her mind. She couldn't afford to think, or to feel.
She found a spare seat halfway along the bus and shoved her shoulder bag into the overhead locker. It was nightfall and the tinted glass in the window was close to black. Emily stared through the window. There was a blur that might have been Matt's face, and then thankfully the doors swung shut and the bus slid out of the station. She retreated to a place inside herself, aware only of the glare of the overhead lights and the irritating beat of old pop songs on the driver's radio.
There was a woman sitting next to her. âYou going far?' she asked Emily.
âYes. Sydney.'
âAll the way! Holiday?'
âYes.'
âI'm going down to my daughter. Just as far as Coffs.'
Emily smiled politely and stared out the window. Then she got up and pulled a fleecy jacket from her bag, folded it, and put it against the glass and pretended to sleep. She did fall asleep, for when she next came to, the woman who'd been sitting beside her had gone.
It was a long night. Emily shuffled off the bus at various stops, splashing her face with water in anonymous rest rooms and bowing her head in front of the mirror so that she wouldn't be confronted with her own face. She preferred to imagine that she didn't exist, that this wasn't happening to her. In the bright glare of a fast-food outlet she unexpectedly caught sight of herself reflected in a plate-glass window and was shocked by how
okay
she looked. She had to look again to make sure that it was actually herself, and not some other curly-haired, short-skirted girl.
There was a boy watching her. She saw him as she moved away from the window. He was dressed in jeans and a hooded top, and had the hollow-cheeked gaze of someone perpetually hungry. He devoured a hamburger with absent-minded ferocity; when he'd finished he screwed up the paper and shoved it in the bin.
Emily returned to the bus and as she sat down noticed him coming up the aisle. He disappeared into a seat further up. After the bus pulled out, someone plonked down into the empty aisle seat beside her. He sighed, and said, âWhat's your name?'
Emily's body stiffened. She didn't reply, ignoring him, hoping he'd go away. He said nothing more, just settled in and sat beside her in the darkened bus as it rushed through the night, occasional car lights appearing like searchlights and illuminating their faces.
After a while the boy sighed again and settled down as if to sleep, his head falling onto her shoulder as though by accident. She pushed it gently away, but it fell sideways again.
With the weight of his head against her shoulder, Emily wondered what to do. She couldn't bear the thought of having to do anything â of confronting him, making a fuss, risking some kind of scene, having the lights come on, being the centre of attention. She sat dully and stared out of the black window. The boy started to snore, lightly and evenly. He smelt of sweat and cigarette smoke and fried onions. When she leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes he settled more solidly against her, sliding over to accommodate her new position.
He reached out and took her hand.
And Emily let him hold it. It was a soft, trusting, needy hand, and she found it strangely comforting. She left him like that, with his hand in hers. She didn't know if she was comforting him, or if he was comforting her. Perhaps they were comforting each other. Resting her head against the shuddering windowpane, she closed her eyes.
She woke at dawn and he was gone. She sat up and adjusted her clothes, as though people were watching her. And then they reached the city, where Charlotte stood waiting to take her to her daughter's place for breakfast and a shower before going up to the mountains.
Emily walked through the streets with the shark man following at a distance. She turned and caught a glimpse of him from time to time.
She rounded a corner and a church reared up in front of her. It was as imposing as only a Catholic cathedral can be. Cars were parked all about it, in the street and car park. A few latecomers hurried through the doors, clutching the hands of their children.
Christmas Day Mass.
Emily stood in front of the building and stared up. Behind it the sky was navy blue â not quite dark yet. Emily took a breath, and exhaled. She had not been inside this particular building but she knew exactly what she would find inside.
It would be all light and dark. Pools of light and the candles throwing shadows. The brown polished wood. Splashes of colour like jewels. Everything shiny and burnished â the people too. Children slicked down with comb marks in their hair, dressed in their best. She saw it all: the shuffling, the rustle of hymn books, the discreet throat-clearing, the music swelling and receding, the scuffle of people kneeling for prayer. The sign of the cross. There would be teenagers smirking, surreptitiously making fun of the proceedings, secretly disbelieving.
And it occurred to her that she could walk right in and be a part of it. She could belong. She could go into the church, stand in line for communion, shuffle forward, put out her tongue and swallow. She could steal into the intimacy of the confessional. She could do it all.
For a moment she wanted to. She wanted to find the child she once was, the girl in the white frock with scratchy lace, and the pure white never-before-worn socks and the shiny black court shoes. If she could go back to
then
and start it all again . . .
But starting again wasn't possible. She wasn't even sure she did want things to be different. She didn't want to regret anything.
She walked quickly away down the street the way she had come. Stopping in front of the shark man she said to him loudly, âIf you keep following me I'll call the police.'
She walked back to Charlotte's place. The car was back in the drive, and the lights were on in the house.
Emily quickened her step. âI'm home!' she called, as she let herself in.
Emily cannot tell where the process of getting better started. Perhaps it was the day she felt trapped in the shopping centre, the day Charlotte helped her buy the toy horse for Mahalia. Or it may have begun further back, when she met Martin and Pete, and slowly started to feel part of life again. Or when Charlotte came into her room with the logbook that her father had posted up to her. Or the evening she stopped in front of the shark man and told him to stop following her.
It doesn't matter. All that does is that a veil no longer shrouds her. The world is clearer, colours brighter. She has a sense of possibilities again. Somehow, the world seems to have shifted to accommodate her.
Or she to it.
She has space inside her. Her blood beats surely in her veins. Her breath comes slowly and easily.
The cat knows she is different. In the mornings it butts its head into her hand and purrs.
She has started to eat breakfast at a regular, reasonably early hour. At night in bed she runs her hands over her ribs. They don't stick out so much now.
If I don't watch it I'll get fat!
But she asks for seconds of dessert every night.
She pesters Charlotte to take her driving.
âNot again!'
Charlotte laughs, as Emily grabs the keys and heads outside. She loves Charlotte's little yellow car: it's as bright and as shiny as a jellybean. The magnetic L-plates attach with a soft kissing sound. And it does everything she wants it to do. She makes Charlotte take her out in the worst weather: in torrential rain, and late at night. âYou need to get used to all kinds of conditions,' she tells her. âThat's what Dad used to say.' On fine evenings she walks around the streets, catching the scent of flowers, savouring the night. She glances through lighted windows, and hears snatches of the lives within, no longer feeling apart from it all.
She walks past Martin and Pete's house, still closed-up and dark, not expecting them to be at home. Earlier in the day she noticed that the sneaker still lay untouched in the same position on the verandah floor.
At the chain store Emily flicks through racks of tiny clothing. It will be Mahalia's first birthday soon and she is looking for a present.
âI feel okay about this,' she tells herself (she is often amazed at how okay she feels). But somehow she can't picture a real child,
her
child. It still seems so far away, somehow.
A woman walks down the aisle and stands beside her. She has a baby on her hip. The baby has wispy blonde hair and a high forehead. Emily glances at it and looks away.
âWill you just look at this little
dress
?' says the woman to no one in particular, so that Emily thinks that perhaps she must be talking to her. âThis is just so
cute!
' âIt is, isn't it?' mumbles Emily politely.
âYes, I think this would suit you right down to the ground,' says the woman, and Emily realises with embarrassment that the woman has been talking to her baby, not to her.
Emily looks over at the baby, who stares back at her with a solemn expression on its face. She smiles at it, and the baby smiles back, looking bashful, tipping her head on one side and burrowing into her mother's shoulder.
âShe's being a real little girl,' says the mother, and she really is speaking to Emily this time. âIt's that “Oh, don't look at me” thing.'
âHow old is she?' asks Emily, shyly.
âNine months,' says the woman with pride.
Emily reaches out and touches the baby's bare foot. It is plump and soft, with curled-up toes that wriggle around when Emily touches them. She is so
real
, so solid and actual. She has teeth, two at the top, and several at the bottom. She grinds her little teeth together and smiles at Emily again. She is such a patient, shy, cheerful baby.
âAnd . . . what's her name?'
âEmily.'
âOh! That's . . . pretty.'
The woman has stopped looking at clothes and is smiling down at baby Emily. âIsn't it?' she says with a smile. âWell, best get on.' She takes the dress that she'd said would suit her baby right down to the ground and walks over to the checkout.
Emily feels tears running out of her eyes before she knows she is crying. She has no idea which dress would suit Mahalia. And she's never even seen her at the age that baby is â nine months. She's lost that, and can never get it back.
But she applies herself to examining the racks of clothes for one-year-olds. â
This
one,' she thinks, finding a little white frock with red polka dots all over the sleeves and around the hem.