Candelo (21 page)

It is Lizzie who takes me to have the termination.

When I mentioned I had booked the clinic, she had insisted on taking me.

Don't
, she had said when I had protested, when I had told her I was happy to go on my own.
Let go of the stupid bravado. Just for once
.

She is, as always, calm and sensible. She reassures me that I am doing the right thing, that the situation is impossible, that there is, really, no choice.

But I am still uncertain, I am still battling with the decision as we cross through the back streets of the city, Lizzie driving as she always drives, too fast, swearing loudly at other drivers, beeping her horn at every car that is slow off the mark.

I hold onto the dashboard and close my eyes.

Her driving is the only chink in her calm persona. She once told me it was because her father died in a car crash, and she has felt a need to defy his death ever since.

I tell her I am scared I will regret my choice, that I have made it when I have had too many other matters on my mind (although I do not tell her what these other matters are; I cannot bring myself to talk of Mitchell).

She tells me I have to trust myself. I have to have faith in my own decision-making capabilities.

I tell her I am worried I will never meet anyone else, worried I will never be pregnant again.

She tells me not to be silly.
Look at me
, she says.
All those years on my own and I've found someone
.

I tell her that I wanted to have a child while Vi was still alive, and I am looking out the window as I speak, not trusting myself to keep from crying, as she tells me that I cannot do something as momentous as this for my mother.

Besides
, she says,
there's no reason why Vi won't live for a lot longer. The doctors have told you that
, and she reaches for my hand, swerving dangerously as she does so.

And I tell her what the doctor told me, that I may have problems conceiving, that I had tried earlier and nothing had happened, that perhaps this is my only chance, that perhaps I am being a fool.

She is about to reassure me once again, but then she changes her mind. She pulls over, the car skidding on the dirt beside the road.

With the ignition turned off, I can hear the wind in the Moreton Bay figs, stirring the last leaves, and I watch as they fall to the ground, to the roots, knotted like elephant hide at the base of the trunk.

They all have a disease
, I said.

And she looks at me. She does not know what I am talking about.

These trees. All of them. They're all losing their leaves. And they don't know what it is
.

She switches off the radio.

I ask her if there's any trick she's learnt in meditation that helps you make up your mind in a situation like this.

She tells me that ever since she rediscovered sex, she's forgotten it all, and even if she could remember, she doesn't think it was ever a question of tricks. Unfortunately.

What a shame
, I say.

You know you don't have to do this
, and she looks at me.
It's not too late to change your mind
.

I know.

I just needed to say all my doubts out loud. I just needed to put them on the table. I suppose I hoped that if I voiced them, they would vanish. Each one lined up, examined and put to rest, buried deep, deep enough to be forgotten.

But that is not how it is. And I have to remember why I made my decision. I have to remember what it would mean to have a child and to keep silent as Anton has asked me to do, or to tell and face what that would incur; to be alone with a baby, to have a baby in those circumstances. I would not have the strength. I could not do it.

You know
, Lizzie says,
you'll probably hate me for saying this
.

Then don't say it
, I tell her.

But it's a pity it wasn't Marco
.

And I tell her that I do hate her for saying it, that she shouldn't have, and I am about to get out of the car. I am
about to slam the door behind me and walk to the clinic, but she stops me.

Do you want to do this?
she asks me.

No
, I say.

And she turns the key in the ignition. She knows that I have made up my mind. That I do not want to do it, but I will do it. She knows what I meant when I said no, and she squeezes my hand as we pull back onto the road.

We're late
, I say.

And she puts her foot on the accelerator.

It was cool on the morning of the funeral, and when I opened the front door to my flat and smelt the salt in the freshness of the air, I remembered what winter was like. The chill as the wind whistles through the gap between the door and the wall, the fog at night, the crisp clarity of the days; I remembered and I shivered.

These were the mornings when I would get up and tell Marco that there were not many swimming days left for the summer.

Probably more than you think
, he would say, trying to keep me in bed.

I would ignore him, feeling the change in the air as I pulled on my swimmers and wrapped my towel around my shoulders.

The ocean was still rough.

A great rolling swell that had the surfers up and out the back, black flecks against the morning sky.

The pool was also wild. The waves slapped the sides, backwards, forwards, rolling over the cracked cement, sparkling,
frosty green, icy as they surged against each other, pushing and pulling me from wall to wall.

Standing under the shower, I washed seaweed from my body, slippery greens and browns, mossy and soft beneath my fingers, tiny red welts across my stomach from the end of a stinger's tail, and sand between my toes. The steam rose and I let it all slide off me.

Bernard had called the night before, telling me to ring him as soon as I got back. To let him know what had happened.

Mari had also called, reminding me to look after Simon.

I had listened but I had not really listened. I had held the phone away from my ear while they spoke.

Promise
, Bernard had said.

Promise
, Mari had said.

And I had promised them both.

Anton had also called, his voice a whisper as he left a message. I could hear him there above me, the scrape of his chair along the floor as he moved closer to the phone, and I could only guess that Louise was also there upstairs, somewhere out of hearing.

He had told me he wanted to talk. He had messed it all up. But he was not deserting me. He promised. And I had turned the volume down on his words. I had wiped his message as soon as he left it.

Standing by my rack of clothes and flicking through everything I owned, I saw all the different stages of myself on lurid display.

Like Vi, I am a secret and compulsive shopper, but where Vi will buy hundreds of pairs of high-heeled shoes, cardigans,
pastel skirts and blouses, each one almost identical to the last, I buy a constantly changing array of new looks.

I once told Lizzie that I thought I would be able to mount a solo exhibition of every tragic fashion foisted on women in the last two decades. She hadn't argued with me.

Photographs of your haircuts alone would be enough
, she had said.

I had grimaced with embarrassment.

I chose a skirt I would wear to work and then put it back, remembering that I did not intend to get out of the car. My jeans and a T-shirt were lying on the floor and I picked them up and held them in front of me for a moment before I decided to put them on. I wished I also had a pair of thongs.

Simon was punctual, as always.

If he felt any dismay at the way I was dressed, he said nothing.

His jeans were new, dark blue, stiff like cardboard and straining at the waist. His shirt was also new, maroon and, like his pants, too small. As I opened the door to him, I realised it had been a long time since I had seen him in anything but his bus driver's uniform. The clothes he wore outside work were not all that different.

Shall we go?
and he looked at me anxiously, wanting me to be ready.

I told him to wait for me up on the road. I promised him I wouldn't be long.

But he didn't.

I could see him out on the path, smoking one of the cigarettes from his never-ending supply and kicking the toe of
his shoe through the sand and dirt that had slipped down in the last storms.

It has been so many years since Simon and I have been able to speak to each other. Since Candelo. But before then, it was different. I was always there, tagging along, wanting his attention, wanting to be part of his older and seemingly more impressive world.

Whereas Simon was just Simon. Never really with me. Never really with anyone. Just complete within himself.

And although I knew this, I didn't give up.

I would set up camp down by the waterfront, smuggling food and blankets down there, stashing them in a cave. I would try to convince him to run away with me, to hide, to make Vi worried. I could see it made no sense to him. But through sheer insistence, I would make him follow, both of us riding our skateboards down the steep hill that led to the reserve.

Within an hour we would be bored.

I would try to entertain him. I would want to keep him there with me. I would pretend we had no food. That we were starving. I would scramble over outcrops of sandstone, cutting my knees and feet as I scraped oyster shells off the surface of the rocks, eating them in front of him, urging him to eat with me. I would make us a fishing pole from bamboo. I would make up stories about children who had survived for months on their own without anyone to look after them.
True
, I would say.

Nothing ever worked.

Within a couple of hours, he would tell me that he was going.

He would make me promise to come home before it got dark.

And then he would leave me alone.

Still, I didn't give up.

I would follow him after school, hanging with his friends, wanting to be where he was, even though it would be clear that despite Simon's tolerance, the others did not want me around.

Boys only
, Steven Cobden would say.

Oh yeah?
I would challenge him, with my hands on my hips, daring him to make me go.

Yeah
, and he would take one step closer.

Says who?
I would ask, wanting to keep him there at bay, hoping that Simon would eventually notice what was going on, hoping that he would intervene on my behalf.

But he never had any idea. He just kept doing whatever it was he happened to be doing. And I would march home, furious, let down, while he remained completely unaware of the indignity I had suffered.

I had wanted it to be reversed. I had wanted the tables to be turned. I had wanted Simon to want me, to follow me, to chase me. And I had wanted to be like him. Oblivious.

As he stubbed out his cigarette in the garden and told me we had to get going, we were running late, I remembered this and I thought about what it was like now. Different. But the same.

Because when I saw him, completely closed down, completely locked up, I knew he was further from me than ever, and it still had me. Only now I was just trying to fix it. To make it
better. Still knowing that I never would, that he would always be somewhere else. And as I followed him up the path to the road without saying a word, I thought about the strangeness of this day. The fact that he had asked me for something. To help him. That it was, perhaps, the first time this had happened.

When we reached the top he was out of breath and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

His car was a mess and I opened my window wide, trying to find an escape from the stale smell of the overflowing ashtray.

He pushed the street directory towards me and told me where it was we were going.

Can you direct?
he asked.

I told him I felt sick if I had to look at a map.

He didn't reply and I turned to the page he had marked.

It's miles away
, I said.

He turned the key in the ignition.
I know. That's why I didn't want to be late
.

Simon drives a car like he drives a bus. Both hands firmly on the steering wheel, each turn is exaggerated, too large. He drives slowly, sitting firmly in the middle of the lane, always braking in plenty of time, never losing his temper, never taking a risk.

Are you nervous?
I asked him and because he did not answer me, I turned to the window, letting the cool breeze rush across my cheeks. It was colder than it had been for months and I wished I had brought a jumper with me.

I turned on the radio and twisted the dial until I found a station without too much static.

What's happened to the aerial?
I asked him.

He told me he had never had one.

Hits and memories. A classic from the seventies. And as I found myself humming in tune to a song that we had once both liked, I looked across at him, but he did not turn towards me.