“Nothing
interesting
about this morning, Burt. I have some cleaning to do at Ethan’s place, and I had to sort out when I could fit it in.” We start to walk slowly along the back road that lies between the harbour and the beach toward Sheila’s art studio.
“Oh, that is a shame.”
“Really? Why would that be a shame? Because you think Ethan is such a great guy, or because you would like some dirty details of my non-existent sex life?” Non-existent until about ten world-shaking minutes ago, that is. “You know your sister thinks you’re a dirty old man as it is. Don’t give her any more ammunition.”
“What? I’m shocked. My sister, Sheila, the eminent artist, being mean to her brother, surely not? I may not have her talent but I can still paint, and it keeps my arthritis at bay.” What started out as humorous outrage, softens with silent sadness. “You don’t think I’m a dirty old man do you, Ada?”
I laugh kindly and squeeze his arm. “Burt, I’ve modelled naked for you and Sheila for eight months now, and while your sister has produced something like eight full-sized paintings, you have yet to sketch a single nipple. The plants you arrange around me, however, are exquisite. I should be insulted the plants get all the attention, but no, I don’t think you’re a dirty old man.”
“
You
are exquisite, Ada, and I don’t think my weak hands could do you justice. But I do appreciate beauty, so maybe one day.” He smiles and puts my hand in the crook of his arm. “And I don’t think my heart could hear the dirty details of even a non-existent sex life.” He chuckles a deep throaty sound. “It’s a shame,” he repeats, “because I think you and Ethan would make a good match.”
I snort. “And I thought you liked me.” Burt turns to me with confusion on his face and I am becoming more familiar with this pattern of reaction. Ethan’s such a great guy…Ethan is such a sweetheart…Ethan’s so fucking hot.
“Ethan is a fine young man, but I have never seen him with the same girl twice. So, no, I don’t think he is quite good enough for you, Ada, but he is good enough to have a bit of fun with. You are far too young to have lost your smile, and you could do worse than Ethan. That is what I meant by the ‘a shame’ comment.”
I’m a little taken aback. “Are you sure about that?” I did have fun with Ethan, but I know I won’t find my smile playing games. I believe that’s what I am to a predator like Ethan…prey.
Burt doesn’t get to answer because Sheila is waiting on the wooden balcony of the loft studio.
“Picking up strays again, Ada?” She calls out down the road but Burt ignores her. It’s barely a ten minute walk from Ethan’s apartment, but it’s a straight road and Sheila watches us the entire way until we stop at the foot of her stairs.
“I will be back in an hour.” His deep frown softens with his smile.
“I don’t know why you two don’t share the hour. It would save you both and me from sitting for two long hours.” I offer a repeated compromise.
“I am not sharing space with him. He would suck the creativity right out of the room. I let him use my studio to leer at you, I think I do my bit for art.” Her sarcasm, I think, must hit a nerve as Burt shifts uncomfortably. But then I notice a knowing look flit between each other, then settle softly on me. A flash of understanding makes my heart swell and my nose tingle at such kindness. Sneaky, underhanded, and adorable people that they are. So, they may have collaborated to make sure I get paid double, but just in case their fights aren’t staged for my benefit, I decide to address the issue.
“Sheila, I love working for both of you. I was thinking about my numb backside more than anything, so leave Burt alone, please. I hate it. I won’t have you fighting when you clearly adore each other. It’s pointless and wasteful. You both need to treasure that you have someone who loves you enough to fight for you,
not
with you.”
“Come on in, Ada, the studio is nice and warm. I will see you in an hour, Burtie.” Her softer choice of nickname for her twin is all it takes to cause us all to grin at each other like idiots.
I waste no time in stripping and taking my position against the one-way window overlooking the surfer’s beach, which is still deserted. Sheila is working on a series of pieces commissioned on the strength of the pictures hanging in Buddy’s bar. It’s for a private gallery, which buys whole collections for big corporate headquarters. It makes me smile when I think my naked body could be plastered around the foyer of one of my father’s buildings. The shame and utter disgust he would endure would be priceless. If Karma had anything to do with where these pieces ended up, that is exactly where she would put them. Both Sheila and Burt have been tight lipped about my modelling, although no one really asks Burt, because as I said before all his pictures are of the plants that surround my body.
Sheila’s art is much admired though, and she protects my modesty like I was the Queen of England getting her kit off. To be honest, she rarely captures my face; maybe in profile on one or two paintings, but nothing you could actually identify as my likeness. I’m not ashamed and the modelling is mostly boring, but Sheila pays well and throughout the year. I just don’t need the notoriety, or to have to field the inevitable misunderstandings. So, I’m Sheila’s secret and I am happy with that. The money is enough that I only have to work afternoons and evenings. I am always finished by nine thirty, which gives me most of the morning in the library.
After my session with Burt, I head back to the beach and hope my sleeping bag is still where I left it when I snuck off to get my phone from Ethan’s place. On the way to the library, I drop my bag and outer layers at the bar. Buddy is stacking bottles but I don’t stop, just throw my bag into the staff room and bundle my clothes into my locker for later. I wave my retreat.
If it was open on Sundays I would be here every day, but as it is, I spend six mornings trawling the internet for Pip. I didn’t bother trying to find Cal; he closed his social media accounts and maybe even changed his name. The fact that he could do what he did, left no doubt in my mind he had no moral compass. He wouldn’t help; he made his choice and it wasn’t me. It wasn’t us. But Pip didn’t get that luxury. I figure babies don’t just disappear, so I search and search, but three years in the facility and fourteen months here is a long time in baby years. She would be five now and so changed from the baby I held in my arms. Would I even recognise her if I saw her face on the screen? I have to believe I would because in the very likely event her name was changed, that is all I have. A residual image, three faded photos, and hope that if I saw her I would just know. The public computer facilities at the local library aren’t great. You have to book your slot, but I’ve been here enough times that I just sit down. Pat, the librarian, even brings me a coffee mid-morning, which is against the ‘no drinks’ policy, but she has often seen me so close to tears. Emergency coffee was a just and timely response.
I slip the folded photos from the loose stitching in my purse and put them flat next to the keyboard. They’re not just my only physical reminder of Pip but combined with my scars and the detailed stories I told, they proved to Joan I was telling the truth. Up until that day, I had felt crippled with frustration that I had nothing to prove Pip was really mine. But these photos changed all that.
Two and a Half Years Ago
It has been six months since I woke up, and Joan has been the only constant in my life. Neither of my parents have come to visit and when I asked Joan, she had the decency to look uncomfortable on their behalf. I told her at the time not to waste that emotion; they weren’t worth the effort. We have talked endlessly about my life. It really wasn’t so special and she even agreed that I wasn’t crazy to want to exchange my ‘privileged’ life for someone whose parents actually gave a shit about something other than their standing in an outdated community. This day was different though and when she asked the question, I had refused to discuss–I answer.
“Will you tell me why you did it, Ada?” Joan is setting up the chess pieces. The winter evenings mean it’s dark around four in the afternoon.
“Yes.” I bite my lip to hide a smile. Her fingers hover above the checkered board, and her eyes are wide with utter shock.
“Sorry?” She narrows her eyes in suspicion, but her incredulity makes me laugh out.
“I will tell you, but you have to look and listen.” I push my chair back and pull the chord on my pajama pants. I grab the waistband and shove it down my legs. I lift my cami top and pull my panties down enough to see the neat, slim, white line. The healed dissection of my emergency caesarean scar. Physical evidence that Pip was torn from my body. Joan raises her brow and worries her lip. She needs more–what more is there?
“I know about the scar, Ada. I know you suffered complications with a miscarriage and losing the baby like that was your trigger–”
“–fuck off, Joan!” I roughly cover my useless evidence. “I didn’t lose my baby. I had my baby. I did
nearly
lose her, she didn’t turn in time and got wedged. It was scary as hell and Cal cried when they took me away for the emergency C-section. But Pip survived, Joan, and we lived together as a family. A happy family, I thought. Pip was just a year old when Cal sold her to my father, but I did not steal the baby that was taken from me. She is my baby and I will get her back.” The sad shake of her head causes a real panic to seize my heart. If she doesn’t believe me, no one will, and I will never leave this place. “God, there has got to be something, some records you can get. You’re a doctor! I gave birth at the General, so there has to be some record. Cal must have had the birth certificate to give to my father for the adoption.” My voice is broken and water is falling in streams down my cheeks, but I slap her hands away. She is no use to me if she won’t believe.
“Why would your father give away his only grandchild?” Her voice is calm, but it has little effect on my raw, raging heartbeat.
“I know you have never met him, but you have spoken to my father, yes?” She purses her lips and nods. “Now tell me which bit of conversation had you green with envy at his capacity for kindness and empathy?”
“He…he was–”
“Don’t bother justifying his actions. The man is a monster and he thought my daughter was an abomination, a blight on his family name. So please, don’t tell me he couldn’t do exactly what he did.” I let out and deep, heartbreaking cry, and this time I let Joan place a tentative arm across my heaving shoulders. I feel so empty.
“Maybe we should do this another day.” She wipes the wet hair, which is stuck to my cheeks, away from my face and I start to nod.
“Wait! The clothes I came here wearing the denim jacket I mean…where is that?” My mind is racing.
“Oh…um, I think your father took all your belongings.” She is confused and I’m hanging on to the flimsiest chance that I have some proof of my story.
“No, before I went into the lounge room, Cal took my jacket and hung it in the hall. I was hot carrying Pip and the change bag. Cal took the bag, Pip, and my jacket, but he definitely hung it in the hall. You have one of those old fashioned curly wooden hat stands?” The memory is as clear as if it were happening in front of my eyes. I clasp my chest and Joan looks a little panicked. “Look, I’m fine; this just hurts like fuck. Can you check? If you have lost property, check there too. It’s a light-blue denim jacket; my size.” I hold my arms out to show my slight frame like she wouldn’t know unless she had a fresh image.
“I’ll…” she hesitates, and my expression may look something more feral than human because she jumps from her seat. “I’ll go and check now.” I suck in a deep breath and nod like a crazy person.
I think she took a mini vacation because it felt like she had been gone for days. When she returns though, I let out the breath I’d been holding and burst out crying. I can’t help it.
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry I didn’t know. Was it your favourite and it’s been sitting in lost property all this time?” She shakes her head with misplaced sadness. I bark out a laugh so loud, she jumps in her chair. I take the jacket, then rip the front pocket and the hand stitched seem on the inside. “Um, Ada, are you okay?” I have started laughing but the tears continue.
“It is a favourite now, Joan.” I slip my fingers through the lining and pull at the edge of my salvation. I flatten the three photographs and hand each one to Joan. The first is me heavily pregnant in the delivery room. The next is hours later and shows a very sleepy me and Cal, his face distorted with pride at holding his child for the first time. Pips eyes screwed tight and a shock of pure blonde hair slick against her minutes old head. The last one is Pip’s first birthday. I am holding her facing the camera with her back to my front. She is sucking her pudgy thumb, but her mouth is loose with a wide smile. The smile, the eyes, and the shape of her brows are mine. She is all mine. Joan is silent, as her eyes scour the pictures. Her brow is deeply furrowed as she carefully picks each clue from the separate photographs and pieces the parts together to make one whole child–my child.
“Oh, Ada.” Her initial smile is replaced with insurmountable grief when her water-filled eyes meet mine. “Oh, Ada, I’m so sorry.” She folds over and I find myself rushing to comfort her, because she is the one in pain right now. I have had time to bury mine, but this truth has hit her hard. I am sort of glad because I want my daughter back and that won’t happen while living here. Joan believes me, and she’s the one person who can get me out of here. She sat on my bed and let me talk about Pip for hours, happy that I was no longer constructing an alternate reality. Joan was married but didn’t have children, and was thirsty for all the details–she was all about the detail. I told her about how tiny Pip was when she was born. She would fit in the palm of Cal’s hand, and how although Pip was a really good sleeper from the beginning, Cal and I were in such a permanent state of terror, we didn’t sleep at all.
I wouldn’t let anyone hold her for fear she would forget me. I swallow back the truth of that ever-present fear.