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Gemma rolled over with a groan. Her bladder was giving her a nudge. Again. She'd already got up once at four. She'd heard somewhere it was nature's way of preparing the mum-to-be for
interrupted sleep. After all, that's the only kind of sleep she'd be getting for the next three years, give or take. Mother Nature was a bitch.

Her bladder could not be ignored any longer. She opened one eye and squinted out. Daylight. Perhaps if she kept squinting the whole way to the bathroom and back again, she could trick her body into believing it hadn't actually woken up, and she'd be able to go straight back to sleep. She peered out through barely opened lids and climbed carefully out of bed, as though she was trying not to wake a sleeping partner. She crept from the bedroom, down the hall to the bathroom, lifted her nightie and sat. Aargh! Straight onto cold porcelain! She jumped up, looking behind, scowling at the toilet bowl as she slammed the seat down. She hated men.

Gemma sat back on the toilet, wide awake now. She turned to focus on the digital clock conveniently located at eye level on the vanity cabinet. Phoebe was a time-management freak and she had clocks in every room, sometimes more than one. She probably timed her toilet stops: forty-five seconds for ones, three minutes thirty for twos.

The vanity clock had just ticked over to 8.40. Gemma supposed it could have been worse. She listened for signs of life, but it was quiet in the apartment. Well, as quiet as Pyrmont could get. There was never any respite from the traffic noise; it was like living in the middle of a freeway. Which, come to think of it, was a pretty apt description of the suburb.

Phoebe and Cameron were probably still sleeping it off after their big night last night. And what an excruciating night that had turned out to be. Gemma had had to stay sober while a bunch of finance and law prats jostled verbally with each other to prove who was richest and cleverest and could drop the most designer names for everything, right down to gardening tools and cooking utensils, for chrissakes. Food, apparently, was the new black. Phoebe knew her stuff, and with thorough preparation and planning her menu had been a triumph of style over substance, incorporating the hippest, coolest ingredients sourced with varying degrees of difficulty from the hippest, coolest purveyors of foodstuffs across the city. Her guests had been
suitably impressed, though quick to detail their own recent culinary feats to the oohs and aahs of their little coterie. They were like a bunch of preschoolers trying to outdo each other in the sandpit. It was nauseating, which Gemma found all the more annoying as she'd only just got over her morning sickness.

She stepped in front of the mirror and considered her reflection. Her blonde mop could do with a cut – she was getting a bit of a surfie-chick, bed-hair look about her, and even Gemma conceded she was too old to get away with that. She turned sideways. Did she look pregnant? She had to meet this MD bod next week and she didn't want to look even vaguely pregnant. She caught her nightie in close at the back so that the thin fabric clung to her silhouette. Her breasts were definitely bigger, which wouldn't go against her. She smoothed her hand over her belly. Although she felt bloated, there was really nothing to show for it yet. Gemma had been blessed, or cursed – depending on the mood she was in, or what style of clothing she was trying to fit into – with a pear-shaped figure. At its worst, too much on the bottom and not enough up top, but passable most of the time. She only hoped these so-called child-bearing hips would live up to their name and provide the peanut with a nice little hideout where it could remain tucked away discreetly for the time being.

Gemma heard noises at the front door. She walked down the hall to the living area just as Phoebe and Cameron bounded in, their faces shiny with perspiration, wearing not quite matching but certainly coordinated jogging outfits.

‘You cannot be serious,' said Gemma, putting her hands on her hips. ‘Please tell me you haven't been for a run?'

‘If you want,' Phoebe panted, heading for the fridge, ‘but it wouldn't be the truth.'

‘You were both pissed as newts last night.'

‘We weren't
pissed
,' Cameron refuted.

‘Were too,' said Gemma. ‘I'm surprised you could get out of bed, let alone run anywhere.'

‘Running's good for a hangover,' said Phoebe, passing Cameron a bottle of water. ‘Gets the heart pumping and the blood flowing to clear all the toxins away.'

‘Not that we were pissed,' Cameron added.

‘You were all pissed from where I was sitting,' said Gemma. ‘It was excruciating.'

‘That's only because you're usually more pissed than anyone,' Cameron threw at her.

‘Ah, those were the days,' Gemma returned, unfazed.

‘I'm going to have a shower,' he said as he walked up the hall.

‘So, last night,' said Gemma, perching herself on the edge of the table. ‘Did you have a good time?'

‘Yeah, I think it went off well,' Phoebe said. ‘I'd say it was a success.'

‘No, what I was actually asking was whether
you
had a good time.'

Phoebe crossed her arms in front of herself. ‘What are you getting at, Gem?'

She shrugged. ‘Well, I was just wondering . . . would you call those people last night close friends, Phee?'

‘I don't know . . . we have lots of friends,' she said defensively.

Gemma walked over to the fridge and opened the door. ‘They just don't seem like your kind of people.'

‘Well, maybe you don't know me as well as you think,' said Phoebe airily.

Gemma smiled, glancing at her sister. ‘I know you used to eat snails out of the garden before you knew they were escargots and –' she straightened, flourishing one hand and affecting an accent, ‘–
so
1980s, darling. Who was that prat Duncan?'

‘Duncan Reynolds. He's senior partner at the largest law firm in the country. He's very influential and very rich.'

‘Then why doesn't he go out and buy himself a decent personality?' said Gemma, picking up a bottle of juice and closing the fridge door again.

Phoebe slumped in defeat. ‘God, I know, he's
such
a bore.'

Gemma swung around, her eyes lit up. ‘Ha! You big fake!' She pointed a finger accusingly at her sister. ‘What are you doing hanging around with people like that, Phee?'

‘I don't
hang around
with them,' she defended. ‘Cam just likes to network with the right people.'

‘He must have been thrilled no end to have me here,' said
Gemma wryly. ‘They all looked at me like I had a disease when I told them I was a waitress.'

‘Yeah, well, you could just as easily have said you work in advertising, if you'd wanted to fit in.'

‘Why would I want to fit in with that lot?' Gemma said, pouring herself a glass of juice. ‘Besides, I wouldn't have a hope. I felt like Bridget Jones, only pregnant.'

‘Bridget Jones was pregnant in the final instalments.'

‘Was she? Who was the father?'

Phoebe looked at her. ‘Do you really want to have a conversation about the paternity of Bridget Jones's baby?'

‘It'd be better than some of the conversations going on around me last night,' Gemma groaned. ‘Work and real estate were all anyone could talk about.'

‘Well, maybe when you have a job and you can afford somewhere to live, you'll feel comfortable sitting at the grown-ups' table.'

‘Ouch,' said Gemma. ‘I told you I'm going to start looking for a place.'

‘And I told you it's not a problem you staying here.'

‘Obviously it is.'

‘I was only joking about the grown-ups' table, Gem.'

‘I know,' said Gemma. ‘It's not you. Cameron can barely stand having me here a few weeks; he'd have a stroke if you told him I was staying indefinitely.'

Phoebe started to protest the unprotestable.

‘Besides,' Gemma interrupted, ‘Mum and Dad are going to end up finding out if I don't get out of here soon.'

‘They have to find out sooner or later, Gem.'

‘I'm opting for later.'

Phoebe leaned back against the kitchen bench. ‘They have a right to know –'

‘Are we going to have this argument again? One thing at a time is the best I can do, Phee, and “grandparents' rights” are not exactly high on my list of priorities.'

Gemma picked up the glass of juice and skolled it back. Phoebe was watching her. ‘You know you can see right through that nightie. Your tits are enormous.'

‘I know, aren't they great?' said Gemma, smoothing the nightie over her breasts. ‘The one time in my life I've really got a rack, and I've got no one to appreciate it.'

‘Gem!' Phoebe winced.

‘What?'

‘You're pregnant!'

‘So, I'm not a nun,' said Gemma. ‘Do you expect me to stop having sex?'

‘I expect you won't have a lot of opportunity, not while you're pregnant.'

‘I've heard some guys really get off on the idea of doing it with a pregnant woman.'

Phoebe grimaced. ‘Well, now that you've loaded me up with that mental image, would you mind getting dressed before Cam comes out of the shower?'

‘Okay, okay.' Gemma drifted off towards the hall. ‘Hey, I thought later you might want to help me find something to wear for my interview?' she said, turning halfway around.

‘Sure,' said Phoebe. ‘Where do you want to look?'

‘I was thinking we could start in your wardrobe,' Gemma threw over her shoulder as she disappeared up the hall.

Helen had been trailing the bus for blocks now. Stopping, lurching forward, stopping again. It was Friday afternoon and the streets were clogged. She couldn't get around it, she couldn't get away from it, she couldn't do anything but sit behind it, staring at the garish ad for some kind of lolly-flavoured alcoholic drink, three bottles lined up doing the can-can, with leering big grins on their labels. Why not just say it up front? Come on, kids, try us, we taste like soft drink so you can get drunk really easily! How much more fun can you get in a bottle?

‘Mummy,' said Noah from his car seat in the back.

‘Yes, Noah?'

‘Is atta bus what smooshed Daddy?'

Helen turned her head sharply to look at him. ‘What did you say?'

She had struggled over telling Noah the actual details of David's accident, but he had to be told something, and she and David had always been honest with him. David was scrupulous about that. He would have told him, she knew in her heart, so it seemed only right that she tell Noah the truth. Jim and Noreen had been horrified when they found out. They more or less accused her of child abuse. She wished she could handle them the way David had, but she was completely out of her depth.

‘Is atta bus what smooshed Daddy?' Noah was repeating insistently, in almost a singsong rhyme.

Helen tried to collect herself. He was a child, asking an innocent question. She had to hold it together. But she was beginning to find it difficult to breathe. She opened her window to get some fresh air, though how she thought that was possible on Darling Street at peak hour, she didn't know.

‘Uh, I don't think so, Noah,' she answered finally, looking over her shoulder at him. ‘That bus was in the city, near Daddy's work.' She turned to look ahead again. Her hands trembled as they rested on the steering wheel.

‘Mummy?'

‘Yes, Noah?'

‘Did it hurt Daddy?'

Helen's heart froze. ‘What, darling?'

‘Getting smooshed.'

Her throat was dry. ‘It happened too fast, Noah. Daddy wouldn't have felt anything.'

‘Why didn't Daddy hold sum'n's hand?'

Helen turned around again. ‘What do you mean, sweetheart?'

‘Daddy did tell me one day that I always haffa hold sum'n's hand across a road or else I'll get smooshed by a bus. Why didn't Daddy hold sum'n's hand?

‘. . . Mummy?

‘Whata matta, Mummy?

‘Why you crying, Mummy?'

*

‘Actually, it was my husband's, um, my parents-in-law who thought I should come.'

‘Oh?' said Jill. She'd told Helen to call her Jill. She was the bereavement counsellor provided through the State Transit Authority to the families of accident victims. It was a free service. She'd be mad not to take advantage of it, Jim had insisted.

‘Have your husband's parents received any counselling?' Jill asked.

‘I don't know,' said Helen.

‘Well, if they needed you to come,' said Jill, ‘you can tell them you came.'

‘Pardon?'

‘You don't have to stay, Helen,' she said plainly.

Helen was confused. Was she being dismissed? ‘I'm sorry?'

‘Helen, this is an incredibly personal and painful thing to have to talk about, and if you're not prepared to do that, if that's not something you want to do, or feel the need to do, well, you shouldn't have to do it because someone else thinks it's what you should do.'

Helen nodded faintly.

‘Please, feel free to go. It's okay.'

Helen let a moment or two pass, and then shrugged. ‘Well, I guess I'm here now.'

‘All right,' said Jill. ‘We can talk for a while if you like.'

‘About the accident?'

‘That's up to you.'

‘But you do know what happened, don't you?'

‘I've read the report from the inquest, if that's what you mean. That didn't tell me much.'

That's what Helen thought as well. The inquest didn't tell her anything, except too much detail about David's injuries, which only served to further fuel her nightmares. But it didn't tell her how something like this could have happened, much less why it happened.

‘It certainly didn't tell me anything about you, Helen,' Jill went on, ‘and you're the one sitting here in front of me.'

‘What do you want to know about me?' Helen said warily.

‘Whatever you feel like telling me.'

Helen wasn't so sure she felt like telling Jill anything about herself. Besides, what was there to tell?

‘I think they . . . my parents-in-law expected that you'd fix me up somehow, so that I can get over it and move on. They want me to go back to work.'

‘Is that what you want?'

Helen shook her head. ‘I don't feel ready. I'm a nurse; I don't think I'd be very good at taking care of other people at the moment.'

‘That's understandable. People going through a bereavement often describe a “limbo” period where they just don't want to have to do anything, or make any decisions.'

Helen was listening. ‘Is that one of the stages of grief? I remember learning about them during my nursing training. Um, somebody Kübler-Ross, wasn't it?'

‘That's correct,' said Jill. ‘But it's not really the accepted theory any more. Not that someone who's grieving might not have all the feelings Kübler-Ross described. But to fit them to prescribed stages is to ignore that we're all individuals and that we all grieve in our own way.' She paused. ‘Have you heard of chaos theory, Helen?'

‘When a butterfly flaps its wings there'll be a hurricane on the other side of the world?'

‘Something like that,' Jill nodded. ‘The theory is about cause and effect, but how, why, when and where a cause will lead to an effect we can rarely ever know, because of all the unpredictable variables.'

‘I'm not sure what that has to do with me.'

‘You're an individual, Helen. There are plenty of people who have suffered loss as great as you, there are people suffering the same loss as you now – your in-laws, for example. However, no two people will experience the same bereavement. There is no one with your precise history, in your precise circumstances, so no one can tell you how or what you should be feeling.'

Sometimes Helen wished someone would. Tell her what to feel, what to do next, how to go on.

‘I guess I just want to know how to get over this.'

‘Forgive me for being blunt, Helen, but why should you get over it? You've suffered an enormous loss. I don't imagine you'll ever get over it.'

Helen was taken aback. What Jill was suggesting was too frightening a prospect. If she couldn't get over it, she'd end up like her mother, and she simply couldn't do that to Noah. Somehow she had to stop herself from sinking.

‘But I don't want to feel like this forever,' said Helen. ‘My mother, she never got over the death of my father, and now she has Alzheimer's.'

Jill's forehead creased into a slight frown. ‘Surely the doctors have told you that Alzheimer's is a physical deterioration of the brain; it's not caused by grief?'

Helen just looked at her.

‘But it worries you anyway?'

She nodded.

‘Helen, when I said that I can't see you'd ever get over the death of your husband, I wasn't suggesting that you'll feel this intensely for the rest of your life,' said Jill. ‘But this will change you immutably. You can't ever be the person you were before the accident; it's impossible. It's like saying to someone who's lost an arm, you won't be any different. Of course they will. But they can learn to adjust, learn ways to get by. They can still have a full life.'

With only one arm, Helen sighed inwardly.

‘The point I'm trying to make,' said Jill, ‘is that if you only focus on trying to get over David's death, to move on, it will feel insurmountable because it is insurmountable. The reality is, his death will be a part of your life from now on. It's not the end of your relationship. You'll always have a relationship with him in your heart, and if you can come to terms with that, own this new reality, you can adjust and live your life within it.'

Helen was still doubtful. Her father's death had remained the defining feature of her mother's life, and Marion's reality had been altered forever, but not in a way Helen wanted for herself, or for Noah. Helen was frightened to let go, but holding on was frightening as well; it seemed she would remain in limbo for some time yet.

*