In Jeopardy (14 page)

‘Didn’t you sleep well?’

‘I return to the hotel desperately wanting a drink to wash away the trials of the day. I open the bar fridge, the alcohol has gone and been replaced with bottled water and fruit juice. Did you have something to do with this?’

I had wasted no time attending to my sister’s welfare. Despite my efforts she curses me; not out of anger but in agony. She becomes breathless as she tells me how she wanted to burst into the adjoining room and wake me up. She wanted to give me a taste of how it feels to suffer. She wanted to rant at me, impress on me that alcohol is her medicine, salvation and the balm that would allow her to sleep unencumbered. Last night she settled on orange juice before collapsing into bed, facing hours of broken sleep.

We have lunch at an Italian place around the corner from the hotel. The waiter is at our table to take orders. I am about to request he give us a few minutes with menus when he asks if we would like to order drinks.

‘Vodka and orange; make that two.’

‘Christine – you can’t be serious!’

‘No less so than you stripping my bar of anything worth drinking. Did you think I’d return from nightshift and drown myself in alcohol? Do you think I’m a hopeless drunk?’

‘Sorry, I was trying to help.’

‘Help? I thought you understood my pain. Haven’t you ever found refuge in a bottle to wash away your troubles?’

‘Christine, this isn’t the way out.’

‘Are you suggesting cold turkey?’

‘I’m not about to lecture you on the hazards of alcohol.’

‘What – then – are your suggestions – Saint Julian?’

I can’t recall wanting to slap a woman before, but this one, my own sister, has provoked me enough to want to. ‘Christine, you act as if you’re the only one who has suffered from a crisis and been left in the cold.’

Her eyes widen. Has she been so entirely wrapped up in the small space comprising her own thoughts that she is oblivious to the world around her? She would never admit that her life and marriage collapsed before that bastard of a husband kicked her out on her arse. She turned to alcohol as an elixir to silence the demons that she chose not to face.

I regret what I did yesterday. ‘I don’t judge you Christine.’

She bursts into tears and drops her face in her hands. Minutes later, she faces me with tear-stained eyes and utters her excuse through ragged sobs. ‘Alcohol helps me sleep. Richard treated me as a joke. He told me the only relationship I could hold was with a bottle; he taunted me that alcohol was my lover. He lamented to me that he deserved better than being shackled to a drunk, that I tricked him into marriage then showed my true colours later. His accusations then served to justify the affairs he had. These claims were intended to effectively silence me from accusing him of being a worthless cheat.’

Her revelations are discomforting. I interrupt, ‘I’m not pressing you for a confessional.’

‘It’s time to tell someone. My marriage fell apart soon after it began. Its gloss continued to appear as a carefully constructed facade we used to impress on others to disguise the rot.’

‘I don’t want to press you into revealing what you might later wish you hadn’t.’

‘I have to tell someone to at least unburden myself from the fantasy I created of my marriage as a society wife.’

I call the waiter. ‘Vodka and orange for the lady and I’ll have a dry white.’

‘Which one will it be?’

‘I’ll take your recommendation.’

I then listen without interruption.

‘Some years into our marriage Richard’s infidelity became more blatant. He was more careless about disguising his liaisons. In the early days he phoned, left messages on the answering machine for days on end telling me he would be home late. I would wait up unless I was rostered to work nightshift. He often returned after midnight, stumbled over his words and offered an awkward apology. You know the familiar clichéd excuses we often joke about.

‘Well, there’s little humour when this scenario unfolds in your own life; worse when it becomes an entrenched pattern. Each time Richard hit me with his lies I awarded him a disbelieving look. He would attempt to mollify the situation and avoid further questions by promising an expensive dinner, a romantic trip out of town or he would buy me an expensive gift. I wasn’t fooled, but refrained from a war of words, afraid that he would confess everything then declare the marriage over.

‘I remained silent; talked myself into believing that these affairs were transient and that I was special because I wore the gold band. Sometimes Richard’s betrayals were marked by one of his silent, stormy moods. He became an angry cat stalking the house. He snapped at me in an attempt to make me talk, giving him the excuse to become contrary. It infuriated him that I usually resisted.

‘These uncomfortable impasses would be broken days later when he’d present me with a special gift. One gift was a black diamond ring surrounded by crushed diamonds. I knew these acts of generosity were carefully constructed to warn me to forget what had passed. Without words he impressed on me that it would be churlish to call him out on his latest betrayal when he had been so generous. I complied by showing graciousness, and matrimonial harmony was restored.

‘I colluded with Richard to maintain the image of a comfortable, privileged and idyllic marriage. It was no lie that our material wealth was enviable. I wasn’t in the habit of wearing any of the jewellery Richard gave me as each one represented a betrayal. We argued when Richard insisted I wear these
gifts to social occasions. He was intent on displaying to his friends and colleagues that he was the model partner and husband, perpetuating the myths and lies he created about us, and that I went along with.’

I listen to her without interruption. I struggle to comprehend why a man would treat his wife the way she has been treated. Am I naïve enough to believe that this kind of abuse doesn’t happen behind closed doors? Or that such things happen to other people; not families, friends and acquaintances.

‘Have you ever told anyone about how Richard treated you?’

‘I told a colleague, an agency nurse who was heading off overseas to work as a volunteer at an orphanage in India for two years. I believed my secret would be safe with Caro. She is at least five years younger than me, but had lost every trace of wide-eyed innocence. She was street-wise and could see right through any masquerading.

‘She revealed that she had been bruised and became bitter and hardened about romance. She gave up on dating, replacing it with travel, followed by selfless service to the poor living in developing countries. She resolved that life was more meaningful making a difference to those who didn’t have the luxury to make basic choices concerning their lives.

‘Caro didn’t refrain from comment. She failed to understand why I remained with Richard. She said:
You’ve shackled yourself to a love rat.

‘Did she think I was damaged because I compromised myself by living a more than comfortable existence?

‘At that stage I didn’t consider that we were wealthy. We lived in a tree-lined suburb with wide streets. The house is in keeping with the other properties in the street. If anything it’s plain and modest compared to some. Our neighbours own yachts, boats, holiday homes and have shares in
race horses. Between us we had none of these. I didn’t assume any of our polite and pleasant neighbours were scoundrels or tainted by what they own.

‘Caro continued her assault on Richard:
That shameless man is unable to control the worthless piece of meat hanging between his legs. He’s a disgrace and a weak individual, driven and obsessed with stoking his ego.

‘I didn’t respond to Caro’s summary of Richard and regretted revealing what I said. I felt foolish because I lacked enough guts to confront him about his lies; I lacked enough self-respect to leave. I’ve no doubt that Caro would have kicked him in the balls regularly.

‘Then she continued to hit me with the whole ugly truth about my marriage. Not only did Richard lie to me, but our whole relationship was one massive fantasy.

‘Caro continued to let rip about my sorry state. She enquired why I remained. It was obvious she thought our marriage was doomed. Today her words serve as a haunting reminder of the farcical state of my whole relationship with Richard. His vows to me were an empty pledge designed to sound earnest at the time. I guess our union allowed him to appear respectable to the world. It gave him the advantage he needed to live a sordid, clandestine double life.

‘I was subjected to every nuance of Caro’s opinion:
You know, Christine, you don’t have to remain at Richard’s mercy.

‘I have no doubt she meant well. However, her commentary hit me like a cold lump of sick that had been flung into my face. It was obvious she wanted me to confront the harsh reality I was avoiding.

‘I was wrong when I thought Caro said all there was to say on the matter and nothing prepared me for her final revelation. She said:
That arsehole treats you as little better than an object. You’re a convenience to him, you and the string of women willing and malleable enough to tangle with him. You don’t get it?

‘I asked,
Get what?

‘That he’s a right creep.

‘
I replied
, Do you think I am unfortunate, blind, or worse, cheap enough to be lured and bought with trinkets; little better than a prostitute?

‘Caro was careful enough to not incriminate herself on what I understood she insinuated. She said:
These are your words, Christine.

‘I pretended composure, held back an avalanche of tears and in a lowered voiced said:
Isn’t this what you meant?

‘Caro couldn’t resist
. It didn’t cross my mind that you have compromised yourself, your husband certainly has, but I don’t judge you. I don’t suggest for one moment you contributed to the situation you find yourself in.

‘Her words, though well-intended, were getting me down.
You must think I’m a fool. I wonder why I dragged you into this conversation about my husband who is a monster and who I have no intention of leaving.

‘As I said, I don’t judge you, but I feel for you.

‘Although I pressed Caro for more of her commentary she appeared to have lost interest in Richard. She dismissed him and what I suspect she thought about my miserable existence without further comment.

‘She said,
I’ve already said too much.

‘Before she left the hospital we had coffee at the cafeteria. I asked her about her trip; neither of us mentioned that earlier conversation. I wished her well and have not seen her since. I still to this day can’t forget what she said.’

I wonder at my sister’s plight. Was she an unfortunate victim dazzled by this man? Did she lack enough substance that she jumped at the chance to secure a match that would ensure status and a privileged existence? Did she fall for a wickedly attractive man who is irresistible to women? Was he also a victim? Did he become saturated by the attention woman threw at him resulting in him becoming vain, faithless and promiscuous?

‘He must have something going for him. You found him attractive.’

‘And he still is – for a short guy.’

‘Then he hasn’t changed that much since we met?’

‘His abundant mane of greying hair gives him that distinguished look some men get as they age. The last time I saw him he’d coloured it blonde. I don’t like it at all. He’s clean-cut and maintains a fitness program that’s prevented him from running to fat. I’d say he’s attractive. A girl could do a lot worse.’

‘Is this all you can think he has to his credit, apart from him providing you with a comfortable existence?’

‘I can’t reduce his worth to a set of clinical descriptors. My world buzzed, leapt to new life when he entered it. Despite his moods, outbursts and faithlessness, for me our marriage did not lose its gloss for a long-time.’

‘Is this how you still feel about him?’

‘I despise him. I’ve despised the scoundrel for a long time. I guess, in the past, I forbade myself to think such thoughts. This was the only way I could continue living the unfortunate story I created. Caro certainly left me with something to think about, a chance to explode the myth I clung to until I no longer had a choice. At least until Richard made the choice for me.’

She accepted a life of bondage and self-sabotage. She allowed herself to fall into a frightening and distorted world largely of her own creation. This reality became normal to her. Anyone looking into
the glasshouse Christine became trapped in would see a dark and horrible place. She had become a shrunken miniature, a painted figurine, a child’s toy. Now she must shed a life of semi-existence, leave all traces of her former life behind, and abandon the bottle.

She seems lost in her own thoughts, playing with the meal in front of her.

She looks up. ‘Can you repeat that? You did say something, didn’t you?’

‘No – I didn’t.’

She isn’t aware that I walked to the bar and ordered two orange juices. I doubt she realises she has drained two glasses of fruit juice without noticing their lack of alcohol.

Christine returns to work after a few days off. Our search for a new home is disappointing. She is prepared to accept an apartment as this is all her current finances can afford. Legal proceedings grind on at a glacial pace and she fears that her costs are galloping away from her budget. Real estate agents in their usual form talk rental properties up and this leads to disappointment when we visit these places. I assure her I will continue to search while she is at work. I promise not to make a decision without her seeing and approving of a property.

But I delay today’s search, open the street directory and consider whether to chance searching for properties in adjoining suburbs to the ones Christine has selected. I stare into a half-full, half-warm coffee I’ve made to stall for time, to avoid continuing the search.

When she returns from work I have nothing of note to tell her, only that I have investigated other suburbs and have found nothing that would interest her, except that the rents are more within her reach. She groans. I change the subject. ‘How was your day?’