The Bit In Between (16 page)

‘She said seriously, you need to find a husband because you're getting old,' Sera translated.

Dorothy smiled to herself and drew on her pipe.

When Dorothy was very small, her mother sat her down and held her hand as they inked the tattoos into her cheeks using sharpened bone to pierce the skin and pigment for the colour. Then, when she was still a little girl, too young to remember how old, there was suddenly war all around them and they fled to the hills to escape the bombs and the blood that stained the sand. And that's where they hid until hiding wasn't possible, and somehow – she couldn't remember how – her parents had been killed and she'd found herself sheltering near an Allied base. That was when she met her first white person. Lucille was a nurse, an Australian, who had a kind smile and promised Dorothy she would take her back to Sydney with her so she could learn English and go to school. But then Lucille was re-stationed and Dorothy found family to look after her and by the time the war had finished Dorothy had forgotten all the English Lucille had taught her, though she never forgot the Australian woman's promise, no matter how hard she tried to put it out of her mind. Lucille searched for Dorothy as best she could from her home on the other side of the ocean, but by the time her letter finally arrived, it was too late. Dorothy was already married and pregnant, so she let this dream go for another lifetime.

It was late by the time Alison was ready to go home, so Sera offered to drive her in Aunty Patti's jeep. As they drove through the quiet streets of Honiara, Sera kept stealing glances at Alison then turning quickly back to the road. Finally Alison could take it no more.

‘What?'

Sera adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. ‘Can I tell you a secret?'

‘You'll have to kill me afterwards,' Alison replied.

Sera's face fell. ‘What?'

‘Never mind. Joke . . . go on.'

‘You know this baby?'

‘I remember it vaguely.'

‘Well, now there's two.'

Alison glanced over at her. ‘What?'

‘Two babies.'

‘Twins?'

Sera nodded.

‘And this is exciting, right?'

Sera looked at the road ahead.

‘Right?'

‘Yes, but . . .'

‘But what?'

Sera breathed in. ‘It's going to hurt twice as much, isn't it?'

Alison shrugged. ‘Maybe. Or maybe the first one will, you know, clear the path for the next one.'

‘You think so?'

‘Sure. You won't even notice it. You'll be like “oh, look, a baby”, and then the other one will just shoot out after it.'

Sera giggled. ‘Have you ever seen someone give birth before?'

Alison made a face. ‘No, I have not.'

‘Will you still be there with me?'

‘For twice as long.'

They pulled up outside the little blue house.

‘Also something else.'

‘What?'

‘I spoke to my husband, and he has found us a space in one of the government buildings, so when women come to us for help they will know where to find us. It came up unexpectedly, but it's ours.'

Alison grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘That's exactly what we need. Our own office.'

Sera grinned back.

‘Do you want to come in and say hi to Oliver? Tell him all the news?' Alison asked as she jumped down from her seat.

‘No, I need to get home to pee,' Sera replied, gritting her teeth comically. ‘Two times as much pee now.'

‘Fair enough! See you tomorrow for that delicious motu.' Alison waved.

Inside Oliver was tapping away at his laptop. He looked up as she entered.

‘Hey there. How was the motu-ing?'

‘Good,' Alison replied as she made a beeline for the fridge. ‘Any leftovers?'

‘Leftovers? Didn't you eat a whole lot of motu food?'

‘We're leaving it in there overnight and I'm going back tomorrow for lunch. You're invited if you want.' She stuffed a piece of bread into her mouth. ‘How's the writing? Anything award-worthy?'

‘You know it always is.'

‘Will you thank me in your acceptance speeches?'

‘You and you alone.'

‘Excellent.' Alison kicked off her sandals then threw herself down on the couch and stretched out. ‘Hey, guess what?' She paused.

Oliver looked over. ‘What? You actually want me to guess?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well then, let me think . . .' Oliver scratched his head. ‘Hmmmm . . .'

‘Okay, enough, that's annoying. Soooooo . . .' Alison said, making a drumming noise on her thighs. ‘Sera is pregnant with twins!' She looked excitedly at Oliver. ‘And Peter found us somewhere to work from.'

Oliver made a peculiar sound, as if he was choking, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Alison frowned. ‘What's the matter?'

‘I think I did this.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘I don't know how to explain it, but I did this. The twins. And the office. I made them happen.'

Alison looked at him blankly.

‘Mary. I made her pregnant with twins.'

Alison gave him a strange look. ‘I'm assuming you mean Mary from your book? Because if you don't . . .'

‘Yes, Mary from my book. I gave her twins. And now Sera has twins. I made this happen. And the office. I wrote this and it happened.'

‘Well, it's been a very productive week for you then,' Alison grinned.

Oliver gave her a hard look. ‘I mean it. Listen to me. I made the twins happen. And the office. I did it. I wrote it because I wanted it to happen and it did.'

Alison watched him for a moment and then burst into laughter.

‘What do you want me to believe? That you're some kind of conductor directing our lives? Oliver, this is the real world. It doesn't work like that. Yeah, it's a crazy coincidence, but come on.'

‘I'm serious, Alison. The mugging, the twins, the office – I wrote all these things before they happened.' He left out the part about Jasmine's separation, but he hadn't forgotten it.

‘So you're a psychic! Great! I'm sure you could do a ripper trade among the gullible housewives here.'

‘Alison, look, I realise how mental this sounds –'

‘Yes. Yes, it does sound mental. Oliver, this is the real world.'

‘Well, how do you explain it then?'

Alison sighed loudly.

‘How?' he repeated.

‘I can't. And I don't need to. It's a coincidence, Ollie. A crazy coincidence.'

Oliver didn't reply.

Oliver had lain awake late into the night, his head buzzing. Twins. He had written it and it had happened. In a way he'd kind of created life. He gave himself a small mental pat on the back, secretly chuffed by his apparent literary virility. Of course it wasn't true. How could it be? And yet it had happened. Multiple times. For a tiny moment Oliver felt himself buzzing with the power of something he didn't quite understand but which thrilled and chilled him simultaneously. But then the real world came flooding back and he knew it couldn't be true. Could it? Things were spinning and he wished they wouldn't, and more than anything he wished he could prove this was happening. What he needed was evidence, something that couldn't be put down to chance or coincidence. He needed proof.

The next morning the sun struggled to rise, curtained by grey uninspiring storm clouds. Oliver lay on his side staring out the window, opening and closing alternate eyes, watching two similar but fractured worlds dance before him. If he looked through his left eye, he saw the world as he knew it. Through his right he saw a world almost perfectly identical, but with the slightest degree of difference. He wondered which world he should choose that day. Or, a tiny voice whispered, which he should create. He heard a strangled snuffling noise as Alison rolled over beside him. Her eyes fluttered open and she snuggled into his chest.

‘What's the time?' she mumbled.

‘Early.'

‘Good.' She snuggled closer.

Oliver smiled. He enjoyed this time spent alone together in bed, the words and the silences that created a small, private nation of two. Together they built a garrison of stories and memories that would shelter them from the outside world until work or hunger or the tropical heat forced them out of bed.

He thought about the day ahead, about the unbelievable things he would try to make happen.

Alison poked him in the chest. ‘What are you thinking about? You're frowning.'

Oliver blinked. ‘Nothing.'

‘Actually nothing? Because normally when guys say “nothing” they mean “nothing I want to tell you about.
”
'

‘Nothing I want to tell you about.' Oliver smiled and kissed her forehead.

She leant back and closed her eyes. During his sleepless hours, Oliver's thoughts had moved from the twins, to the mugging, to Jasmine's separation. They had lingered for a moment until Oliver glanced across the pillow at Alison's face lit up by the moon, and he realised for the first time that he didn't need Jasmine anymore. He didn't want her anymore. He had done the impossible. He had moved on.

He watched Alison now as she opened her eyes.

‘You look tired,' she said, touching the skin beneath his eyes with her fingers.

‘I couldn't sleep,' he confessed. ‘I was thinking about the book and, you know, the coincidences.'

Alison pulled away from him. ‘You're not still thinking about that, are you? You know it isn't real.'

She sighed heavily, a sign she was readying to argue. ‘You know what your problem is?'

‘Small hands.'

‘You – what?' She paused, thrown.

‘Small hands. Makes it hard to play the piano.'

Alison gave him a confused look.

‘I'm disarming you,' Oliver explained. ‘See how I'm distracting you from your argument?'

‘You're what . . ?' she trailed off and then gave a small smile that quickly spread across her face. She let out a short burst of laughter and then buried her face in the pillow.

‘You're such a dork,' she complained, her voice muffled.

He smiled, but his heart had started beating loudly and
dangerously in his ears and he felt a wave of light-headed
nausea pass through him, and in that moment Oliver
knew – he
knew
 – that one day, maybe not today, but one day, she would leave him.

They weren't due at Sera's aunt's for another hour, so while Alison showered, Oliver got up to write. He looked at where he'd left off the day before. Mary had just announced that she was carrying twins. Twins. Oliver chewed a finger and considered this. He knew it was ridiculous, but at the same time it was also happening. That was the ­undeniable thing: it was actually happening. A part of him was rolling its eyes and teasing him for suggesting that he was in some way controlling the events unfolding around him, but there was also a much louder part that had drawn a diagram showing all the crucial plot points and could do nothing but point at the constant coincidences. What if? this part of him kept saying. I know it's nuts but what if? He wanted to shush this part of himself but really, it had a point. What if?

Oliver had always been sensible. He didn't believe in ghosts. He wasn't superstitious. He didn't have any magic words or special socks or regular rituals. But he wasn't stupid, either, and he knew that closed-mindedness was always more of a detriment than a value. He stared into space for a moment, lost in a world of possibility and inevitability and irrationality. He needed something, something to make them both believe – himself and Alison – that this was actually happening. What would prove it beyond any doubt?

Alison bustled in and he angled the screen away from her.

‘Ollie, come on! We're late.'

He had a sudden idea and began typing furiously into the laptop. It wasn't great, but it would have to do. He'd fix it up later.

‘Ollie!'

He saved the document and pressed print. A single page fluttered out of the printer. Folding it hastily, he shoved it in his pocket.

‘Coming.'

Sera had instructed them to come at ten-thirty and Alison, knowing the tendency of Solomon Islanders to rarely run to schedule, had ensured they didn't arrive until a little after eleven. They were still too early and nothing was prepared. People were scurrying around the outside kitchen house getting in each other's way and laughing about it. Alison introduced everyone to Oliver and the younger cousins had giggled shyly, avoiding eye contact.

‘Oliver, can you find more chairs? My husband has invited some other whitefalas,' Sera called out from the kitchen house.

‘From where?'

‘Inside the house,' she called back.

This wasn't what Oliver meant but he climbed the stairs at the front of the house and went inside. Everyone was in the yard or outside in the kitchen house and Oliver felt awkward wandering through this unfamiliar empty house. The main living room was a large open space with a couple of old couches and a television. The walls were scattered with framed photos of family members posed happily together at weddings and graduations and beach picnics. Various beaded and knitted decorations hung down, reflecting bright vivid colours in the sun, and there was a large painting of the Solomon Islands on what Oliver realised was a giant turtle shell. There were no more chairs in this room, so Oliver kept searching.