The Mothers' Group (35 page)

‘I don't want to go back to work next month,' she announced, staring at the tablecloth. She'd taken a full year of maternity leave, and a further eight weeks of accrued annual leave.

Robert's mouth opened in surprise. ‘But . . . you haven't got any more paid leave. And you're better now. I thought you wanted your old life back.'

‘I do. I mean, I did.' She sighed. ‘It's complicated.'

With the help of her psychiatrist, medication, and the PND support group, she was feeling a lot better about life, about mothering. It was as if she'd been given a second chance, and that was precisely the issue. Now that she'd been given her life back, she didn't want to spend it at work.

‘Rob, I feel like I'm only starting to be a proper mum now,' she began. ‘I'm actually starting to
enjoy
Heidi. I don't want to rush back to work and miss out on her first years.' She looked out the kitchen window, at the vegetable patch they'd just planted. ‘Heidi's only young once. Who knows what the future will bring? We only get one chance. Astrid's shown me that. I don't want to have any regrets.' Pippa stared at the kitchen table. ‘I know it's not what we agreed. I know we're treading water financially. I'll go back to work if you say so.' The possibility brought tears to her eyes.

‘We'll make ends meet,' he said, reaching across the table for her hand. ‘Call your work tomorrow. Explain the situation. Tell them about the surgery, about Astrid. They don't know any of it, do they?'

She shook her head.

‘Ask them if they'll extend your leave again. If they say no, we'll find a way around it.' He squeezed her hand. ‘You deserve a second crack at motherhood.'

Against all odds, her work agreed to a further six months of unpaid leave.

Life felt new again, as though blinding scales had been sloughed from her eyes. Suddenly she saw it all. The incredible beauty of Heidi asleep, translucent lids twitching as she dreamed. The intense physicality of Heidi awake, striving to master her own body and the world around her. The breathtaking power of her smile, the beauty of her tiny fingers exploring tinier spaces. The crushing pain of separation from Heidi, outstripped only by the pleasure of reunion. She could smell Heidi, taste her, feel her embedded within her being. Only death could separate them, and that prospect was unbearable.

She remembered the early months of Heidi's life, when every aspect of her own life seemed barren, when nothing had felt right or normal. Now, it felt entirely natural that she should seek the best for Heidi. Pippa wasn't religious, but she suddenly recalled the biblical message she'd had drummed into her at school all those years before:
For God so loved the
world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall
not perish but have eternal life.
It was only now, as a mother, that the concept held any potency. If there was in fact a God, she mused, it seemed entirely befitting that He was a parent. What else could divine love be, if not parental? A love so fierce, so willingly sacrificial, so self-abasing and abiding? The love between adults, siblings or friends all paled into insignificance compared to parental love. She'd do anything to prevent pain in Heidi's life. Only a superhuman force could allow their child to suffer for the benefit of others.

When she looked at Heidi now, she felt as if she'd discovered life's true meaning. She shuddered to think of the hell she'd once experienced, standing alone next to Heidi's cot, listening to her scream. She didn't know how, she didn't know why, but somehow she had been delivered from that dark place. By grace, it seemed, for it wasn't of her own doing. By Astrid, perhaps. And she wanted to acknowledge that somehow.

She gravitated towards Made, seeking out her company on Friday mornings, in place of their usual mothers' group meetings. Suzie sometimes came, Ginie never did. More than two months after Astrid's death, she finally asked the question that had been lingering in her mind.

‘Made, when you visited me in hospital, you brought some flowers in a woven container,' she began.

Made nodded.

‘It had incense and other things in it. What was it?'

Made looked apologetic. ‘I hope you not mind,' she began. ‘It is Hindu offering for healing. You not like?'

‘No, no,' said Pippa. ‘It was beautiful, I still have it. In fact, I wondered if you might be able to help me.' She blushed. ‘I'm not a Hindu, but . . . I'd like to give thanks for my healing, for Heidi. And to pray for Astrid and Cara. Could I ask you to help me do that?' She wasn't entirely sure what she was asking.

Made smiled. ‘You come next week to my house. We make prayers together.'

And so it was that Pippa found herself in Made's backyard, a batik sarong wrapped around her waist, holding an offering in her hands. She followed Made's directions and placed the basket on the shrine. Incense billowed around her as she gazed up at the parasol, its tassels dangling in the breeze.

Made rang a small silver bell three times and brought her hands together in the prayer position. The chiming petered into silence and, suddenly, there was no sound at all. Not a breath of wind rustling in the leaves, no birds twittering in branches, no distant hum of suburban traffic. Pippa closed her eyes, submitting herself to the emptiness.

An image of Astrid and Cara emerged from the darkness. Goosebumps crept across the backs of her arms. A small white bird darted across the canvas of her mind and ferried Astrid up, up, into an endless blue sky. The image of Cara remained, her face twisted in anguish. A warm orb of light descended from the same sky, hovering over Cara, nursing her gently in her grief.

Pippa couldn't tell how long she spent in that place. Eventually, the image of Cara faded. As Pippa breathed in and out, she felt every part of her being release. All the despair of the past year seemed to drain from her body. Her heart felt light and warm. She was grateful beyond words.

Heidi gave a sudden shriek. Pippa opened her eyes with a start. The moment was broken, but perfect nonetheless. Heidi was waving her pudgy fists in the air and grinning.

Pippa grinned back.

Made rang her silver bell three times again, then opened her eyes and stood up. She brushed a stray gum leaf from her sarong.

‘We visit Cara,' she said. ‘The ancestors tell me.'

Pippa nodded. ‘It felt like that for me too. Cara and Astrid were right there in front of me. Thank you, Made, for praying with me.'

Made shook her head. ‘No, you no understand. We make visit to Cara soon. It right thing to do, ancestors say.'

Pippa swallowed. The idea of seeing Cara was too painful for words, but looking into Made's face, she knew it was the right thing to do.

Cara

Cara awoke with a start to the sound of crying. Her own, or Astrid's? She couldn't be sure. Disoriented, she pulled at the cord dangling above her head. The blind whizzed upwards with a speed that jarred. Light filtered through the heavy green vines that grew along the trellis beyond their bedroom window. Dust motes swirled in patches of pale winter sunlight. It was early afternoon, she guessed.

A bunch of lilies, delivered the day before, were arranged in a vase on her bedside table. Bulbous crimson stamens jutted from yellow throats. Their pungent, musky odour was almost sexual. She'd disposed of the card just as soon as she'd read it, but she couldn't remember why. She sat up in bed and listened for noises from Astrid's room, but heard nothing.

And then it hit her. The crushing awareness, storming through the tranquillising fog of her prescription sedatives. No sounds of crying or laughter from Astrid's bedroom now. No use for the jumpsuits and tiny dresses still neatly folded in drawers, untouched. No wayward hairclips in the bathtub, stuffed toys in the car, dolls' houses or finger puppets. The one she loved most in the world, her shining star, was dead.

She lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. The medication had done something to her tears. It was August; Astrid had only been gone three months and yet she couldn't cry as much. But the desolate feeling was still there; it always would be. The creeping, agonising consciousness of Astrid's lonely death in a dirty dam and her own flippant ignorance as it happened. The endless imaginings of Astrid's final moments: the struggle for air where there was only water; arms reaching for an outstretched hand; confusion, perhaps—then nothing.

Cara's only respite was the numb haze of sedated sleep.

Her eyes wandered to the lilies again. Those flowers are from Ravi, she thought suddenly. Yes, Ravi had sent her flowers every week for the last three months, ever since it happened. Richard had said nothing, dutifully delivering them to her bedside. Hoping, perhaps, that she would stand up from her bed to accept them. Watching silently as she tore the card into tiny pieces.

Richard was racked with grief himself, that was clear. His eyes were dull, his face lined, his shoulders stooped. And yet he never failed to bring her three meals a day, leave a newspaper at the foot of her bed, or ask her how she was feeling. Every morning, he would climb the stairs to the bedroom they used to share, open the door and arrange his face into a smile.

‘Nice day,' he'd say, or some other banality.

Ignoring her silence, he would potter about the room. Opening blinds and windows, removing the previous night's dinner dishes, laying out a fresh change of clothes.

‘Well, I'm off to work,' he'd announce, when there was nothing else to say. Then he would bend down and kiss her cheek. The mild scent of his aftershave reminded her of her grandfather.

Despite her silence, he'd turn at the door. ‘Call me if you need me, Cara.'

And she would nod, though they both knew she never would.

He was a gentleman, Richard, even in tragedy. Why had she failed to recognise this before her world imploded? Why had she harboured useless fantasies of a life without him? It was something she would never truly understand, or forgive, of herself.

*

She'd thought she'd finished with Ravi on his wedding day.

The foyer of the university's Great Hall was filled with familiar-looking people she couldn't quite place. One even greeted her like an old friend.

‘Cara!' the woman gushed, thrusting an order of service into her hand.

‘You look fantastic! My God, how long's it been?'

Cara searched the wide blue eyes for some relic of her student past.

‘Too long,' she replied. ‘You look lovely yourself.' She peered into the chapel. ‘Which side's the groom's?'

‘Oh, you know Ravi,' said the woman affectionately. ‘There
are
no sides. Sit wherever you'd like.'

‘Right,' Cara replied. ‘We'll catch up later then?'

But the woman was already ushering other guests over the timber threshold and into the hall's darkened interior.

You know Ravi.

Cara was conscious of the clicking of her heels over the black and white marble. Guests sat on wooden benches arranged in rows, like church pews, talking in hushed voices. A large table was positioned on the far side of the hall, draped in purple bunting. Four solid white candles, each festooned with braided marigolds, rested on top. An Indian touch, at odds with the Westminster-style pipe organ that towered above them.

Clutching her handbag, Cara walked along the red carpeted aisle, glancing around for a seat. For a moment she imagined, in spite of herself, traversing its length as Ravi's bride. She turned into a row and squeezed past several other guests.

‘Excuse me,' she whispered, careful to catch no one's eye.

She sat down heavily. Sweat was beginning to trickle from her armpits, staining the delicate fabric of her dress. She closed her eyes, concentrating on her breathing.
It's just like any other wedding.

The murmuring of guests subsided as the opening bars of Pachelbel's Canon echoed around the hall. Cara turned to see a string quartet tucked in a corner near the door. How very traditional; how unlike Ravi. A lot must have changed in a year.

Several figures had emerged at the front of the hall and were loitering beyond the reaches of the candlelight. She strained to see the tallest figure. It was Ravi; his profile was unmistakable. He appeared to be talking to a man in long robes, an officiating celebrant of some description. Then suddenly Ravi stepped into the light, flashing an exuberant smile. Cara's stomach somersaulted, as it always had, at the sight of that smile. Flawless white teeth against soft olive skin, hazel eyes laughing at some private joke. He held himself with the same air of quiet confidence she'd always admired, a combination of heritage, humility and sheer hard work. After all this time, he was still her Ravi.

Her heart sank as the music grew louder and a spear of daylight illuminated the carpeted aisle.
Here comes the bride.
The guests rose from their seats with a collective shuffle. Cara craned her neck to see the object of Ravi's devotion.

She was graceful, that was for sure. Fine-featured, diminutive, like a ballet dancer. Her lace gown clung naturally to her, like lichen on a slender tree. Her hair was caramel-coloured, not unlike Cara's, pinned in a classic French twist. Cara held her breath as she passed, unable to fault her. The sighs of admiration were nauseating.

The service was surprisingly old school: a marriage liturgy adapted from the Book of Common Prayer, interspersed with several poetry readings and a token reference to the Hindu Upanishads. A bland instrumental piece marked the signing of the register before the celebrant turned to offer his final, formulaic pronouncement.

‘Friends, I proudly pronounce Ravi and Tess . . . man and wife.'

Spontaneous applause rippled through the crowd. The couple smiled at one another and moved together for a long, lingering kiss. Cara winced as someone behind her wolf-whistled.

And then they were walking down the aisle together, hands swinging like happy children.