After the Fall (18 page)

LUKE
•

Sometime over that summer Kate had mentioned that Cary wanted to start a family. At the time I didn’t pay much attention.

“Well, he’s older than me, I guess,” I told her. “And you’re past thirty. I suppose he thinks you ought to get going.”

We were in bed, a borrowed beach house somewhere on one of those stolen weekends. Even now if I try all I can remember is that room: an old iron bedstead, bare boards, blue-and-white curtains. We must have gotten up at some stage, maybe even ventured outside, but if we did I have no recollection of it. Just Kate in bed, her body dark against the white sheets.

She pulled a face. “You saw thirty longer ago than I did, and I don’t notice you rushing to procreate.”

I rolled over, burying my face in her hair.

“No need. I can still fire one off in my dotage.”

Children were such a foreign concept that I wondered vaguely if I would even have done so by then. Kate sighed and I pulled her to me. My mouth sought her throat and I felt her words before hearing them.

“But he’s serious, Luke. He wants me knocked up tomorrow, a baby before next year.” When I continued to kiss her she went on sarcastically, “You needn’t panic. I’m still on the pill.”

“Good,” I’d said, or something like that. “Let’s put it to some use then.” I pulled down the sheet that separated us. Her nipples glanced up at me like dark eyes, alert and inquisitive, and I felt my breath catch at the back of my throat. She reached for me as if we hadn’t made love in years, and I responded as though it had been longer.

It was only later, driving home alone, that I reflected on her words. Leaving Kate was always a wrench, and the longer we’d spent together, the worse it felt. After an entire weekend to ourselves I was depressed and negative. Why had she brought that up? Should I have questioned her more? Maybe she was trying to tell me that she wanted children. Even as I thought it I rejected the idea. Kate didn’t play games; it was one of the things that had first attracted me to her. If there was something on her mind she’d have made sure I knew.

Still, though, a baby. The idea was terrifying, but more than that, abhorrent. I had no paternal urges of my own, but the thought of another man’s child growing inside her made me want to retch. I’d loved her for a long time, maybe even from that day at the lake. At first I’d assumed it was just lust—there had been plenty of other women I couldn’t stop thinking about, at least until I’d slept with them. Usually, desire waned with conquest, a little more erased on each occasion. Even with Cress, I had to admit, though that was different because she was my wife. Now, for the first time in my life, the inverse was taking place. The more I saw of Kate, the more I wanted her. And not just wanted: loved, even needed. What else could explain the emptiness I now felt? If anyone was going to impregnate Kate it should be me.

As the miles slid by I had a vision of how things would be. If you’d asked me previously I would have argued that Kate was too vibrant to be tied down by motherhood, yet suddenly I saw us all some years hence. Or rather I saw them: Kate sitting on the top step of a porch, a baby in her lap and a toddler standing beside them, his arms flung around her neck. Instinctively I knew the children were mine: they were blond, and the older was calling out to me to hurry up and take the photo. I basked in the image for the remainder of the journey, so clear I couldn’t believe I hadn’t already lived it. The high-pitched voice calling out, “Daddy!”; Kate smiling and calm as she talked to our son; the flaxen down covering the baby’s head. And me just out of the shot, focusing a fictitious camera on the fictitious scene, proud and happy as I captured a moment that had never occurred.

•

The vision returned to me as I considered Kate’s ultimatum.

A week or so before she’d called me at work, something she never did.

“I have to speak to you. Today.”

Her voice was taut and brittle, like freshly set ice.

“Now?” I asked. I’d seen her only the evening before, when I’d offered her a lift home from the museum. We managed such a thing once or twice a week, always careful to take backstreets and for Kate to get out at least two blocks shy of her house. She’d said something about wanting to talk then, but we’d ended up making love instead under cover of the early dusk, our bodies craning toward each other before she’d even unfastened her seat belt.

“No. The others will be back from lunch any moment. Plus I need to see your face.”

Her words worried me as I waited for a tram to the museum two hours later. What could be so urgent that it demanded such precipitate attention? Scenarios flashed through my mind, each more frightening than the last. She’d gotten cold feet, was tired of the whole thing. Cary had found out and was threatening to kill us both. Or—and this in a rush of horror as I boarded the overdue tram—she was pregnant. By me or him, it didn’t really matter. Melbourne slouched by unnoticed outside my window as the tram crept along Nicholson Street, past the Carlton Gardens and toward the museum. Fuck. She was on the pill, wasn’t she? But if she was pregnant what the hell were we going to do? If it was mine things would be complicated enough, though not without some compensations. But if it was Cary’s … I shuddered. Would she even want to keep it? Surely not, though I didn’t know the first thing about arranging an abortion.

I’d suggested we meet at a pub near Kate’s office, the same one she had taken me to the first time I’d approached her after the trivia night. I’d hoped the nostalgia might work in my favor, but when I arrived alone the place felt alien, part of somebody else’s life. Three o’clock: an unusual hour for us to be convening. I had to be back at four for a meeting.

Kate showed up a few minutes later. From my seat in the corner, I watched her scanning the half-empty room until she found what she was looking for. Cressida’s gaze would have moved methodically from one table to the next; Kate’s roamed randomly until alighting on me in delight. Despite my fears I couldn’t help but smile. There would never be a time when I wasn’t pleased to see her.

“So,” she said, sitting down without kissing me. That was usual in public, but when I reached for her hand she drew away. That wasn’t.

“Do you want a drink?” I asked.

“I have to go back to work, and so do you. Besides, I’m so nervous that I’d probably spill it.”

“Nervous?” I inquired encouragingly, as if I weren’t scared half out of my wits myself.

She stared down at her hands spread out on the table, dusting powder trapped under the nails.

“Luke,” she said finally, looking up. “You have to choose. Me or her. You’ve got three weeks.”

•

Is it a terrible thing to admit that my initial reaction was elation—that she wasn’t pregnant, that Cary hadn’t found out? No outside variables intruded; the situation as far as I saw it hadn’t really altered. It was only later, despairing of the trams and walking back to work, that I began to realize that she was serious. I hadn’t responded at the time. Kate had started crying and I was too worried that someone might see us to take in the full impact of her words.

“Three weeks,” she’d repeated between sobs. “I can’t do this anymore. I want to be with you … or even him … but not both. I’m sick of creeping around to see you and I’m sick of deceiving Cary.”

Three weeks. As I trudged back through the darkening afternoon the two words repeated themselves over and over, like a jingle I couldn’t get out of my mind. Things were perfect the way they were—why did she want to change them? Three weeks. It dawned on me that we wouldn’t yet know the outcome of Cressida’s application by then, something Kate had no doubt taken into account.

The next days were dreadful. At home, I’d find myself studying Cress, evaluating her faults and weaknesses, trying to assess which way to jump. Once or twice I found myself in front of our wedding photos, ranged across the mantelpiece like trophies, hung above our bed as a talisman. I looked content and confident, as if I’d passed some complicated examination. Cress was damp-eyed and pale, made somber by her joy. My pride still swelled at what an attractive couple we made. And if I’m honest, part of my reluctance to make a decision had to do with not wanting to appear to have failed; a marriage breakup, no matter the reason, is always a failure. I didn’t want to be the guilty party either—I’d never been the bad guy before. But then, turning away, I’d catch that glimpse of Kate cradling our children on an imaginary veranda. I had to give up one picture, and I couldn’t decide which.

I didn’t make up my mind straightaway. Three weeks I had, and it took me almost all of them. Give me credit for that, at least.

KATE
•

I didn’t think it could happen. Stupidly, I thought he’d choose me. I was
sure
he’d choose me, or else I don’t imagine I would have given him the ultimatum. I suppose I always knew that there was a chance it might backfire, but the odds seemed so remote, the payoff so great. Every time we slept together Luke would hold me and whisper that he never wanted to leave; once we talked about marriage and he vowed that he’d propose in a heartbeat if the situation ever arose.
If
. What did he think was going to happen? That Cressida would be struck down by typhoid? That Cary would gallantly step aside, conveniently leaving us free to wed? Situations don’t arise; you create them. Luke must have told me he loved me a thousand times in our six months together, must have risked his marriage at least half as many times to meet me or call or make contact somehow. Why then choose that marriage? Everything he’d said and done—the risks, the vows, the meetings—implied that
I
was the one. Evidently not.

The news came by e-mail. An innocuous-looking one at that, materializing in my in-box with a chime, the subject line blank so as not to arouse suspicion. I opened it almost absentmindedly, concentrating instead on the spreadsheet in front of me. For almost three empty weeks I had thought of little but Luke and the ultimatum I’d given him: sleepless at night, anxious by day. Once or twice I had even allowed myself to daydream about how he’d break the good news: arriving with champagne at work, maybe presenting me with a ring at one of our trysts. I didn’t think of Cary. I’d deal with that later. Then this, when I was least expecting it, turning later into now.

Dearest Kate
,

I’m sorry but I just can’t do this. Too many people are going to get hurt, ourselves included. Cress doesn’t deserve it and neither does Cary. Can we make ourselves a life by destroying theirs?

I still want to see you. I don’t want anything to change. At least let me talk to you
.

I love you more than ever
.

Luke

Someone at a nearby desk must have seen my face.

“Are you okay, Kate?” I heard them ask. “You’ve gone all pale.”

“I think I’ll go home,” I replied, my voice automatic, the rest of me numb. “I’m feeling a bit sick.” I’d barely stood up from my desk when the nausea hit, vomit splashing to the carpet where we’d once made love.

CRESSIDA
•

I didn’t think it could happen. I never even suspected. Sure, we’d been distant, but I blamed myself for that, always at work or in front of the computer doing research. Still, I thought Luke understood. Whenever things felt particularly strained I’d reassure myself that it was only temporary—once the fellowship came through I could relax, and we could begin planning a whole new life together. Admittedly, Luke didn’t seem as excited about the idea of moving overseas as he’d been when I first brought it up, but I figured he was trying to prevent me from getting my hopes up. Too late for that. For the last month or two all I’d thought about was Michigan. I hadn’t told Luke, but I’d been in regular contact with the hospital where I hoped to do my research. They seemed as excited about it as I was, and had even started sending me practical information: how to apply for a U.S. driver’s license, a guide to the neighborhoods around the hospital. Late at night, when Luke was asleep or out with friends, I’d begun to haunt the local real estate Web sites. The houses intrigued me. Shaker style, nestled close to the lake, all clean, straight lines and minimal trimmings. Our own home in Melbourne seemed suddenly fussy, full of overstuffed furniture and outdated accoutrements. I yearned to start afresh with my life pared down to its basics: just Luke, my work, and a square white house as fresh and simple as a child’s drawing.

So when the news came, a few days earlier than expected, I wasn’t so much excited as relieved. Oh, I was pleased and happy enough, but mostly I just felt vindicated. I’d planned to be successful, and hadn’t allowed myself to consider the alternatives. Now I didn’t have to. This was a dream that was going to come true. Impulsively, I decided to tell Luke in person, start our new life off on the right foot. No more late nights or early starts. No more pager or weekend shifts, plus the excitement of all the travel we’d be able to do! He was bound to be thrilled.

I’d hoped to duck out in my hypothetical lunch hour, but as usual a ward round ran late and then a parent needed to speak to me urgently. By the time I could carve out a quick half hour it was late afternoon. I thought of calling Luke before I left for his office, but then decided to make it a surprise. Given the time of day, he was sure to be in—and if he was in a meeting, well, he could always pop out for five minutes, couldn’t he? I wanted to see him anyway to make sure he was all right. The evening before he had had a migraine and had resorted to tablets to sleep. All through dinner I had watched it coming on, like a thundercloud rolling across the horizon. He’d barely talked, couldn’t eat, was almost teary with the pain. At times he’d buried his head in his hands and groaned until I could stand it no more and had put him to bed, then returned to my Internet meanderings. As I tucked him in I had vaguely wondered what had triggered this attack. Maybe he was as nervous as I was about the fellowship results. The thought made me tender and I kissed him lightly on the forehead before leaving the room. Hours later when I joined him in bed he was lying in the same position, deeply asleep and as lost to me as if he were dead.

Surprisingly, Luke wasn’t in. His secretary had no more idea of his whereabouts than I did, but knew who I was and invited me to wait in his office. I seated myself opposite the desk, then, feeling self-conscious, rose again and wandered aimlessly around the room. It was a largely impersonal area. Two awards he had won for some forgotten campaign hung on one wall; a small copy of my graduation photograph lurked discreetly in a corner of the bookcase. On the desk was the pen I’d given him for his thirtieth birthday, still shiny four years on, the cap tight with disuse. A yellowing peace lily perched on the windowsill, slowly dying of dehydration. I moved toward the flaccid plant, intending to take it out for some water, when a flash in the street two floors below caught my eye. Luke, of course, his hair radiant as a halo, four or five doors down from the entrance to the building. I raised my hand to knock on the glass, then realized he wasn’t alone. Kate was walking beside him, their steps reluctant as they came into view. No sooner had I spotted them than they stopped, disturbing the flow of pedestrians. Luke steered Kate to the side of the walkway, then reached out to tuck a strand of her hair behind one ear. I saw him take her hands. Saw him glance furtively around, then lean in and kiss her. But not the kiss of friends or even the sort I’d witnessed at that wedding—this was the embrace of people who have been intimate many times and who know what they are doing. A kiss with history. I shrank back against the desk, afraid to see any more. Later I realized that Kate had been crying, but by then it didn’t matter.