False Advertising (21 page)

Helen slipped out through the door again.

‘Now, we'll have to get a move on,' said Trish. ‘We're meeting Kath and Bill at the club. You remember the Williamses, Gemma?'

She shrugged vaguely.

‘Of course you do,' said Trish, slipping her handbag over her shoulder. ‘They had that lovely boy, Jonathan, he was around your age. Dad and I used to secretly harbour hopes for the two of you. But he'd have been too staid and sensible for you, I'm afraid, Gemma.' Trish shook her head regretfully. ‘Anyway, Jon ended up in investment banking, married a delightful woman, a banker as well. You should see the house they got for themselves . . .' She mimed fanning herself with one hand. ‘Up in the Hills District. Nothing short of a mansion. And they've got two gorgeous little girls. And bright, you have no idea.'

Gemma's brain was going numb. ‘Mum, you don't want to keep the Williamses waiting.'

Trish glanced at her watch. ‘You're right, you're right. Come on, Gary. Is it okay for us to go back out through the house?'

‘Of course,' said Gemma, already holding the door open for them. Whatever will get you out of here the fastest.

Helen appeared to be deep in negotiations with the antique man, so they made their way out barely noticed. At the front door her mother paused. ‘Oh, and you must start making a list, Gemma. What do you have for the baby so far? What do you need?'

‘Mu-um . . .'

‘Don't “Mu-um” me, Gemma. I want to get some things for my grandchild; it's not a crime. Like you said, we can afford it.'

Touché. Her father leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek and a little squeeze. ‘We'll see you next week, Gemstone.'

And they were gone. Gemma stood leaning against the door-jamb, watching them hurry up the street. They would have had to park quite a way away, she imagined. She stood there long after they had disappeared around the corner. Then she realised she was still in her pyjamas and went back inside, closing the door.

*

Helen was sitting on the floor of the back room, propped against a wall, nursing a glass of wine. Phoebe regularly brought a bottle with her when she visited, but she only ever had a glass or two and left the rest; so there always seemed to be an open bottle in the fridge these days. It was nice to have a glass in the evening, after Noah had gone to bed. Helen had missed that. She gazed around the room. It looked a lot bigger, not surprisingly, now that almost everything had been cleared out of it. Even the lounge suite was gone. Helen hadn't planned to sell it, but it had become such a feeding frenzy yesterday that offers were being made on anything and everything that wasn't nailed down. But in the end Helen decided she didn't mind. She'd never liked that lounge anyway. It was a big, heavy, musty old thing, and it wasn't even all that comfortable any more. One of the dealers had made an offer she couldn't refuse, and he had promptly come back this morning with a flat-top truck to take the lot before she changed her mind. He'd also bought two of the glass cabinets and a couple of side tables. The ornaments had been snapped up in the first hour or two, much to the irritation of the people who had appointments later in the day. Helen had had to pack up all the Bakelite and put it somewhere out of sight, before anyone else saw it and started to haggle with her.

Sitting here now, in the empty room, Helen was feeling a range of emotions, not all of them entirely comfortable. Sure, she felt uncluttered and free of the past, to some degree. But a part of her felt a little guilty as well, as though she'd finally given up on her mother.

Gemma wandered into the room and smiled when she saw Helen. ‘What are you doing on the floor?'

‘There's not exactly anywhere else to sit.'

‘You have a point. Mind if I join you?'

‘Not at all, pull up a patch.'

Gemma lowered herself down and leaned her back against the wall opposite to where Helen was sitting. ‘So, you really cleaned up, eh?'

‘In more ways than one,' Helen smiled.

‘What are you going to do with all the loot? Apart from buy a new lounge.'

‘Mm, I guess I will have to buy a new lounge.' In an unexpectedly generous gesture, Tony had said he didn't want a share of any of the proceeds. He'd insisted, in fact. ‘With the rest I'm really going to spoil myself – buy food, pay bills, keep the wolves at bay.'

Gemma watched Helen take a sip of her wine. ‘Things are really that tight for you?'

She shrugged. ‘We'll survive.'

‘I suppose you'll have to go back to work soon?'

Helen looked at her.

‘Sorry,' said Gemma, ‘I was only thinking, if things are that tight . . .'

‘I can't leave Noah right now.' Helen was trying not to sound curt. ‘His dad's gone, he needs me around.'

Gemma nodded. ‘Of course.'

‘Besides, shiftwork is impossible with a small child, now I'm on my own.'

Gemma nodded again. ‘Fair enough.'

‘And maybe I've had enough of looking after people.' Helen didn't know where that came from, and why she was talking so much. Must be the wine.

‘It's been hard with your mum?' Gemma ventured tentatively.

Helen shrugged. ‘It's easier now that she's at Brookhaven. They're very good to her there; it's an excellent facility. It'd want to be,' she added, ‘considering what they charge.'

Gemma was thinking. ‘You know, maybe you're not charging me enough?' Helen went to interrupt but Gemma kept right on. ‘You do realise that if you were to let me use that room, I'd pay you more, you know. I don't expect to get it for nothing.'

Helen sighed. ‘You're really stuck on that idea, aren't you?'

‘I keep thinking it might get a bit cramped in one room when the baby comes,' said Gemma. ‘It's not the baby so much, it's all the gear I'm worried about, cots and prams and the rest. I don't want to leave stuff lying all around the place.'

‘This is your home too, Gemma. I don't want you to feel that you can't spread out further than your room.'

‘Thanks, but . . .' Gemma paused. ‘There's a whole empty room now.'

Helen was nodding. It made sense, of course, especially as Gemma had no way of knowing . . .

‘There's something I should tell you about that room,' said Helen.

‘You already told me,' Gemma reminded her. ‘I know your father died in there. But it really doesn't bother me. I mean, considering the age of this house, Helen, I doubt he was the first person to die here. Besides, I don't really know that I believe in spirits and all that.'

‘You don't believe in an afterlife?' Helen asked her.

Gemma was about to answer automatically with an unequivocal ‘no', but for once her sensitivity kicked in and she hesitated. The notion of an afterlife had to be incredibly reassuring to anyone who'd lost someone close to them, especially if they'd died suddenly and unexpectedly.

‘You don't want to say, do you?' said Helen, sensing Gemma's hesitation. ‘Don't worry about upsetting me, I'm just interested. I don't even know what I think about it, but when death comes this close, it certainly makes you think about it more.'

Gemma didn't doubt that. ‘The thing is,' she said, ‘who knows for sure? Who's ever come back to give us definitive proof? Maybe there is a high old time being had up there by everyone who's passed on. It's an appealing thought. But if that's the case, they're keeping it to themselves. And maybe that's the way it has to be. We'd all be killing ourselves to get there if we knew.'

Helen was gazing at her from across the room. ‘My father killed himself.'

Gemma gasped. ‘What?'

‘That's how he died,' she went on, ‘in the room. It wasn't messy or anything. He took pills.'

‘Shit.' Gemma swallowed. ‘I'm sorry, Helen, I didn't know.'

‘I realise that. It's okay.'

Gemma tried to regain her composure. ‘Did you ever find out why?'

Helen shook her head. ‘He didn't leave a note or anything. I don't know if my mother knew more; she never said, she just
fell apart. And we've never been able to put her back together again.'

‘How old were you when . . . it happened?' asked Gemma.

‘Fifteen.'

‘What was he like?'

‘He was a nice man, you know, amiable, but quiet,' said Helen. ‘He adored Mum, that was obvious. But as the years went by he just kind of shut down. I sometimes wonder if life didn't quite measure up for him. He locked himself away in his darkroom, but we never saw much of what he did. He said it was just for his own amusement. But when you think about it, a darkroom is a perfect place to hide out. No one can come in without your permission, you have an excuse to stay in there, alone, as long as you want.'

‘Do you think your father might have been depressed?' Gemma asked carefully. She didn't want to sound like she was prying.

‘Doctors told us at the time that it was more than likely. If you look at the statistics, he had to be either depressed, or there was some other undiagnosed mental illness. But by his age there would have been symptoms long before then. Financial problems are the next most common reason, but my parents didn't have any. Not that they were rich, but they'd inherited this house from my mother's mother, they'd never had a mortgage, never had to worry about putting a roof over our heads. Dad had a public service job, reasonable wage, good conditions, security.'

So this place really was like the family museum. Or rather, mausoleum.

‘So,' Gemma said after a while, ‘you didn't say, do you believe in an afterlife?'

Helen became thoughtful. ‘I don't know. I used to wonder, and then when David came along he was so rabidly against the idea of a god, I guess I was swayed. He'd done a lot of aid work overseas and he reckoned there couldn't be a God because he wouldn't let people suffer the way they did.'

‘And what do you think now?' Gemma asked.

‘It would be comforting to believe that David's still around somehow,' said Helen. ‘That he's still part of the universe, that we'll see him again one day. But I just don't know.'

Gemma shifted a little. Her backside was getting numb sitting here on the floor.

‘I remember an old movie I saw once,' she said. ‘I think it was Cary Grant, one of those guys. His wife had died and his little girl was asking him if she was in heaven, or something like that. They were on a pier, or a boat, near water anyway. He scooped up some water in a jug, and he said our bodies were like the jug, and the water was like our spirit or our soul, whatever you want to call it. He tipped the water back into the river and said that's what happens when we die.' She paused. ‘I always kind of liked that idea.'

Helen had been listening intently. ‘I think I like it too,' she said quietly.

‘Well,' said Gemma, ‘if I don't get up off this floor soon, I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to get up at all.' She heaved herself up onto her knees, but as she became upright her head started to spin. She held onto the wall. ‘Whoa.'

‘Are you all right?' said Helen.

‘I must have got up too quickly. I'll be right in a minute.'

‘Does that happen often?'

‘More often than it used to,' said Gemma. ‘Is that a problem?'

‘Not if your blood pressure's okay.'

‘Oh, right.'

Helen was watching her. ‘It is okay, isn't it?'

‘I guess,' Gemma shrugged. ‘How would I know?'

‘Well, if your doctor hasn't said anything, I suppose you could assume it was normal, but I'm surprised he wouldn't say.'

Gemma had an odd expression on her face.

‘When was your last visit?' Helen asked.

‘Visit?'

‘Antenatal visit. You'd still be on monthly visits, right?'

Gemma didn't know what to say.

‘You are seeing a doctor, aren't you?' Helen asked her.

She looked sheepish. ‘Well, I did go to a doctor when I fell pregnant. She gave me a referral to an obstetrician, but I didn't get around to seeing him before I left Brisbane.'

‘And when you got to Sydney?'

‘Slipped my mind.'

Helen was horrified. ‘Are you telling me you haven't seen a doctor since your pregnancy was diagnosed, and now you're more than halfway through it?'

‘Is that bad?'

‘Well, it's not advisable,' Helen said, crawling across the floor towards her. She took hold of Gemma's wrist, consulting her watch as she checked her pulse. ‘You need to keep a regular check on your blood pressure, Gemma, as well as the protein levels in your urine, to make sure you don't develop pre-eclampsia.'

‘What's that?'

‘Something you don't want to happen. What's your blood type?' Helen asked, releasing Gemma's wrist.

‘I don't know.'

‘Why not?'

‘I'm not sure I've ever had a reason to find out.'

‘Well, you do now. What if you're rhesus negative?'

‘What if I am?'

Helen shook her head. ‘Look, I'll call the hospital where I used to work tomorrow and book you into the clinic there. It'll take too long to get in to see an obstetrician privately. Do you have insurance?'

‘No.'

‘Then the public clinic it is. I know some of the midwives there, they're great. You have nothing to worry about.'

‘I wasn't worried . . . before.'

‘Gemma, you're not even booked into a hospital,' said Helen. ‘Where did you think you were going to give birth?'

Gemma looked plaintively at Helen. ‘I thought you just showed up.'

‘Well, they wouldn't turn you away, but it's not exactly recommended. I mean, do you even know your due date? You could go into labour too early and you wouldn't know it. And if you go too far over, there are a whole lot of other complications that can arise. Or what if you had something serious like placenta praevia, for example?'

Gemma felt a little overwhelmed. ‘You know, an awful lot of babies came into the world before there were doctors and hospitals.'

‘Yes, and an awful lot of them died,' said Helen. ‘The infant
mortality rate is fewer than five in a thousand births in Australia. It's more than a hundred, and closer to two hundred, in some third world countries.'

‘You know that off the top of your head?'

‘Like I said, David used to work for aid agencies,' said Helen. ‘He knew his statistics. And anyway, why would you want to take risks when the medical help is right there for the taking?'

‘I did intend to see a doctor,' said Gemma, getting up on her feet now that her head wasn't spinning any more, not from dizziness anyway. ‘But between finding a place to live, and work . . .'

The truth was, she'd also been scared she'd find out something was wrong. Gemma and Luke had partied their way up the coast, drinking, smoking . . . and not just tobacco. She'd stopped it all the moment she suspected she was pregnant, but Gemma still carried around a nagging feeling of guilt. Ignorance was not necessarily bliss, but it was easier than knowing for sure she had caused harm to the peanut.

‘I'll call the clinic tomorrow,' Helen repeated. ‘See how soon they can fit you in.'

‘Do they have after business hours appointments?' Gemma asked.

‘I think you're going to have to take whatever you can get this time,' said Helen. ‘Besides, they'll understand at work – surely they'd expect you to have the odd morning or afternoon off, given that you're pregnant?'

Gemma smiled weakly. ‘Yeah, I'm sure they'll understand.'