Relativity (41 page)

Ω

TOM WAS GLAZING
the Christmas ham in their father's kitchen, crosshatching its skin with a sharp knife, poking cloves into fatty diamonds. After their mother became sick, Tom took on the responsibility of cooking the family meals. As boys, they watched her prepare dinner—helping to chop vegetables, mix batters, stir broths. But when she passed away, Mark found everything inside the kitchen distressing. Whenever he held a vegetable peeler, he still pictured her soft hands guiding him over the moonlike surface of a potato skin.

“Hey, Santa, what's in the bag?” Tom looked up from the ham.

Mark put the suitcase down. “Merry Christmas.”

“You're here too early; I told you not to come until later. We won't be ready to eat until at least noon. Does Claire need help with the baby? Is she still outside?”

“Just me.” Mark rubbed the back of his neck. Even though it was a hot day, he was shivering. “Is Dad around?”

“In his study.” Tom wiped his hands on a tea towel and looked carefully at his younger brother's face—scanning and measuring, his head on an angle like an inquisitive bird. “You all right?”

Mark stared at the streaked marble of the kitchen counter. Tom had prepared a prawn and mango salad: their mother's favorite Christmas recipe. “I'm fine. Do you want help with lunch?”

“Not from you,” Tom said, laughing. “I'll need Claire, though. When will they be here?”

“Not sure yet,” Mark said. Part of him wanted to tell his brother that Claire wasn't going to make it, that Ethan was in the hospital, that something awful had happened. But he couldn't break the membrane. That would ruin Christmas; it'd ruin this year and next. Bad news could wait. He left the kitchen and walked toward the back of the house.

John was at his desk, wrapping a gift. Folding and taping golden paper around a brown stuffed animal. Tongue sticking out, unbroken focus—he looked up only when Mark knocked on the door.

“Wish this bloody thing came with a box,” his father said, struggling with the toy's uneven shape.

“What is it?”

“Got it when I was in Tasmania last month. For the baby. Help me wrap it, will you?”

Mark took the stuffed animal from his father and looked into its shiny plastic eyes. It was a wombat. Warren, according to its name tag. He flattened the wrapping paper and curled it around the toy, methodically creasing the edges before sticking them down.

John frowned. “Still looks like a mess.”

Mark placed it on the table. “Ethan is a baby, he doesn't care,” he snapped. He lowered his voice; he'd momentarily forgotten about yesterday. “Listen, Dad, I need to talk to you. There's something wrong. He's sick.”

“What about Christmas lunch?”

“The baby's in the hospital.” Mark sat down, pushed the strips of gold and red paper aside, placed his head onto the desk and looked at the floor. His gaze settled on his father's shoes under the table; their feet were the same size. “There's a problem with his brain.”

“His brain?” John looked winded.

On the desk was a photograph of Mark's high school graduation day. He wore his school uniform, held an embossed certificate, his parents stood on either side. One elbow linked through his mother's arm, his father's hand resting proudly on the other shoulder. “Ethan just stopped breathing. The doctors said he had a brain hemorrhage. They're saying it's something called shaken baby syndrome.”

“I don't know what that is. Was there an accident?” His father was silent for a moment, his breathing made a rattling sound in his chest. “Did you do something? Did you lose your temper?”

Mark laughed dismissively. “Dad, you're the one with the temper. And you wouldn't ever . . . You know me, you brought me up. You know I wouldn't hurt my own child.”

He knew lies were coming out of his mouth but lies made more sense than the jarring truth. Mark looked at the framed photograph again: at his hands holding the graduation certificate and awards, at his arm linked with Eleanor. Did those hands grip the baby's ribs, did those arms churn his skull, turn his brain into butter? Maybe, yes, but no. None of that clicked. It was wrong, didn't fit. The real Mark was the smiling boy in the picture.

John stood at his bookshelf and looked at a row of Christmas cards. One of the cards was a picture of Ethan on Santa's lap. “A brain hemorrhage,” he said quietly.

“Dad, I don't know how it happened.” The more Mark said it, the more it felt like the truth. Perhaps his hands and arms were physically responsible, but he hadn't done anything wrong. Mind over matter, like walking across burning coals. Numb to the scorching fire on the soles of his feet as he'd stepped on the embers. When the baby was shaken, Mark wasn't himself. He wasn't inside his own body. Antimatter over matter.

John turned to face him. “I'm sorry, you're right. I can lose my temper but I'd still never hurt a baby. Of course you didn't hurt him. You're a good boy.” He touched his son's shoulder and sighed.

Mark saw himself through his father's eyes. He was a good boy. Too sensitive and emotional—but not a thug. Not tough enough to do something so severe.

Other people snapped and shook their babies—not him. Only the most evil parents physically abused their own kids. Monsters, brutes, villains—heartless creeps and lowlife scum—but Mark wasn't psychotic, he wasn't those things. They were bastards; he was different. He was just a normal man. Who came from a good family, went to a good school, got good grades, like good boys did.

“Of course I didn't hurt him,” he repeated. Those words tasted better in his mouth, they matched his real identity. Mark scrubbed his mind of the unspeakable memory, re-encoded it, and reshaped it again. Let it oxidize, broke its chemical bonds, like bleaching the stains on the bathroom floor until they disappeared. “I didn't do it.”

“What are you still doing here, then?” John sounded annoyed, but then his voice softened. “Get back to the hospital. Be with your son. Call us if you have any news.” He put the wrapped wombat in Mark's hands. “Here, give this to Ethan.”

Ω

CLAIRE GLANCED AT THE SCREEN
on her phone; she hadn't looked at it since the previous morning. Voicemail. Flashing envelope. Maybe it was Mark. She checked yesterday's missed call log, feeling her stomach flip when she saw it was a Victorian phone number. Now, in the wretched light of the hospital ward, her audition felt long ago. Like a day lived in another lifetime, from a life that no longer belonged to her.

Her hands shook as she held the phone to her ear.

“Claire, sorry for calling on Christmas Eve,” the message said. “It's James Mitchell. I couldn't wait to let you know. We were so impressed by your audition; you completely blew us away. We want to offer you the lead—you're our new Odette. Give me a call back when you can. Merry Christmas. And congratulations. Have a glass of champagne, you deserve it.”

She listened to the message again. There was a sharp taste in her mouth, vinegary and bitter; her stale tongue was coated white. Odette, the lead. She'd actually gotten the part. Claire swayed on the spot. Ever since she was a little girl, she'd fantasized about this phone call: being told she'd finally made it, offered a starring role. Squealing and jumping, thrilled her hard work ultimately paid off—that was the reaction Claire had pictured in her head.

But beside her, her infant son was hooked to life support. Catheters, feeding tubes, mechanical ventilation. Moments ago, while he was having a turbulent seizure, Ethan's heart had stopped for ten seconds. Doctors and nurses quickly encircled the baby, rushed to resuscitate him, while she stepped back helplessly. For ten seconds, Claire thought Ethan was dead.

She put the phone down. Her stomach muscles caved in, like there was a change in her core, some terrible instability. One of her ballet teachers once told her that ballerinas couldn't be mothers. Both required total dedication and it was impossible to have the discipline for both. It was a comment easily dismissed as a wide-eyed dance student, when Claire thought she was immune to difficulty, a special case, exempt from the pitfalls of ordinary life. How arrogant she'd been then, how foolish and naïve.

Across the room, she caught her reflection in the window. There it was: the defeated face. Claire saw herself disintegrate, realizing there was no way she could accept that role. Never dance
Swan Lake
, become a star. It was over. She gulped for air.

Right now was her breaking moment, her hour to stumble. To crumple, wince, and shrink, like so many other fallen dancers before her. Dream forfeited. Ambition collapsed. All those years, all that unwavering hope, obliterated in an instant. She was another casualty to failure, forced to exit stage left.

Ethan squirmed with discomfort. As she held the baby's limp hand, it dawned on Claire that Mark had been right. Things were different now. She'd made a colossal mistake; she should never have left Ethan. Deserted her son, for what? To go to a stupid audition—it was selfish, she was spoiled, an entitled princess. Claire was a mother now; she couldn't pretend it hadn't changed her shape.

Because next to her was this child, beautiful but blue-lipped and sallow-cheeked, fighting to stay alive. She was his mother but had failed to protect him; she'd exposed him to harm. Let this happen. Exactly the opposite of what mothers should do. Ethan recoiled as a nurse adjusted the tube running down his throat—Claire recoiled with him. This happened because she put herself first. This was all her fault.

After all, Mark had asked Claire to stay, pleaded with her not to go. Why was she so stubborn? Why hadn't she been more concerned? She still wasn't positive Mark had hurt their son, she'd spent the night wavering between certainty and suspicion. One moment Claire was convinced he'd done it, the next she was filled with doubt. Mark wasn't capable of this—she loved him, he loved her, he loved Ethan—but who else could it have been? His absence, right now, hurt her deeply. But his presence, at the crucial moment the baby was shaken, hurt her more.

Ethan was restless, frowning, but still too weak to cry. Claire tried to soothe him. His eyes couldn't focus or track her movement, as she searched them for signs of background blood. Every one of her senses was heightened. Every minute dragged like an hour. She wanted someone to hold her, tell her everything would be fine. She wanted Mark.

Because even if he'd done it, Claire still secretly knew she was to blame. Mark had warned her against leaving; he'd flared a scrambled chain of beacons to signal his distress. She'd heard them and ignored him. Now she was being punished, and had to punish herself. Quit ballet. Surrender. Ethan needed her—his mother. She'd devote herself entirely to her son and master motherhood's techniques. That was the only role she could accept now, the only lead to dance. She wasn't a star; it was Claire's time to fade. Ethan had to take center stage.

Trembling, she returned James Mitchell's call.

“Merry Christmas,” Claire said, scarcely audible. Her eyes settled on Ethan. She shook her head and started to cry. “No, I'm so sorry. I can't accept the part. My son is in the hospital. He's really sick.”

Ω

AT THE HOSPITAL,
Christmas carols played in the foyer. Mark felt like everybody was looking at him—every nurse, doctor, and patient, every visitor. He kept his eyes on the floor. Santa Claus sat in a fiberglass sleigh, surrounded by mounds of cotton snow. Sick children lined up to sit on his lap and wish for their Christmas miracle.

Mark didn't know where to go; his son was no longer in the emergency room. Asking at reception was humiliating, but he was relieved to hear that Ethan Hall had been admitted to a ward upstairs. He wasn't dead. Mark held his head high, and reminded himself he hadn't done anything wrong.

Claire sat beside Ethan's bed, stroking his cradle-capped head. The baby was still wearing an oxygen mask but he was asleep. Wisps of his fine hair were matted together and purple circles were around his eyes. Ethan was so tiny; Mark had almost forgotten how brand-new he was. Only four months old. One hundred and twenty days.

“How is he?” he asked. “Have a Christmas present for him, from Dad.” Mark put the wrapped wombat on the bedside table. He waited for her to say something. “Claire?”

The baby stirred and she patted his chest, soothing him back to sleep. Claire didn't look up. She knew. They'd told her. What he'd supposedly done. But she'd never believe that, would she?

Her eyes were anchored on the baby. Mark felt invisible, like light diverted around him, like he was subatomic, unable to be seen with the naked eye. He didn't know how to reach her. She was as far away as the most distant star.

“Claire?”

“Quiet, you'll wake him,” she said firmly. There was a depth to her voice that didn't sound right, like she was possessed. “Let's go outside. I need to talk to you.”

Finally, she glanced up at him. And in that look, Mark knew that whatever she needed to say would annihilate him.

They left the sleeping baby in the intensive care unit. Santa was ringing a bell in the hospital atrium; hundreds of children shrieked with glee.

Ω

OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL,
they sat at the empty bus stop. Their shadows connected on the pavement—silhouette on silhouette—but their bodies didn't touch.

Claire looked into the distance. “Tell me it's not true. Please.”

Before they met, Mark had seen the world in a particular way. Everything could be stripped back to basics—particles, atoms, forces—and sorted and catalogued by matter or mass. But being with Claire made another dimension of the universe open up to him, shone a light on something new. He saw it with the fiercest clarity, how everything—motion, time, space, energy, gravity—had a relationship. Particles, atoms, and forces were never absolute. Their relativity left him breathless. She showed him how everything in the universe existed in proportion to something else.