The Mothers' Group (15 page)

She looked at Gordon. His face was flushed. Was he embarrassed by her?

‘Gordon, I sorry,' she began.

‘Oh, Made, I'm the one who should be sorry.' He lowered himself onto the sofa next to her and wound an arm around her shoulders. ‘You'd think we were living in a country town, not the northern beaches. Talk about the bloody insular peninsula.'

Made wasn't sure of his meaning.

‘Small-minded people make me angry, that's all.' He pulled her towards him and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Mrs Carter was very rude. I'm sorry about that.'

Made leaned into his chest.

Her sister Komang had been right. Gordon
was
a good husband.

Still, Made missed her family with such intensity, it made her heart ache. Every part of Wayan brought to mind another—the softness of her mother's hair as it dried in the morning sun, her father's shy smile, Komang's gentle hand on her arm, the cheeky flash of her brother's eyes. Despite the haemangioma, Wayan was a contented baby. Nothing seemed to provoke him. But Made grieved for the fact that her family couldn't witness his small daily triumphs.

She would often sit on the concrete stairs leading down to their backyard, cradling Wayan and imagining the scene in her family compound. Her mother, stooped at the waist, sweeping the yard with long strokes of her rattan broom. And there was her father, chewing betel leaf and sipping tea under the papaya tree. Komang washing clothes in the large silver basin in which the three of them had played as children. And then she would imagine Wayan into the scene: his grandparents swinging him across the yard in a sarong, or his Aunty Komang, still young enough to play older sister, fussing over him.

Gordon's parents were long dead and his only sibling, an older sister, lived in a cold country in the northern hemisphere. The thought of her own family, not so far away, brought tiny pinpricks to her eyes. She made sure Gordon never saw them.

But at night she was plagued by dreams of her mother. Sometimes she would sit up in bed, barely awake, searching for her mother's form beyond the reaches of the bed.

‘
Bu? Bu?
' she would call into the darkness, certain of her presence.

‘You're dreaming, Made,' Gordon would whisper, finding her hand with his.

Then she would lie down again, blinking back tears.

As an answer to homesickness, Made attended every single session of the mothers' group. Initially she'd been confused by the concept. Mothers' groups weren't necessary in Indonesia, as there were always enough women in a village to share the load of child-rearing. But in Australia, neighbourhoods were divided by high walls, security grilles and unfriendly dogs. New mothers had to be introduced through the baby health centre, or they might never find each other across the empty stretches of suburbia.

At first they met at the Beachcombers kiosk, drinking countless cups of coffee while discussing their babies. Then, when winter began to bite, they met in each other's homes, sharing homemade biscuits and steaming pots of tea.

One week in spring, Miranda offered her home as a venue. Made was the first to arrive, just after two o'clock. She'd caught the bus five stops from her house, down to Miranda's home in the Freshwater Basin. It reminded her of Pantai Raya, being so close to the beach.

‘Come in,' said Miranda, greeting her at the door with a smile. ‘Digby's asleep, finally. Rory's through here.'

As Made walked behind her carrying Wayan, she stared wide-eyed at the spacious corridors of Miranda's home. Austere white walls were decorated with enormous canvases of modern art and delicate objects of glass and stainless steel. Compared to the two-bedroom red-brick cottage in which Made lived, Miranda's home was palatial. What did Miranda
do
with all these rooms?

‘There he is,' said Miranda, nodding to a plush grey rug that covered the slate tiles on the living room floor. Rory lay on his back in the centre, gurgling at a stuffed giraffe suspended above him in a play gym. ‘Are Wayan's feet allowed to touch the ground yet?'

Made smiled. ‘Yes, we had ceremony in Bali last week.' Made placed Wayan next to Rory and watched the pair eyeball each other. Rory suddenly rolled onto his stomach and Wayan giggled at the movement.

‘Oh, of course,' said Miranda. ‘I'd forgotten you'd gone back. How did it go? It must have been nice to see your family.'

Made nodded.

It would be too hard to explain to Miranda how she'd felt, meeting her family again for the first time since Wayan's birth. The joy of her reunion with her mother, countered by her family's shock and consternation at Wayan's haemangioma. The mystic who'd been called in to divine the karmic reason for his defect, and the lengthy rituals that followed. At Wayan's one-hundred-and-five-day ceremony, conducted several months later than it should have been, the medium had pronounced that Wayan was, in fact, the incarnation of her dead brother. How goosebumps had spread across her skin and stayed there for days. It was too hard to express all of this in English.

‘Sit down,' said Miranda, gesturing towards a shiny leather couch positioned against a wall. But Made lingered close to Wayan; after carrying him around for so long, it felt strange to be physically disconnected from him. It was as though a second, unseen umbilical cord had been cut by the Balinese priest who'd blessed him.

A splash of colour on the mantelpiece attracted Made's attention; a gold-framed photograph on the otherwise empty expanse.

Miranda followed her gaze. ‘That was taken in Paris,' she explained. ‘Four months before Rory arrived.' In the photo, Miranda stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe, the colours of sunset brushed against the sky. Her cheeks were ruddy with cold or exertion. One hand held Digby's, the other rested on the curve of her belly.

‘It was a happy holiday?'

‘Very,' said Miranda. ‘Life was a lot less complicated then.'

Made nodded.

A knock on the door announced the arrival of others.

‘Come in, come in,' called Miranda.

A moment later, Ginie entered the room at her usual pace, followed by Cara. ‘Oh my
God
, Miranda,' said Ginie. ‘That's an Arthur Boyd near the front door, isn't it?'

Miranda blushed with pleasure. ‘Yes, Willem's latest acquisition. I can't stop him at Sotheby's, I'm afraid.'

Ginie lifted Rose out of her pram and placed the baby on her tummy next to Wayan and Rory. She rolled a soft ball in their direction. ‘Well, you can tell Willem he's done well. Daniel would
love
it.'

‘Oh, you arty types,' said Cara, parking her stroller on the other side of the room. ‘I couldn't tell a Boyd from my bum.' She lifted Astrid out onto the rug. ‘Hello, Made. And how are
you
, Wayan?
'

Made loved the way Cara always acknowledged everyone in the room, even the babies.

Within twenty minutes Pippa and Suzie had arrived and Miranda's gallery-like lounge room had been transformed by the nursery hubbub of six babies. There was the usual flurry of activity, complicated by the fact that most of the babies were now sitting and rolling. Astrid had even started ‘commando crawling', using both arms to haul herself across the floor on her stomach, dragging her feet behind her.

Despite the noise and activity, Made didn't spend a lot of time talking to the other women. It was always like that, she reflected, everyone too busy to talk. It wasn't like passing time in the village with her mother, sister, aunts and cousins. There were no comfortable silences, no wild laughter born of years of familiarity. Perhaps that would come with time, she mused.

She felt most comfortable with Cara, who always tried to include her in the group's discussions. And it was easy to talk to Suzie, who never seemed to draw breath. It was a challenge deciphering Pippa's words, as her voice was so soft and she rarely looked Made in the eye.

‘Does anyone know a good children's photographer?' asked Ginie suddenly. She slid her iPhone back into her bag and looked around the group. ‘We'd like to get some professional shots done of us as a family. We've got this big blank wall at home that's crying out for a canvas. But we don't know anyone who specialises in kids.'

‘I do,' said Miranda. ‘Stephanie Allen is a great local freelancer. She does some beautiful work down on Freshie beach. She's a little expensive, but she's worth it.'

Ginie found her iPhone again and began plugging in the details.

Made watched Miranda and Ginie as they talked. Their conversations often ranged across completely foreign territory—from art and restaurants to clothing and homewares. It was all Made could do to understand the general gist.

‘Have you read the next book for book club, Made?' asked Pippa, crouching down and propping Heidi next to Wayan.

Made smiled and shook her head. She hadn't managed
Eat, Pray, Love
, and the next book—Ginie's suggestion,
We Need to Talk About Kevin
— was much thicker, with smaller print.

‘Is it good reading?' she asked.

Pippa glanced in Ginie's direction.

‘No,' she said, her voice low. ‘I mean, it's well-written. But as a mother, I wish I'd never opened it. I wish I could erase all the images it's burned into my mind.'

‘Oh.' Made was relieved she hadn't attempted it. She studied Pippa's face. ‘This book, it make you . . . sad?'

Pippa pulled Heidi onto her knee. ‘Well, it showed how little control we have over our children and how things can go horribly wrong.' She grimaced. ‘It was frightening. Don't read it.'

Made shook her head. ‘Too hard for me. Book club next week, yes?'

‘Yes, at Cara's house,' said Pippa.

Suzie sidled up to them. ‘Are you talking about
Kevin
?'

Pippa nodded.

‘You didn't like it either?'

Pippa shook her head.

‘Well,' said Suzie, as if emboldened, ‘any chance we could postpone book club?' She glanced around at the others. ‘
Kevin
is so full on, I'm having trouble finishing it.'

Ginie looked bemused. ‘Full on? It pretty much boils down to nature versus nurture, doesn't it? Do we wreck our children's lives for them, or do they wreck them for themselves?'

Suzie flushed. Made couldn't tell if she was embarrassed or angry. Ginie always seemed to fluster her.

‘Maybe with more time, I read some too,' Made added, mostly for Suzie's benefit.

‘I haven't read it yet either, I'm afraid,' said Cara. ‘Maybe my book club idea was too ambitious. I can't believe I'm even saying that. I used to read a book a
week
.' She laughed. ‘Well, how about I send a text around later with some new dates?'

‘Okay,' said Miranda. ‘But why don't we go out as a group next Friday night, anyway? Have a few drinks or something?'

‘Now
there's
a woman after my own heart,' agreed Ginie. ‘Daniel's always having bloody beers with his best mate, Chris. It's well and truly my turn.'

‘Sounds nice,' said Cara. She turned to the others. ‘What do you think, girls?'

‘Okay.' Pippa didn't seem terribly enthused.

‘Can we go somewhere close by?' asked Suzie. ‘I'll have to organise a babysitter.'

‘We can go to that new wine bar in Manly,' said Ginie.

‘Isn't it a bit pricey?' said Suzie.

Ginie shrugged. ‘Not terribly. Come on, live a little, Suzie.'

Suzie stared at Ginie for a moment, then seemed to draw herself up several inches. ‘I'm a single mother,' she said, her voice wavering a little. ‘I'm on a tight budget. You probably don't understand that, Ginie, but I am.'

Ginie opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘Okay,' she said. ‘The first two rounds are on me.'

Suzie paused, as if waiting for Ginie to say something else. Then she nodded, a hint of triumph in her smile, before turning to Freya. ‘Pooh, you stink, madam. Can I use your change table, Miranda?'

Miranda showed her through to Rory's bedroom.

‘What about you, Made?' Cara asked quietly, turning to her. ‘Will you be able to come next Friday night?'

‘I think so,' she said. ‘But if Wayan wake for feed, Gordon have to pick me up. I no drive.'

Gordon had encouraged her to apply for a driver's licence, but the idea of taking to the Australian roads was intimidating. So many rules.

Made dabbed absently at Wayan's mouth with a wipe, absorbing the spittle that drooled from the permanent cavity above his lip.

‘Sure,' said Cara. ‘How is Wayan's . . . condition going?'

Made was grateful that Cara didn't shy away from the issue. The others rarely asked; it obviously made them uncomfortable.

‘He start to take the solids now,' said Made. ‘He very good eater.'

‘That's great,' said Cara. ‘Is your doctor pleased?'

‘We see him on Thursday, when Gordon flying overseas.'

‘You mean, you're going by yourself?' Cara looked concerned. ‘I can go with you, if you'd like. I've got nothing else planned for Thursday.'

Made had been anxious about the upcoming appointment with the paediatrician. With Gordon away on business, she feared she might miss crucial information about Wayan's health. She looked down at him, lying on his stomach on the grey rug, legs and arms flapping about like a sea turtle in the shallows. He was so defenceless, her little man, yet so brave.

Made beamed at Cara. ‘Thank you, Cara,' she said. ‘You very kind.'

‘Just let me know the details, and I'll be . . .
we'll
be there.' Cara glanced in Astrid's direction. ‘Uh-oh, Little Miss Trouble is up to no good again.' She stood up to retrieve Astrid, who had somehow dragged herself to the other side of the room, half-rolling, half-crawling. She was now spreading sticky handprints across a glass cabinet.