The Mothers' Group (22 page)

Finally, he sat down on the edge of the bed next to her. Peeling the sheet back, he leaned down and pressed his lips along her spine. Then he ran his fingers across her bruised buttocks.

‘Fuck, you turn me on.'

She felt sick to the stomach.

He stood up. ‘See you on Thursday at the café. Give Freya a kiss from me.'

She grunted, as though half asleep.

‘Bye, sexy.' She heard the door close behind him.

She opened her eyes and began to cry.

After she'd put Freya to bed, she spent an hour at the kitchen table, composing the text message. She knew he was in Melbourne tonight, or so he'd said. There was part of her that wanted to telephone, to demand to know more, to understand what the other woman meant to him. To call him names and feel the cathartic rush of righteousness. But she was afraid of him, on some level. He was used to winning, always getting his own way. She'd never said no to him for fear of how he might react. She hadn't really known him at all, she reflected. She rested her head in her hands, ashamed. He'd as good as paid her for sex. ‘M' might well be his wife, she thought. She just wanted it to be over.

She settled on two simple sentences:
I know about ‘M', the other woman
in your life. I don't want to see you anymore.

She sat alone at the kitchen bench until after midnight, half hoping for, and half dreading, a response. She fell asleep with her head on her arms.

The next morning, she checked her mobile.

M is my mother.

She stared at the message, wanting to believe him. But instinct told her he was lying. That he'd lied about everything, right from the beginning. She shook her head and texted him back.

Bill, it's over.

Her telephone rang in the darkness. She sat bolt upright on the couch and looked around, wide-eyed. She couldn't tell what time it was, or how long she'd been asleep. The television was still on, the volume muted. She checked the caller ID. It was Monika.

‘Hello?' she croaked.

‘Suzie, did I wake you?'

‘I was asleep on the couch.'

Monika paused. ‘Are you alright, Suzie? I'm worried about you.'

She leaned back onto a cushion and pressed her hand into her eyes, hard.

Monika hardly ever asked her how she was. Suzie's lips began to tremble.

‘I'm . . . not the best,' she admitted.

‘Anything I can do? I could take Freya another night this week if you'd like, to give you a bit of a break?'

‘Thanks.' For the first time ever, she didn't feel aggravated by the offer. Monika meant well, she knew. In fact, apart from the women in her mothers' group, Monika was one of the very few people who actually gave a damn about her. And she was the only person in the world who would drop everything if Freya needed it.

‘Are you still there, Suzie?'

‘Yes.' Suzie sighed. ‘Monika, listen. I was wondering if . . . if you might come around and keep me company one night this week. We could watch a DVD or something.'

Being by herself at night again was hard for Suzie.

‘Oh.' She could hear the surprise in Monika's voice. ‘Well, I'd like that. I could bring some dinner over on Friday if you like. Say, after six thirty?'

‘Good,' said Suzie. ‘We'll talk more then.'

She replaced the handset.

Monika's just like me, she thought. A woman alone in the world.

Without the extra income that Bill had provided, Suzie dropped all the activities she'd only just taken up. The swimming lessons, Gymbaroo, the music classes. Instead, she started taking a weekly train trip to Chatswood; it was cheap entertainment for Freya. They caught a ferry from Manly first, then a city loop train that took them to Wynyard. From there, it was only seven stops to Chatswood. They brought homemade sandwiches and met Monika on her lunch break in a park near the driving school. The outing cost less than ten dollars and they were always home in time for Freya's nap.

Suzie wasn't sure which was more enjoyable—the picnics in the park with Monika, or the train journey to Chatswood. Freya would watch the train approaching, clapping her hands as it pulled into the platform. Then she would make low humming and hissing sounds, mimicking the engine and the sliding doors. They would always sit in the easy-access carriage, best for managing Freya's stroller, and watch the world flying past the windows. Even the most mundane objects captivated Freya: a bright blue plastic bag blowing beneath a seat, a tartan shopping trolley, a cheesy advertisement for chewing gum.

Once at Chatswood, they would walk the short distance to the park and wait for Monika. Suzie would lay out the picnic rug and follow Freya as she toddled after pigeons or played in the autumn leaves. Monika would join them at midday, always bringing with her some small treat for Freya: a heart-shaped sticker, a lift-the-flap book, a stuffed toy.

One Thursday in April, as they sat on the picnic rug eating their sandwiches, Monika pulled a lollipop from a brown paper bag and thrust it at her. Suzie turned it over in her hands, inspecting the label.

‘It's called a Nature-Pop. I bought it at a health-food store,' Monika explained. ‘No artificial colours or preservatives. Apparently manuka honey has medicinal properties too. Is it okay for Freya to have one, after her sandwich?'

Suzie flushed, pleased to be asked. Monika had gone to considerable trouble to choose just the sort of edible treat she might buy herself. Months ago, Monika never would have been this considerate. How far she's come, Suzie mused. How far
we've
come.

‘Of course,' she said. ‘That's really nice of you.'

Monika dismissed the praise with a shrug. ‘These sandwiches are a bit . . . chewy,' she said. ‘What's on them?'

‘Tahini.'

‘Never heard of it.'

Suzie said nothing. Some things about Monika would never change. But
she
could change, she'd learned, over the lonely weeks since Bill's departure. Monika wasn't perfect, but neither was she. And Monika had lived thirty more years of life than Suzie, and she had to respect that. She'd had her own life, her own challenges, and she loved Freya as any grandmother would.

Watching them interact, Suzie wished her own parents lived closer than Brisbane. With Bill gone, Freya had no male role model in her life, not even a grandfather. The mothers' group had become even more important to Suzie, offering rare social opportunities that
both
of them needed. Suzie hoped that, in time, there would be more group activities involving husbands and grandfathers. Gatherings like the combined first birthday party and Mother's Day celebration, which Suzie was helping to organise with Pippa. With more events like that, Freya could have at least
some
contact with adult males.

*

On a cold night in late April, the mothers' group finally held the book club session they'd been delaying for months. At Suzie's invitation, they'd gathered at her flat in Dee Why.

Cara, Miranda and Ginie squeezed themselves onto the sagging two-person sofa, Made sat cross-legged on the shag pile rug, Pippa was seated in a fold-out chair she'd brought from home and Suzie sank into her brown patchwork beanbag.

Without the babies present, and with the benefit of several bottles of wine between them, the conversation was intense—or perhaps it was the book, Suzie wasn't sure. She'd finished
We Need to Talk About Kevin
the night before, appalled to the very end. She'd found a scene close to the end of the book, in which a teenage sociopath went on a killing spree at school, deeply disturbing. The mothers' group had been talking in circles for more than an hour and the debate was getting heated.

‘Well, I found it a bit far-fetched,' Suzie objected, passing a plate of cheese and crackers in Made's direction. ‘The book made out that Kevin was a killer from the beginning. It painted him as some kind of child monster, even when he was in nappies. But I didn't believe that Kevin
was
as evil as his mother made him out to be. Okay, he was really a nasty kid. But the more I read, the more I thought the
mother
had problems of her own. Serious ones, like when she physically abused Kevin.'

‘Oh, no, Suze,' groaned Ginie. ‘It wasn't abuse, it was a once-off. And Kevin deserved it. I'm not saying it was right, but I totally understood why she belted him.'

‘Well, if it's acceptable for a mother to model
violence
,' Suzie retorted, ‘why wouldn't Kevin turn out the way he did?' She could hear the shrillness in her own voice, but she couldn't moderate it. ‘As his mother,
she
was partly responsible for the massacre.'

Ginie shook her head. ‘I disagree. Not every hideous act of a child can be linked to poor parenting. Kids make choices too.'

‘But parenting is what moulds kids, Ginie,' Suzie countered. ‘A lot of bad parents find it much easier, more
convenient
, to blame something external—you know, genetics, the government, their demanding job— than take responsibility for
their
role in their child's behaviour.'

Suzie wondered if Ginie detected the barb. For months she'd wondered why Ginie was so willing to outsource Rose's upbringing to a nanny, when so little was known of the longer-term consequences on children.

Cara intervened. ‘I know what you mean, Suze. That scene where Eva broke Kevin's arm, it was horrible. But at the same time, like you, Ginie, I understood why she did it . . . and I felt terrible for sympathising with her! Then I thought maybe this is part of what the author is trying to do. Maybe it's a device to make readers—mothers like us—question traditional views about what mothers are
supposed
to think and feel.'

Suzie sipped at her glass of wine, considering Cara's words. It was all a bit abstract for her. She glanced around the room, waiting for someone else to respond. She'd positioned six large candles on the bookcase and turned off the main lamp. The candlelight flickering across the ceiling, while not unpleasant, was distracting. The soft scent of citrus hung in the air. The aroma, coupled with the shadowy light, brought Bill to mind. She squeezed her eyes shut against the mental image.

‘What did
you
think of the book, Miranda?' prompted Cara, breaking the silence.

Miranda had been quiet the whole evening.

‘More vino?' asked Ginie, tipping the bottle towards Miranda.

Miranda nodded, then hung her nose over the glass and inhaled. She and Willem were connoisseurs of wine and food, Suzie had learned. Miranda and Ginie were always swapping restaurant reviews.

‘I think . . .' Miranda paused. ‘Well, so many of you have already said what
I
was planning to say.'

‘That won't wash,' objected Ginie. ‘Get on with it.'

‘Okay, okay.' Miranda quaffed a mouthful of wine and reached for her Evian bottle. She straightened her back against the sinking sofa.

‘Well, I know everyone's been focused on the role of Eva, the mother, and how
she
contributed to Kevin's problems,' Miranda started. ‘But I was more interested in the role of the father. So many things seemed to go unsaid between Eva and Franklin. Kevin would do something awful, and Franklin would just do nothing. After a while I thought, he's an intelligent guy, why is he so blindsided by Kevin? But Eva didn't try very hard to help him understand the extent of the problem, either. Maybe she didn't want to let Franklin down, I don't know. I just kept thinking that the pair of them could have stopped the tragedy
together
if they'd sat down and talked honestly. The title of the book was interesting, because it's the one thing they never did.'

‘Wow,' said Suzie, impressed. ‘Did you study literature at university?' The title of the book had seemed strange to her, but she
never
could have thought of that.

Miranda ignored the compliment. ‘Fine arts, actually.'

Suzie turned to Made, wanting to be inclusive. ‘What did you think of it, Made?'

‘I only finish first chapter,' Made replied, apologetic. ‘Even with more time. I sorry.' The group had extended the deadline on several occasions. Despite this, many of them had struggled to plough through it.

‘But I wonder one thing,' Made said. ‘From first chapter.'

The group waited.

‘I wonder why author make main character from Armenia? Her name is . . .' She opened her book at the first page. ‘Khatch-a-dour-ian?' She enunciated each syllable slowly. She looked around the group. ‘This book about America, yes? American problem with guns, American families, society there. So why this mother is not American?'

Suzie shifted her weight on the beanbag. It was a good point, she thought.

‘That's really interesting,' said Cara. ‘I mean, whenever you see media coverage of high school massacres in the US, the perpetrators are usually white, Anglo-Saxon, middle-class males.' She paused and drained her glass. ‘You know what, Made? I think you might have made the best point of the night, even without reading the whole book.'

Made smiled shyly, as if embarrassed.

‘No, really,' continued Cara. ‘We've spent all our time analysing whether Kevin's mother and father were to blame for his actions. But maybe the book's saying something about the way humans look for
cultural
scapegoats. You know, the perpetrator of a crime always comes from somewhere else, never your own backyard.'

Made nodded, her expression thoughtful. ‘This book sad for me, because it about blame. In Bali, many people look after child. Parents yes, but others too. If child do something bad, many in village sad, not just parents.
Many
feel responsible.'

‘Yes,' said Cara, her face animated. ‘Maybe
We Need to Talk About Kevin
is not about individual responsibility at all. Maybe it's actually pointing to the failure of modern Western societies to give parents the kind of support you're familiar with in Bali. You know, the idea that it takes a village to raise a child.'