The Mothers' Group (27 page)

Miranda said nothing. Her mother-in-law had a habit of finishing her sentences.

‘Does Digby still have a cold?'

Hendrika pronounced Digby as ‘Dickby', which irritated Miranda no end.

‘No, he's much better now, thanks.' Digby often had a runny nose, which Hendrika attributed to him not wearing enough clothes. There was no arguing the point with her.

‘It's Willem's birthday on Sunday.'

As if Miranda didn't know. She'd already given him a gift voucher for a massage, more than a month in advance of his birthday, in an effort to make him use it. Even so, he was so busy with work, she doubted he'd find the time. He just never prioritised relaxation.

‘I thought you might like to go out to celebrate on Sunday,' continued Hendrika. ‘Just the two of you. I could take Digby and Rory, or at the very least Digby.'

‘Oh,' said Miranda. ‘Well, that's very nice of you, thank you.' She felt guilty for being so negative about Hendrika. She was obviously trying to be helpful.

‘But only in the morning,' continued Hendrika. ‘We have golf in the afternoon, you know.'

Of course. Miranda closed her eyes. Convincing Willem to get out of bed for anything other than work on a Sunday morning was likely to be difficult.

‘Thanks, Hendrika. I'll check with Willem. He flies home this Friday. He might be working again by Sunday. You know how it is.'

‘Yes, he works so hard, doesn't he? Not everyone's as dedicated.' There was maternal pride in her voice.

‘I'll call to confirm on Saturday morning,' Miranda said. ‘Thanks again, Hendrika.'

She replaced the handset and stared at the bench. Rory was calling out from his cot, and Digby was mimicking him from his bedroom.

No rest for her this afternoon.

She opened the fridge and removed the Evian bottle. She despised the ‘afternoon shift', as the mothers' group called it. The long, downward spiral of escalating tension between two and seven o'clock that inevitably led to tantrum-throwing and tears. She drained the last of the water in the bottle, then placed it on the kitchen bench. She checked her watch again: ten past two. Close enough to two thirty, she reasoned.

She pulled open the freezer and removed the bottle of vodka that Willem kept in the door. He hadn't noticed how many times she'd replaced it, as he usually preferred wine to spirits. It was easy to fly under his radar: whenever she shopped online for groceries, she simply included a bottle of vodka in the order. There was no telltale line item on the credit card statement. Willem simply accepted her expenditure at supermarkets, assuming she was buying household necessities. He'd never scrutinised a receipt, nor did he see the delivery's arrival, which she always arranged to occur while he was at work. She stored an unopened bottle in the pantry at all times, secreted in a large tupperware container of cake-decorating equipment.

She unscrewed the lid and, using a plastic funnel, decanted the vodka into the Evian bottle. She put the vodka back in its place and shut the freezer door. She stood momentarily with her back pressed against the refrigerator, her heart thudding in her chest. Even now, after so many months, she felt like a thief. She drew the Evian bottle to her lips and listened to Rory's and Digby's calls. Neither of them was particularly upset. She held the liquid in her mouth and closed her eyes, inhaling the familiar fire in her nostrils. As she swallowed, the warmth caught in her throat and then spread to her chest. She sighed with relief, opening her eyes.

4 pm

Her body felt free, her joints and ligaments pliant. Her mood was buoyant, irrepressible.

‘Okay, buckaroo,' she called in her best American accent. ‘Give us your best shot.' Rory was strapped to her back in the baby carrier, giggling with excitement. Digby was the picture of concentration, lining up the soccer ball between the two ancient lemon trees in their backyard. Miranda stood in front of them, pretending to be goalie. Digby took several steps backwards before running at the ball, booting it with a little grunt. Miranda feigned an attempt at stopping it before letting it roll past her legs and shouting, ‘Goal!'

Digby clapped his hands and stamped his feet. ‘Goal! Goal! Goal!'

Rory laughed in her ear.

Miranda stooped behind the lemon tree and retrieved the ball, rolling it back to Digby. He began to set up his next shot, the twenty-seventh since Miranda began counting. Other than that, her mind was pleasantly empty. She felt simultaneously present and absent; present enough to participate, but absent enough not to care. Digby had thrown himself on the ground several times, in a funk about something or other, but she'd maintained her equilibrium.

She gave Digby the thumbs-up sign. ‘Ready, buckaroo?'

He nodded. ‘You're the best, Mum.'

‘Oh, Dig.' The unexpected compliment made her eyes water. ‘That's nice of you to say it.'

He loved her, she knew, in his own contrary way. Surely she would find a better way of handling him, some day.

‘Alrighty, Diggy-D og, give us your best shot.'

She felt impenetrable, untouchable. Bullet-proof.

7.50 pm

She lay on the couch, drained, her limbs heavy. Was this the definition of legless? She giggled to herself. After the nightly circus of dinner, bath and books, she'd herded the children into bed. The kitchen was a disaster zone, but there would be time enough to wash up tomorrow. When at home, Willem would never countenance dirty dishes left in the sink overnight. He wouldn't have approved of dinner either: an emergency packet of fish fingers after she'd burned the homemade shepherd's pie. Much to Digby's delight, she'd served the fish fingers with great dollops of tomato sauce and suggested they eat them with their hands.

She rolled over on the couch, turning her back to the heater. Her clothes were still damp from bath time, which was always a maelstrom of arms and legs, sponges and flannels, plastic cups and bath animals that Digby addressed by name. As usual, Rory had sat in his bath seat, transfixed by Digby. And as usual, she'd had to play the role of two fat rubber duckies, whom Digby had christened Yellow and Diver, while Digby played the role of Captain Crabclaw. She found it difficult to conjure up new and exciting bath time adventures for Yellow and Diver on a nightly basis, but Digby simply wouldn't pull the plug without one.

‘Fuck those rubber duckies,' she said aloud, giggling again.

Her mobile phone buzzed next to her. Probably Willem, she thought, wanting to tell her about his day. She fished the phone out from under the cushion and read the message:
Delayed in Mumbai. They've made us sit on
the tarmac for three fucking hours!

She considered her reply, irritation flooding her.

Delayed, permanently. Did the same jigsaw today with Digby for three
fucking hours!

Instead, she deleted his message without replying, and closed her eyes.

I've got so much to do, she thought.

10.30 pm

She stumbled up from the couch and into Digby's room. She stopped, confused, at his bedside. Hadn't he called out for her?

He lay on his back, his blue comforter twisted around his hand. She reached out and brushed away a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his eyes. He looked almost angelic in his sleep.

She tiptoed backwards out the door, closing it behind her.

Her head throbbed. She went to the kitchen and stood at the sink, gulping down several glasses of water. She filled up the Evian bottle with water and took it to her room, along with a fresh glass for tomorrow morning's aspirin.

She lay down on the bed and thought of Willem, of where he might be flying tonight. She'd stopped asking for itineraries months ago.

Tomorrow is a new day, she thought. I won't open the freezer tomorrow.

She closed her eyes, tired of resolutions.

By the time Willem returned on Saturday afternoon—not Friday evening as he'd promised—it was too late to line up Hendrika for babysitting.

‘I'm so sorry, honey,' he said, looking over his wine glass at dinner. ‘I have to go into the office tomorrow morning. Can we try for next weekend instead?'

She stiffened. ‘Can't you even have Sunday off? For your birthday? I thought we could have a picnic, something simple.' She pushed her slow-roasted lamb shank, one of Willem's favourites, around the plate. She'd spent much of the afternoon preparing it, when she could have just as easily settled for a bowl of muesli.

‘Sounds nice,' he said. ‘But I told Adam I'd be in tomorrow. We're going through the strategic plan before the annual general meeting. It's the only chance we'll get to finish it off.'

She shrugged. She didn't really care why he was unavailable.

‘What about next weekend?' he persisted.

‘Okay.' She avoided his gaze.

He stood up from the table and walked around the back of her chair, draping an arm around her shoulders.

‘Thanks for looking after Digby and Rory. You do it so well.'

She felt his breath on her neck and wrinkled her nose.
Don't you even
think about sex tonight.

‘That's okay,' she replied. ‘I'm tired.'

She was stating the obvious, she knew. But what else could she say?
I'm
bored. I'm frustrated. I love Rory, but sometimes I feel like I could kill Digby.

She searched for the right words, the honest ones.

‘Being a mother is the hardest thing I've done in my life,' she said, staring at her hands. Her nails were shorter than they'd ever been, just like her hair. It came with the territory of motherhood: pragmatism was king. She'd even stopped wearing her engagement ring lately; it had a habit of connecting with Digby's flailing limbs.

Willem pulled away and looked at her. ‘Sure, it's tough at times,' he said. ‘But there's more pleasure than pain involved, isn't there?'

How would you know? she thought. Your experience of parenting is always mediated by me.

‘Mmmm,' she murmured.

He poured himself another glass of wine, topping hers up too.

‘I checked the credit card statement today,' he said suddenly. ‘What's Computerworld?'

‘Oh, I was going to tell you about that. It's a data recovery place.'

‘And it's costing us a thousand dollars to get your hard disk back?'

His tone said it all.

She steeled herself.

‘Actually, that's just the deposit. It's going to cost three thousand. I can email you the diagnostic report, the hard disk is . . .'

‘I don't need to see the fucking diagnostics,' he snapped. ‘You've been taken for a ride.'

She sat back in her chair, chastened. She loathed it when he swore.

‘No, I haven't.' Her voice was calm. ‘The guy who's doing it is a friend of Ginie's.'

Willem pursed his lips. ‘So I should feel better about being ripped off, should I, if someone from your mothers' group is involved?'

She stood up. Her legs were shaking.

‘Well, thanks
so
much for your understanding. Half my life's on that computer, which
your
son's done a good job of destroying, in his usual fashion.'

Willem's eyes narrowed. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Tell me,' she said. ‘How much did you spend on your last Armani suit? More than three thousand dollars, I'm sure. But I wouldn't know the exact price, would I, because I don't watch your expenditure like a fucking hawk.'

She slammed her wine glass down on the table so hard the base cracked.

Willem slept in the guest room that night.

Is it really only eleven o'clock?

She'd been up with Rory since the ungodly hour of quarter to five. He'd woken up crying and she'd been unable to resettle him. Willem had walked past her at seven thirty, on his way to work. He'd ignored her and hadn't even said goodbye to the children. She'd smiled brightly at Digby, pretending nothing was wrong.

She went to the pantry and removed the bread, the peanut butter and the Vegemite. She'd learned the hard way that more sophisticated ingredients— avocado, alfalfa, hummus or grated carrot—would only be ignored or, worse still, flung across the table or floor.

‘Time for sandwiches,' she called.

Digby bounded into the kitchen. ‘Peanut butter, peanut butter, peanut butter!'

‘Okay, sit down, Dig, I'll just get Rory.'

She walked into the lounge room, bent over the playpen and lifted Rory into the air.

‘Hi, sweetie,' she said, bouncing him above her head. Rory cackled with delight. If only she had more one-on-one time with him, perhaps life wouldn't feel like so much drudgery.

She walked back into the kitchen and stopped dead. Digby had scaled the bench and was now balanced on the edge of the kitchen sink, waving a long-handled knife in his right hand.

‘Digby,' she gasped. ‘Put that down, it's dangerous.'

‘Ya ya ya!' he laughed, swinging it above his head.

She placed Rory in his high chair and approached Digby cautiously, as a zookeeper might approach a cobra. How had he scaled the bench in a matter of seconds?

‘Dig, I don't want you to fall and cut yourself,' she warned.

‘Fuck fuck.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Fuck fuck,' he repeated.

She was aghast.

‘Where did you learn that?'

‘Daddy,' he said. ‘Daddy says it on the telephone. Fuck fuck.'

Her hands fell to her sides. She'd never heard Willem use the word in Digby's presence.

‘Well,' she said quietly, ‘I don't care what Daddy says. It's not nice. Now put the knife down and I'll help you to climb off the bench.'

‘No.'

She took a step towards him.

It happened as if in slow motion. Digby raised his arm and threw the knife, with all the expertise of a trained ninja. It whizzed past her ear and speared into Rory's tray table, landing within centimetres of Rory's fingers. Unaware of the danger, Rory watched with interest as the knife quivered before him, like an arrow in a bull's-eye. She swooped down on it, pulling it free and out of his reach.