The Mothers' Group (40 page)

It had been months, years even, since she'd thought of Ravi. And then, out of the blue, he'd waltzed into her life once again. One moment she'd been visiting Pippa in a spartan hospital room, the next, she'd found herself looking into Ravi's warm chocolate eyes.

She'd replayed the events in her mind over and over. If only she hadn't visited Pippa on that particular day, at that particular time, she never would have seen Ravi. She never would have agreed to meet him for a cup of chai the following month, for old time's sake. She never would have relished the news of his unhappy marriage and divorce, or started emailing him again. And she never would have entertained the hope of—what exactly?—that had led her to invite him, on the spur of the moment, to call in at Astrid's birthday party at precisely the time she knew Richard
wouldn't
be there.

She hated herself. Just one cup of chai with Ravi, and she'd been hijacked by dormant feelings that commonsense demanded she ignore. She'd been thrilled by his attention, intoxicated by the possibility of a relationship reignited. She would leave Richard, she'd fantasised, and start life anew. Astrid would come with her and, in time, she'd adjust to the new environment. Cara and Richard would be gracious in separation, with an orderly schedule of care and visitation for Astrid. She and Ravi would try for a baby and, together, they would build the life they'd been destined to live since their very first meeting.

Her folly had been frivolous and fatal.

Often now she would sit, twisting the lid on and off her prescription sedatives. She would relive the events at Manly Dam: the excitement of seeing Ravi, dark and striking, loitering on the periphery. Their brief, enticing meeting. Ravi had brought a gift for Astrid and, as he passed it to her, bent forward to kiss her, his lips brushing hers. Their unhurried conversation, all laughter and shining eyes, about nothing in particular. How she'd noticed the chest hairs protruding above his buttoned shirt and how, when she'd looked up, he'd smiled at her with that same knowing smile of their first and only night together. How he'd asked her to lunch the following Wednesday and she'd nodded, her heart pulsing in her ears. How she'd turned on her heels and, without another word, hurried back to the party.

And then, how the world as she knew it had collapsed around her.

Now, three months on, she couldn't remember how Astrid had looked when they pulled her from the dam. It was not uncommon, the psychiatrist had explained, for the human brain to erase the most damaging memories. But she could still recall the creeping fear, then the instant, indescribable horror. Followed by misery and shame without end.

In the first month after Astrid's death, she would often sit and pour all the pills from the bottle onto the bed. Then she would scoop the fat tablets into her palms and watch them slide between her fingers, like sand through a child's sieve. Once, Richard had found her like that.

‘What are you doing?' he'd asked, hovering in the doorway.

She didn't reply. She hadn't spoken to him, to anyone, since Astrid's death.

‘I'm going to take them away, Cara.' His eyes were red with fatigue. ‘I'll give you what you need for the day, but no more.'

She stared at him, glad he was sleeping in the spare bedroom now. She couldn't bear the human contact.

Since then, he had doled out her medication. She would tip three of the four tablets into her mouth and swallow them with water, deftly concealing the fourth pill. When Richard left the room she would slip it into a pencil case she hid under the mattress. For two months she'd been doing that, waiting to see if something might change for her, if the feelings might shift, even slightly. But they hadn't. Every day was like the one before it: a shower, three meals, the expanse of white ceiling above her head. The dull, unrelenting pain of Astrid's absence. Richard's futile attempts to lure her beyond the bedroom before retreating, defeated, to his work.

She'd collected fifty-six tablets in two months, but she wanted to be sure. In two weeks, she would reach her target of seventy.

‘There's someone here to see you.'

She stared at Richard as if he'd spoken a foreign language. Since the funeral, she'd refused all visitors, even her parents. Richard had been more than considerate, diverting phone calls, steering away concerned friends, vetting the post. In the early weeks, he'd taken delivery of the countless flower arrangements that had congregated in the empty spaces of their home. Such flowers were rare now that the crisis period had passed, with the exception of Ravi's regular bouquets. Most of her friends had respected her wish to be left alone. But the media interest had continued unabated and much to Cara's dismay, people she'd never met attempted to contact her. Many of the letters arrived at Richard's office, after a newspaper article cited the name of his accounting firm. According to Richard, most of the letters were well-meaning. Some contained offers of help or prayers. Others offered ‘opinion', he said, which was code for judgement. She couldn't bring herself to read any of them.

‘It's some of the women from your mothers' group,' Richard told her. ‘Without their children.'

She shook her head.

‘I knew you'd say that.' He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

‘You've got to try, Cara.' He rubbed his hands over the ginger stubble on his jaw. ‘I don't know what to do. I've tried to support you, but she was
my
daughter too.'

Tears ran down his face. He slumped to the floor, his head in his hands.

‘I don't know how much longer I can do this, Cara. You're not helping me. I miss her too. I miss
you
.' He looked up, his eyes haggard. ‘You can't closet yourself away up here. You can't stay silent forever.'

Earnest, dignified, kind-hearted Richard. Reduced to this.

‘Never
once
have I blamed you.' His voice shook. ‘If she'd died on my watch, how do you think you would've treated
me
?'

A noise escaped from the back of Cara's throat, a tiny guttural cry. She stared at Richard. They both knew the answer to his question.

‘Talk to me, Cara. If we try to get through this together, we might be okay.
Why
aren't you helping me?'

‘I'm sorry,' she croaked. Her first words in three months.

He looked at her, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

‘But it's not okay, Richard,' she whispered. ‘It will never be okay for us.'

Slowly, he stood up.

‘Show them in,' she said. ‘You don't have to protect me anymore.'

Richard paused for a moment in the doorway, then he nodded and closed the door behind him.

She made no attempt to smooth her hair or plump the pillows. Their footsteps on the stairs were deferential, like students visiting a war museum. She could sense them hovering, uncertain, in the purgatory outside her door.

‘Come in,' she said.

The doorknob turned slowly and Made peered around the door.

‘We no wake? Richard say okay.'

Cara shrugged.

They filed in. Made was first, wearing a bright blue sarong that trailed across the floor. Tiny silver studs were woven into the fabric, like stars dotting the night sky. Pippa was behind her, a different woman to the one she'd once been. Her skin was ruddy, tanned almost, and she wore slim cream pants and a navy singlet. She carried a large bunch of yellow roses, gripping them with both hands. Suzie followed Pippa, her long purple dress billowing at the ankles, an expression of acute discomfort on her face.

They hovered at the foot of her bed. She didn't invite them to sit down.

‘Where are the children?' she asked.

Suzie's mouth dropped open.

‘They're with Robert,' answered Pippa. ‘And Monika's helping too.'

‘That's good of them,' she said. ‘The babies must be so big by now.'

‘Oh, Cara.' Suzie covered her mouth. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘I know.'

‘How are you doing?' asked Pippa.

She didn't reply.

They stood in uncomfortable silence. She wanted them to leave.

‘We go see Miranda next week,' said Made suddenly. ‘Maybe Cara come? Next Thursday morning. She at Delamere Clinic.'

Cara had never heard of it.

‘It's a private treatment centre,' explained Pippa. ‘For people with alcohol and drug dependencies.'

Cara had been aware of the police interview with Miranda, who'd declared herself inebriated on the day of Astrid's death. But police investigations had delivered insufficient evidence of culpability on
anyone's
part, let alone Miranda's.

Despite the initial media frenzy surrounding possible kidnapping and paedophilia, the post-mortem report confirmed that Astrid had
not
been subjected to physical force or sexual interference of any kind. The cause of death, it submitted, was drowning.

The media had continued to trade in blame, however, scrutinising the roles of both Miranda and Cara in Astrid's death. Richard had stopped bringing her the newspaper in an attempt to shield her from public opinion. But for Cara, it was merely external verification of what she already knew: that her daughter had died that Sunday afternoon because Cara had failed her. No one else had been responsible, not even Miranda. Indeed, most days Cara lay in her bed anticipating a knock on the door, when the police would arrive and arrest
her,
the guilty party.

So it had come as a surprise, several months after Astrid's death, when the coroner had handed down his findings. She'd reread the letter from the lawyer a dozen times:
The coroner is satisfied that an inquest will not take
this matter any further. No suspicious circumstances were identified and it
has been determined that Astrid died of an accidental drowning death. The
matter will not progress to an inquest and it is unlikely to be referred for further
criminal investigation.

‘Cara.' Three figures hovered at the end of her bed.

Oh yes, she thought. They're still here.

‘I just wanted to say we're here for you,' said Suzie.

Made moved towards the bed. Cara stared at her sarong, mesmerised by its glittering silver orbs.

‘I bring this.' Made removed a small green basket from her bag. Plump rose petals, a sprig of passionfruit vine, a sweet biscuit and grains of rice were nestled within the wide green leaves lining the basket. She removed two incense sticks and a box of matches from the folds of her sarong.

‘I leave you to light. If you want to bring gods into room.'

Cara looked at her.

‘And this.' Made placed a scroll of white paper next to Cara's hand. ‘If you feel like to read.'

Cara nodded. ‘I'm tired now.'

They left quickly.

She lay staring at the ceiling as their footsteps retreated. Eventually, Richard tapped at the door.

‘Your sleeping tablets.' He passed her the four pills and a tall glass of water.

She held her thumb over one, tipping the rest into her mouth.

‘Was it okay, seeing the others?' He laid a hand over hers.

She stiffened, afraid he might discover the pill.

‘They . . .' She cast about for something to distract him. ‘They brought some nice things.' She nodded at the flowers.

‘What's this?' Richard picked up the scroll.

She slid the tablet under her leg.

‘I don't know.' She was irritable. ‘Open it.'

He undid the gold ribbon and unfurled the paper. ‘It's a letter,' he said. ‘I'll leave it for you to read.' He stood up from the bed, then turned to face her. ‘What you said this morning, about us . . . I don't agree. We can make it, Cara. We just need to get through it together, one day at a time.'

‘Richard,' she whispered. ‘Please.'

His shoulders sagged. He turned and left the room.

She felt for the tablet beneath her leg, then pulled the pencil case from its hiding place. She unzipped the case and dropped in the pill, exhaling with relief.

As she settled herself back against the pillows, her hand brushed the scroll. She picked it up and began to read.

Dear Cara,

This my first proper letter in English, so please forgive mistakes that definitely
inside here.

When I was younger girl, my brother die from blood fever. He is my
mother's joy. He the light in our family. After he die, my mother very
changed. She still has the sadness, even he die long time ago. I think now,
why my mother still sad, when brother unhappy if he know this? Then I
answer to myself, mother has no chance to heal inside since he die. She
never stop working, she never be still and let the gods help her.

I have some news. Gordon no longer have Australia job. This economy
crisis bad for his company, they ask him to stop work. We go back to Bali
now for a while. Cheaper in Bali to live. We stay there until Wayan is two
or three years, then we come back to Sydney for his lip operation. We stay
in my mountain village whole next year, maybe little more.

My family compound not big. But we have spare room for you. We have
noisy roosters that wake up at sunrise, but life in village is good. Time to be
still and have healing place.

I want to ask if you come with us, Cara?

I not very good friend for you, I know. Not many years together. But you
friend in my heart, in the sadness. You stay long in the village, you stay
short, it no matter. My family welcome you. Richard too, if that is the wish.

We leaving September 21.

You come with us, we happy. You no come with us, we no matter.

You call me if you liking.

Your friend,

Made