What Alice Forgot (49 page)

Elisabeth said irritably, “Don't you have things to do?”

“Nothing more important than this.”

Elisabeth grimaced and pulled at the blanket so it came away from Alice's legs. Alice pulled it back over her.

M*A*S*H
finished and Elisabeth changed the channel. Audrey Hepburn's delicate features filled the screen. Elisabeth switched it again to a cooking show.

Alice felt like coffee. She wondered if it would break the moment, whatever this moment was, if she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup to bring back to bed. Oh, for a Dino's large double-shot skim latte.

Dino.

She dived for her handbag, which she'd left on the floor next to the bed and rummaged through it. She pulled out the fertility doll and carefully placed it on the sheets between herself and Elisabeth. It looked back at them with inscrutable boggle-eyes. Alice angled it so it was facing Elisabeth.

More time passed and Elisabeth said, “Okay, what is that thing?”

“It's a fertility doll,” said Alice. “Dino from the coffee shop gave it to me to give to you.”

Elisabeth picked it up and examined it. “I guess he's trying to insure against me kidnapping more of his customers' children.”

“Probably,” agreed Alice.

“What am I meant to do with it?”

“I don't know,” said Alice. “You could bring it sacrificial offerings?” Elisabeth rolled her eyes. There was a glimmer of a smile.

Elisabeth put the doll on the bedside table next to her.

“It would be due in January,” she said. “If it . . .”

“Well, that seems like a good time to have a baby,” said Alice. “It wouldn't be too cold when you got up in the night to feed.”

“There won't be any
baby
,” said Elisabeth viciously.

“We could ask Dad to put in a good word for you,” said Alice. “He must be able to pull some strings up there.”

“Do you think I didn't ask Dad with the other pregnancies?” said Elisabeth. “I prayed to the lot of them. Jesus. Mary. Saint Gerard. He's meant to be the patron saint of fertility. None of them listened. They're ignoring me.”

“Dad wouldn't be ignoring you,” said Alice, and her father's face was suddenly clear in her mind. So often she could only remember the face that appeared in photos, not the face from her own memory. “Maybe he's got to deal with a lot of bureaucrats in Heaven.”

“I don't think I believe in life after death anyway,” said Elisabeth. “I used to have all these romantic ideas about Dad taking care of my lost babies, but then it got out of hand. He'd be running a whole bloody day care center.”

“At least it would take his mind off the sight of Mum and Roger salsa-dancing,” said Alice.

This time Elisabeth definitely smiled.

She said, “Mum remembers all my due dates. She calls first thing in the morning and chats, doesn't say anything about the date, just chats away.”

“She seems good with the children,” said Alice. “They adore her.”

“She's a good grandma,” sighed Elisabeth.

“I guess we've forgiven her,” said Alice.

Elisabeth turned to look at her sharply, but she didn't say “Forgiven her for what?”

It was something they'd never really talked about (well, as far as Alice knew they'd never talked about it); the way Barb had stopped being a mother after their dad died. She'd just given up. It had been shocking. Overnight, she became a mother who couldn't care less if they left the house without warm clothes, or if they cleaned their teeth, or if they ate vegetables—and did that mean she'd only been
pretending
to care before? Even months afterward, she just wanted to drift around all day, holding their hands while she cried over photo albums. That's when Frannie had stepped in and given their lives structure and rules again.

Alice and Elisabeth had stopped thinking of Barb as their mother and more as a slightly simple older sister. Even when she eventually recovered and started trying to exert her authority, they didn't really let her be the mother again. It was a subtle but definite form of revenge.

“Yes,” said Elisabeth after a while. “I guess we did eventually forgive her. I don't know when exactly, but we did.”

“It's strange how things work out.”

“Yes.”

They watched an ad for a carpet sale, and Elisabeth spoke again. “I feel really angry. I can't tell you how angry I feel.”

“Okay,” said Alice.

More silence.

“We've wasted the last seven years trying to create a life for ourselves, just a standard suburban life with two-point-one kids. That's all we've been doing—we haven't been actually
living
—and now this will put everything on hold for a few months longer until I lose it, and then I'll have to get over that, and then Ben will be at me to fill in the adoption papers, and everybody will be all enthusiastic and supportive. ‘Oh, yes, adoption, how lovely, how
multicultural
!' And they'll expect me to forget this baby.”

“You might not lose it,” said Alice. “You might actually have this baby.”

“Of course I'm going to lose it.”

The cooking show host drizzled honey into a pan. “You must use nonsalt butter. That's the secret.”

Elisabeth said, “All I need to do is pretend I'm not pregnant, so that if I lose it, it won't hurt so much, but I can't seem to do that. And then I think, Okay, just be hopeful! Assume it will work. But then every moment I'm scared. Every time I go to the bathroom I'm scared of seeing the blood. Every time I go for an ultrasound I'm scared of seeing their faces change. You're not meant to worry, because stress is bad for the baby, but how can I not worry?”

“Maybe you could delegate the worrying to me,” said Alice. “I could worry all day long for you! I'm an excellent worrier, you know that.”

Elisabeth smiled and looked back at the television. The cooking show host pulled something out of the oven and sniffed rapturously. “Voilà!”

Elisabeth said, “I should have driven over straightaway when Gina died, and I didn't. I'm sorry.”

How strange, thought Alice. Everyone had to apologize for something to do with Gina's death.

“Why didn't you?”

“I didn't know if you'd want me there,” said Elisabeth. “I felt as if I'd say the wrong thing. You and Gina were such a pair, and you and I, we've . . . drifted.”

Alice moved closer to Elisabeth, so their thighs were touching. “Well, let's drift back.”

The credits were rolling on the cooking show.

“I'm going to lose this baby,” said Elisabeth.

Alice put a hand over onto Elisabeth's stomach.

“I'm going to lose this baby,” said Elisabeth again.

Alice put her face down close. She said, “Come on, little niece or nephew. Why don't you just stick around this time? Your mum has been through so much for you.”

Elisabeth picked up the remote, turned off the television, and began to cry.

 

 

“I like the lions,” said Dominick.

It was nine o'clock at night and he was standing at the front door, holding a packet of chocolate biscuits, a bottle of liqueur, and a bunch of tulips. He was wearing jeans and a faded checked shirt, and he needed a shave.

Alice looked at George and Mildred, back in their old places, guarding the house. It had been an exhausting effort, cleaning them up, and then she'd had to use a wheelbarrow to get them out to the front of the house. Now she couldn't decide if they looked quirky and fun, or grubby and tacky. “I just thought I'd drop by on the off chance you felt like some company,” he said. “If you're too busy planning for tomorrow . . .”

Alice hadn't been doing anything, except lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and thinking vague thoughts about Elisabeth's baby, and Nick: “trying again.” Nick seemed to think they should start out with a “date.” “Maybe a movie,” he'd said, and Alice had wondered how hard they would have to “try” as they sat in the movie. Would they have to eat their popcorn really enthusiastically? Have an especially animated conversation afterward? Score each other on how many times they'd been funny, their levels of affection? Would they have to
try
to kiss as romantically as possible? No, she didn't want any of this “trying.” She just wanted Nick to move back home and for everything to be the way it should be. She was tired of all this nonsense.

It had been an exhausting day. All the children had sports, one after the other. Olivia played netball (lots of histrionic leaping about but not much actual contact with the ball), Tom played soccer (excellently—scored two goals!), and Madison played hockey (abysmally, miserably). “Do you enjoy it?” Alice had asked her as she came off the field. “You know I hate it,” Madison had answered. “So why do you play it?” “Because
you
say I have to play a team sport,” she'd answered. Alice had gone straight up to the coach and pulled Madison from the team. Both the coach and Madison were thrilled.

Alice had various duties at each game that she had somehow fulfilled smoothly, almost as if she wasn't an impostor in her own life. She'd kept score at Madison's hockey game. She'd helped cook the sausage sizzle at Tom's soccer game. Incredibly, she'd even
umpired
Olivia's netball. Someone had handed her a whistle, and even as Alice was saying, “No, no, I couldn't possibly,” the cool shape of the whistle felt right in her hand. Next thing she was striding up and down the sideline, blowing sharply on the whistle, while strange words and phrases flew from her mouth. “Step!” “Held ball!” “Goal attack, you were off side.” The children obeyed without question.

Nick had been there at all the games. There had been no time to talk. He had duties, too. He had to be the referee for Tom's soccer game. We're such
parents
, Alice had thought with a mixture of pride and fear—because, was that the problem? Was that why they would have to “try”? Because she was a “mum” and he was a “dad,” and mums and dads were generic, boring, and not very sexy. (That's why kissing still went on in laundries at parties? To remind them that they were once randy teenagers?)

Tomorrow was Mother's Day. Mega Meringue Day. The “big day.” Probably Alice should have been preparing things—finishing off paperwork, making last-minute phone calls to check people had done what they were meant to do, but she wasn't especially interested in Mega Meringue Day. Anyway, the committee had seemed to have things under control the other day.

“Come in,” she said to Dominick, her eyes on the chocolate biscuits.

“The children asleep?” he asked.

“Yes, although—” She was about to say something lighthearted about Tom probably still playing with his Nintendo under the covers, but the haircutting experience with Madison made her stop. It would be like ratting on her son to the school principal.

“How was Kate about Chloe's hair?” she asked.

“Predictably hysterical,” said Dominick.

“I left a message apologizing,” said Alice. “She never called back.”

“You understand that I didn't have any choice but to suspend Madison?” said Dominick, as Alice took the flowers out of his hands. “I didn't want . . .”

“Oh, yes, of course, don't worry about it. These are beautiful, by the way. Thank you.”

Dominick put down the biscuits on the counter and twisted the bottle of liqueur around and around in his hands.

He said, “I'll know when you get your memory back.”

“How?” said Alice.

“By the way you look at me. Now you have this friendly, polite way of looking at me, as if you don't really know me, as if we never even . . .”

Oh God, little Chloe Harper was right. They had “done sex.”

He put down the bottle of liqueur and moved closer to her.

No, no, no. Not another kiss. That would be wrong. That would not be within the spirit of “trying.”

“Dominick,” she said.

The doorbell rang.

“Excuse me,” said Alice.

It was Nick at the front door.

He was holding a bottle of wine, cheese, biscuits, and a bunch of tulips identical to the ones Dominick had brought over. They must be on special at some local shop.

“You've fixed the lions,” said Nick, delighted. He bent down and patted George on the head. “Gidday, old mate.”

“I should be going.” Dominick had come to the front door. Alice saw his gaze take in the flowers and wine.

“Oh, hi.” Nick straightened, his smile disappearing. “I didn't realize, I won't stop—”

“No, no. I was just going,” said Dominick firmly. “I'll see you tomorrow.” He touched Alice on the arm and ran lightly down the steps.

“Was I interrupting something?” Nick followed her down the hallway and saw Dominick's bunch of tulips. “Oh. Everyone is bringing offerings tonight.”

Alice yawned. She longed for her life to be normal again. A Saturday night at home. She wanted to say, “I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed,” and for Nick to say, without turning his head from the television, “Okay, I'll just finish watching this movie and I'll be up.” And then she wanted them to read their books together and switch off the lamps and fall asleep. Who have thought that a Saturday night at home would ever seem so impossibly exotic?