Desert Fish (21 page)

 

I waited until the middle of the afternoon. I counted out my change and made sure to leave some, just in case. Then I eased myself out of the hospital bed. The floor did not disappear beneath me. My feet moved easily over it, even though my steps were small. I could feel the place where I had been stitched and I thought I'd not been properly joined together again.

It was quiet, a drowsy afternoon, and in the nurses' station they were having their afternoon tea. I heard the clink of their cups, their quiet casual banter. I kept my head down as I walked past the nursery.

The coins slipped easily from my fingers although it was not a call I'd planned to make.

My mother began to speak and then stopped, waiting for the beeps that showed it was a long distance call.

‘Hel–' And softly, after the beeps, she tried again.
‘Hello.' She was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘It's you, Gilly, isn't it?'

I didn't talk at first, and she said nothing either. I listened to her breathing carefully, as if afraid that too deep, too loud a breath might frighten me away.

‘Gilly,' she said, after a time. ‘Are you okay?' She paused. ‘Has it happened yet?'

‘Yes,' I said. She waited and I knew I should elaborate, but I didn't want to open up the gates to all those other things. I felt them press at me. Pushing out and up. I squeezed my eyes shut and I saw the baby there. I wanted to ask my mother about that vast space inside me. When would it be empty? Would I feel better then?

‘And are you … is he looking after you?'

‘Oh yes,' I said. ‘He bought me so many things. A romper suit. One in white, and a few in yellow. The white one is knitted and the others are made of towelling. And a crocheted blanket. Some nappies and muslin cloths. And booties. All the things I need.'

There was an awkward silence.

‘Do you want to come home?' my mother said. ‘You can come home, Gilly, if you need to.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I already told you he's looking after me.'

‘Gilly.' My mother took a breath. ‘You know, I thought you'd come back. I thought you'd come back with him.' She rushed over her words. ‘It was good when he was here, wasn't it? Everything was okay. I really thought you'd come back with him.'

‘Did you?' A bubble of laughter escaped.

She continued. ‘But Gilly,' she said, ‘if you need to come home now, it'll be fine. I promise.'

‘What will be fine?' I asked.

She was silent.

‘Why do you want me to come home?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Now that I've gone. Now that it's just you and Dad.'

I listened to her ragged breathing. Static peppered the silence between each breath. I wanted to say something that was real and straightforward, that my mother couldn't question. But I couldn't say the things we both knew.

I felt the tears then, and there was a catch in my throat too. I was somebody else now, I reminded myself. I was in another place, fresher, cleaner, and this emptiness I felt was right too. It was the way I ought to feel.

‘Look, I've got to go.'

‘No, don't go, Gilly. When did you have it? That's why you're calling, isn't it? To tell me how it went. Was it a boy or a girl? What did you have?'

I swallowed. I whispered. ‘I had a baby.'

My mother was silent for a moment. ‘Where can I call you?' she asked. ‘Where are you?'

‘It was a long way away, wasn't it?'

‘Are you still at the address we got from McGill's, Gilly?'

‘I'm right where you want me to be,' I said. ‘Don't worry.'

‘Tell me where you are,' she said. ‘I'll come see you.'

‘I'll let you know,' I said. But I knew I wouldn't. And if I did, she wouldn't come anyway.

‘Don't hang up, Gilly,' my mother pleaded. ‘I'll call you back.'

‘I have to go,' I said. ‘The money's run out.' And then I pulled at the chrome shine of the lever so that her voice grew small and fuzzed into nothing long before I replaced the handset.

I said I only bathed my baby once but that's a lie. I did bathe her again. One more time.

I lay in my bed after I talked to my mother on the phone. I closed my eyes and I thought of that river and all the parts of it I knew. I used to search for the quietest spots for my father and my mother. I wanted to find the ones she'd approve of, so she wouldn't mind going there with him. Once, only weeks after my dad finished with Yvonne Martin, I found a curved bay with a broad sweep of sand, like a beach, but in miniature. I'd turned ten by then. I wanted them to notice how I was old enough now to know the places they'd prefer. I harped on about it until they went there with me.

Upriver some teenagers were swimming and their shouts rose and echoed around the steep banks. Water glittered in the air as they splashed and kicked. Sometimes one of them would bob into the middle of the river on a rubber raft or a tyre tube. I was pleased when my
father struck out into the water. I didn't want him to be distracted. If he heard them having fun he might want to swim up to their spot. He could be like that, always wanting to be where other people were, thinking he was missing out on what they had. But he liked the place I'd found. The sand sloped so gently into the water you could wade in and glide straight into a strong stroke, and this was what he did. Beside me, my mother lay on a towel, turning every few minutes to reveal a new patch of her skin to the sun. ‘Could be a proper beach,' she murmured, ‘if you kept your eyes closed.' She was trying not to taste the mossy smell that hung in the air.

‘Come on, Maureen,' my father called to her. ‘Come on in.' Then he turned and ducked under, knowing that she would follow him.

‘Wait here, Gilly,' she said breathlessly. ‘I won't be long.'

When she reached him I watched them tread water, and once or twice they turned and waved at me. Sometimes my father would dive down to where I knew the water was brown and opaque. My mother searched the surface and then disappeared after him. I watched and waited, wondering if they would resurface. They always did.

After a while they headed for the other bank. I moved to the water's edge and trailed my fingers in the shallows. There were willows shading the place where they had swum to and only paddocks and cattle beyond that. There was nothing of the town on that side.

My father lay face down on the gravelly shingle, to rest. My mother smoothed her hands across his back and pushed her fingers into his wet hair and then lay down beside him. I knew they would stay there dozing until they were dry and hot and ready to swim back. Until then, her eyes would be closed. Behind them would be my dad's face. When I dream, she told me, it's always your dad I dream of. I pushed my feet into the coarse sand beneath the towel. I wondered if they'd forgotten about me.

Remembering that now, I pressed my feet into the mattress, agitated. Outside the blue of the sky was hard and bright as a gemstone. I could still picture my mother pushing her hands into my dad's hair that way she did. And then I saw her with the envelope that Pete had left, sliding her hand into it and pulling out the notes, telling me, ‘I'll get your ticket, Gilly. It's time you went to him.' I was swelling by then. I was visibly changed. She knew how he should see me. She wanted to be sure he wouldn't send me away.

I shifted in the bed, sore between my legs and unable to get comfortable. I rose and went into the corridor. There were only a few babies in the nursery. Mostly in the daytime their mothers took them into their rooms, or into the courtyard where there was a tree and a shaded bench and the nurses would bring you tea.

The bathroom was empty.

I filled the sink first. I tested the water like they showed me, and I went and got her.

A nurse found me again, like the first time. I can't remember who it was. Not the one with the red hair. Maybe the one with the lipstick. The only clear recollection I have is of her sharp intake of breath. Then being pushed out of the way and the baby being snatched from the sink.

‘Go back to your room.'

‘But I –'

‘Just go back to your room.'

‘But … What's the matter?'

Someone else was in the room now, a midwife. She was mouthing words to the nurse. ‘Quick. Get her out of here,' she said.

Another nurse had come in. It was the one who'd asked me if I was pleased about my baby. ‘I'll do this,' she said to them, already leading me away. ‘Best you just rest for a while,' she murmured to me.

‘But I need to make a call. I need to phone my husband.'

‘I think you need to stay in your room.'

‘Can I phone him after dinner?'

‘Alright,' she said. ‘But you need to tell us when you do.'

The call box was close to the nurses' station. They would want to be sure I wasn't going near the nursery.

‘I didn't mean to hurt her,' I said.

The nurse put her hand at my elbow.

‘She's not hurt, is she?'

‘I'll take you back to your room.'

I looked about, vaguely, for the baby, but they had taken her away. They didn't want me near her now.

I wondered if I was in trouble.

The nurse still had my elbow cupped in her hand. I let her steer me along the corridor.

‘I'll be okay when my husband comes,' I said, thinly.

She smiled and I saw that she didn't believe me. She was looking about her, probably to see what was happening with the baby. I couldn't hear anything from the nursery. I had no idea where they'd taken her.

They said she was strong but what did they know? They didn't know anything about her.

 

Of course I didn't go to phone Pete like I'd told the nurses I would. I didn't have a number. I waited until after dinner, when the lights were turned down on the ward but bedside lamps were still on. When they said it was okay to use the phone I called Nora. I wanted her to come and get me. I thought if I could go back to the house I would get a clearer picture of what I should do next.

But it was Pete who answered the phone.

‘Gilly?' He sounded different. Less sure of himself.

I didn't hesitate, or improvise. I felt myself unfolding, the decision making itself. ‘You have to come and get me now, Pete.'

‘Are you sure?' he asked.

‘There's only me,' I told him. ‘I'm in the hospital, but I need to go now.'

‘Nora told me,' he said.

‘Did she?' I was genuinely surprised.

‘Yes,' he said.

‘When?'

‘Just now.'

I fingered the faintly lined paper Nora had given me with her number on it. ‘Where have you been, Pete?'

‘Working at a mine. In the desert.'

We paused for a moment: the yawning silence was frightening. There were too many things it was dangerous to say.

‘Well anyway,' I said, ‘you have to come get me now. And you mustn't worry, Pete, I'll be on my own.' I almost felt his relief in the silence. On my own, I thought, he would want me again.

‘Are you sure about this, Gilly?' he said. ‘I have to go back to my job. It's a long way away. It's in the desert. I can ask Nora to come and get you.'

‘No,' I said. ‘I've taken care of everything, Pete. But the thing is, I have to go now. Today. I can't explain. But I think …' I felt my heart begin to skip. ‘It's just, I have to go quickly.'

‘Okay,' he said. ‘I'll be there as soon as I can.'

I rested my head in the hand that wasn't holding the receiver and I thought of the desert and felt a wave of relief. ‘My things are still there, in my room,' I told him. ‘They're in the blue suitcase under the bed. You should bring them for me.'

‘Okay.'

‘And Pete, you should come quietly,' I said. ‘Come late.'

‘Gilly –'

I didn't give him a chance to interject. ‘After midnight is best. I'll be ready.'

I told him where to find me, and then I listened to him there, breathing quietly down the line. ‘Okay, then,' I said. ‘I'll see you soon.' It felt safe then to hang up.

Soft laughter came from the desk along the corridor where the nurses sat. Everything will be fine, I thought. If they're laughing, that baby must be okay. They wouldn't be laughing if I'd done anything really awful. The best thing was just to get away.

The night lights painted a yellowish glow across the ceiling that seemed to colour rather than illuminate the hall. Even though it wasn't dark, I felt I couldn't really see what was around. Along the hall I heard a baby whimper and somebody hushed at it, softly, in the bleach-bright night.

Pete stares out at the red flats, the saltbush and the dust. He breathes noisily and his breath smells strong and stale.

My hands are splayed across my thighs. Even though my nails are bitten close to the quick there's a rim of dust lining them above the pink varnish. It looks so foolish now, that pink – my girlish optimism. I've not had my hands in the dirt and I'm surprised that it has managed to find me, to embed itself beneath my nails, to spread itself against my skin.

I've still got all those things from the bag in my lap, the toothbrush, the notebook, the shaving cream and the envelope. The key.

‘Put them away, Gilly,' Pete says.

‘I can't.'

‘Please put them away.'

‘I want to keep them here. They make me feel stronger.'

‘Don't make me say it, Gilly.' Pete rubs his hands along the tops of his legs and then folds his arms across his chest. The heat in the car is suffocating but at least it's not too bright. He leans back and when he sees I'm not going to put them away, he speaks.

‘Thing is,' he says, ‘I left the toothbrush because I needed a new one. The shaving cream was nearly finished. It wasn't worth taking. I bought some more. The notebook: I had nothing written down that I wanted to keep, so I left it. I'm sorry, Gilly. It's as simple as that. And that money – I don't know what your mother told you but I left it to cover the rent arrears. For leaving without giving her notice. When I went, it was because it was time to go. And if I'd had any idea you were going to follow me, I'd have told you not to. I'm sorry about the baby. I didn't mean to leave anything behind.'

‘But why did it happen with us?' I ask him.

‘Oh Gilly. I thought … It was just one of those things. I don't know what I was thinking. Whatever it was, I wasn't seeing us like this.'

‘God, you're so weak,' I spit. ‘You're all over the place. You don't know what you're saying. If you didn't see us like this then why did you come and get me from the hospital? I told you I was on my own. There was no need to do it. What was I supposed to think?'

‘That's a bit rich coming from you, Gilly,' Pete counters angrily. ‘It's not like I set out to deceive you. I left a few bits and pieces that you made too much of. But you … what have you left behind? At best, you've left that baby
there, with no-one. And at worst … well I don't know what the hell you've done. You won't say.'

‘Why did you come for me, then?' I ask. ‘Why did you bring me away with you?'

My head hurts, my forehead is slippery with sweat and I know I'm sick. Really sick. The ache I felt earlier has settled into a sharp crawling pain, like a contraction, low down and gripping me now. It's not going to go away, it's only going to get worse.

Pete says nothing.

‘Pete?'

‘Does it matter, Gilly? I got you, didn't I? I came and got you, and now we're here, where you wanted to be.'

I keep my eyes to the front, looking out at the rusty landscape, the sharp outlines and the hard sky. There's nothing but the truth now. There's no place left for anything else. I have to be ready. ‘Just say it, Pete.'

He sighs and rubs at the knuckle of one hand with a dirty thumb.

‘It's too late to change anything,' I say. ‘What's done is done. You might as well just say it.' I turn my head to him without lifting it because my neck hurts. I rest my eyes on him, squinting to bring him into focus. ‘Why did you come and get me from the hospital?'

He whispers. He sounds like someone else. ‘Because of Nora. When she registered you in my name, I knew she wasn't going to back down.'

I picture the hospital bracelet. I remember how I felt, having his name.

‘I came home hoping you'd be gone. And when I got there Nora said she'd named me as the father of your baby. She was angry with me, see, for leaving her in the middle of my mess,' Pete says. ‘She wasn't going to let me run off. I came to get you because if I didn't, Nora would have. She wouldn't have left you there. I suppose I felt like I owed it to her.'

‘Yes.'

‘And then, when you said you had to leave, I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know what you meant, Gilly, or what you'd done. I came and got you because it felt …' He searches for the right thing to say. ‘It felt more dangerous not to. Either way, I didn't really have a choice. I didn't want you, and I didn't want the baby. I came to get you, Gilly, because I didn't feel I had any other choice.'

It's said now and our baby is there between us. He has acknowledged her and abandoned her at the same time.

Pete turns and stares out the window. His fingers are curled tightly into his palms, knuckles bursting under the skin. He trembles.

I'm too hot and dry and spent to cry. I press my fingers at the soft empty flesh of my stomach and I fill up with a feeling for my baby who truly belongs to no-one now. I can see her when I look out at the untidy red sand, the flat sky, I can see what she was like the last time I put her down and the milk rises in me, drying my mouth and dampening my shirt.

‘I did it for you, Pete,' I say, quietly. ‘I left her there so I could be with you.'

‘I know.'

With his head down, jaw tight, I can see that we have reached the same place, but he is far away from me. I feel sorry for him. He can't bear the sort of attachment I promise. But I can't help the way I've hung on to him. I am heavy with the things I want, coated in a film of something I can't wash away.

Pete runs his thumb back and forth over his knee and says nothing.

After that we just sit there. There are no moments to savour. No threads to hang on to. There's no going back. A fly buzzes about me, hovering over the place where the milk has dried and soured on my shirt. At first I flick at it, but then another one joins it and I give in and just let them crawl there.