Three Wishes (30 page)

“I got some money when Marcus died. I didn’t know what to do with it. Mum wanted me to see a financial adviser. Then, I read a story about how a blindfolded monkey throwing darts did just as well at picking stocks as a professional. So, I got the list of stocks in the newspaper, closed my eyes, and pointed.”

“Gemma!”

“The next week that company made a big profit announcement and the shares went up by two hundred percent. I nearly fainted when I saw it in the paper. It was so exciting! I was hooked.”

“So, do you still close your eyes and pick?’

“Well, actually,” said Gemma, feeling a bit sheepish. “I’m more into technical analysis. I look at ratios. Trends.”

Lyn looked quite scandalized. “You’re kidding me.”

“I always liked math and economics at school. Remember? I used to come first all the time. I always thought I was the sort of
person who
shouldn’t
be good at math. But, um, it seems that I am.”

“So, why don’t you ever have any money?”

“I don’t spend it. I’ve never spent a cent of it. I just reinvest. And now I’ll have a good little trust fund for Cat’s baby.”

“Your baby.”

“Cat’s baby.”

As Gemma’s pregnancy progressed, Lyn’s tactics became nastier.

“You do realize,” Gemma heard her say to Cat one day, “that this baby will actually be related to Angela? The woman who stole your husband?”

Cat said, “I couldn’t care less. This is what Gemma wants! Not me.”

“Are you frightened of looking after a baby? Is that what it is?” Maxine asked Gemma. “Because you know I will help you.”

“Thanks, Mum. Cat will probably need your help,” answered Gemma.

“Gemma! Are you even listening to a single word I say?”

“You and your sister should stick to your guns!” said Frank. “People are too narrow-minded. Can’t think outside the square! I can think outside the square! I said to your mother, If this makes my girls happy, then I’m happy!”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“That Charlie was a lovely fellow,” said Nana Kettle. “I’m sure he would marry you if you told him! I’m sure he would! What does it matter if Dan is off being silly with his sister? I never liked that Dan much anyway.”

Tchaikovsky and Guacamole

Oh him! His name was Alan. Ancient history.

One night the two of us went to Opera in the Park. There was a big family group sitting in front of us. You know how crowded it gets. Alan was getting annoyed because their picnic stuff kept encroaching on our area and they were sort of noisy. But you know, it’s Opera in the Park, not opera at the Opera House!

But this family. They had, I don’t know, charisma! There was a midget-sized little old lady bossing everyone and a teenage girl wearing headphones. They also had a little baby girl crawling around. Dark curly hair and dimples. Irresistible. She was such a cutie. Anyway, about halfway through the night, this little girl was standing up, clutching on to some guy’s sleeve, when she suddenly started this sort of wobbly walk straight across their picnic blanket.

Well, obviously it was her first steps! Her family went wild! Clapping and pointing and grabbing for cameras. One woman started to cry.

The baby was beaming like a little show-off and somebody said, Watch the guacamole, and of course, her foot goes squelch in the dip and she topples sideways into somebody’s lap.

One of them said something like, “Now there’s a girl with style, she takes her first steps to Tchaikovsky.” I said to Alan, “Did you see that?” And he said, “Yeah, do you want to move somewhere else? They’re really ruining the night.”

And I thought, Nah-ah.

I gave have him his marching orders during
Beethoven’s Fifth.

Cat went with
Gemma for her ultrasound. They sat opposite each other in the quietly murmuring waiting room and engaged in a brief, silent tug-of-war when both of them reached for the most salacious-looking magazine on the coffee table.

Gemma argued, “I need the distraction from my bloated bladder,” which was true because after studying the Preparing for your Ultrasound instructions, Cat had made her drink four glasses of water that morning, instead of the required two. “The fuller the bladder, the better the picture. Drink up!”

Cat benevolently released her grip on the magazine. “Surely they can’t keep us waiting long, when they know you’re suffering.” A woman sitting next to Cat looked up from her magazine with a strained smile. “Just watch them.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Cat twisted around to glare at the staff behind the counter.

“I’m fine,” said Gemma. “Just don’t say anything funny.”

Cat bit the inside of her cheek, and Gemma chortled painfully.

“What? I’m not being funny.”

“I know, but you can tell it goes against all your natural instincts.”

Cat sighed, picked up another magazine, and started flicking
the pages a little feverishly. “Oh good, I can drop a dress size by Saturday night. I can’t believe they still run this sort of article. It’s no wonder Kara and her friends are so mixed up. You know what she told me the other day? She said she’s been trying really hard to catch just a
little
dose of anorexia and felt like a real loser because she couldn’t seem to manage it. She considered bulimia, but even the thought of it made her sick.”

“Stop making me laugh!”

“It’s not funny really. Anyway, now she’s interested in some boy. I’ve been trying to remember all the relationship mistakes I made when I was a teenager. What mistakes did you make?”

Before Gemma had a chance to answer Cat was distracted by a headline. “Ten Ways to Change Your Life by Tomorrow,” she read out loud. “What utter crap.” She was instantly absorbed in the article, looking both scornful and hopeful, her crossed foot kicking rhythmically as she read.

Gemma looked down at her own magazine and wondered what relationship advice she would give Kara.

She saw Kara swirling a new dress for her boyfriend, flushed and silly, saying “I love you” for the first time. She saw the boyfriend suddenly slamming kitchen drawers, his face ugly with rage. She saw herself striding into the kitchen, ignoring the boyfriend (just a boy after all, a gigantic little boy throwing a tantrum, there was nothing complex or mysterious about it), and taking Kara firmly by the elbow and marching her right on out of the kitchen.
No, it’s not normal. No, it’s not your fault. Walk away now, young lady.

“But I’m wearing a new dress!” Kara would whine. “I want to drink champagne!”

He’s going to do it again, you silly little girl! He’s going to do it again, again, and again until there’s nothing left of you.

“Are you all right?” Cat waved a hand in front of Gemma’s face. “What’s the matter? You’ve gone all red.” She lowered her voice. “You haven’t wet your pants, have you?”

Gemma gave a yelp of laughter and Cat stood up decisively. “Right. I’m going to see how long this is going to take.”

A few minutes later, thanks to Cat’s stand-over tactics, Gemma was lying on her back, while a cheerful, blue-uniformed girl called Nicki rubbed a gooey cold gel across her stomach.

“It’s my sister’s baby,” she explained to Nicki, so she’d treat Cat like someone important. “She’s adopting it for me.”

Nicki didn’t even blink at that, which was nice of her. “O.K. then, Mum,” she said to Cat. She gestured up at the TV monitor on the wall. “Keep your eye on that screen.”

Cat smiled stiffly and crossed her arms awkwardly across her chest. She’ll be wishing it was her and Dan here, thought Gemma, making their cool little jokes, holding hands while they watched their baby. Perhaps she should try and hold Cat’s hand? Except Cat would be aghast, of course.

Nicki began to rub a little instrument back and forth over Gemma’s stomach as if she were giving it a gentle polish. “In just a minute your baby will make his or her first public appearance!”

“We don’t want to know the sex,” said Cat sharply.

“My lips are sealed,” said Nicki.

Cat dropped her arms by her side as a grainy, alien landscape emerged on the screen. “Oh look!”

“It looks like the moon,” said Gemma, not really believing this picture had anything to do with her body; they probably showed the same picture to everyone. It probably
was the moon.

“Let me give you the guided tour,” said Nicki and she began to point out parts of the baby. The spine. The legs. The feet. The heart. Gemma smiled and nodded politely, fraudulently. It was nothing but fuzzy static. Change the channel, she imagined saying. Put something more interesting on. Cat on the other hand, seemed to genuinely believe she was looking at a baby. “Oh yes, I see,” she kept saying, and her voice was all shaky and full of some lovely maternal emotion that Gemma definitely was not feeling.

“Only one baby,” observed Nicki. “No twins.”

“Or triplets,” said Gemma.

“Heaven forbid!” chuckled Nicki.

That night, while Gemma did her house-sitting duties—chatting with the Violets, dusting dozens of tiny ornaments, listening to Mary Penthurst’s unappealing older sister, Frances, deliver her weekly phone lecture—another layer of her consciousness continued to consider the suddenly very urgent relationship advice for Kara.

“I was only saying to my friend today,” said Frances in her thin querulous voice, as if she were making this observation for the first time, “what an incredible amount of rent you must be saving!” It was a common complaint from the relatives of house-sitting clients, and Gemma knew exactly the right response—excessive gratitude.

“I know! I am
solucky! Every morning I think, I am solucky!”

Frances grunted but was mollified and moved on to the garden. “You did plant Mary’s sweet peas on St. Patrick’s Day? She’s been doing that religiously for the last twenty years, you know! It’s a funny little ritual of hers.” Gemma said, “I certainly did!” and imagined Kara cowering on a lounge, while her boyfriend raged about the way she’d flirted with one of his friends.
Everyone
saw it, said the boyfriend. Everyone was so embarrassed for me. You acted like such a dumb, stupid slut.

Gemma felt a white-hot flame of rage ignite like a blowtorch.
No, it’s not proof of how much he loves you! Please, sweetie, I know it seems hard, but just leave. It’s easy really. Stand up and walk out the door.
But Kara just sat there, in a stupor of fear and shame and apathy, and Gemma understood.

“You’ve been remembering to air that musty back room?” asked Frances.

“Absolutely,” said Gemma.

When Frances finally wilted and hung up, Gemma called Kara.

“Have you got a new boyfriend?”

“No.
Why are you asking that? Did Cat say something? She promised!”

“No, no! I just wondered. Look, Kara, it’s really important if you do get a boyfriend, that he’s really nice to you. O.K.? All the time. Not just some of the time.
All the time.”

There was silence. “O.K.,” said Kara slowly. “Thanks, Gemma. Um.
Friends is about to start.”

“Oh! Sorry. Bye then.”

She put down the phone and laughed out loud, imagining the condescending, “What a loony!” expression on Kara’s face. She would have plunked herself in front of the television and not given her step-auntie’s weird advice another thought.

Gemma sat down on the Penthursts’ soft floral sofa, which made her knees slide up to her chin, and stopped pretending to talk to Kara.

You were nineteen. You didn’t imagine it. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t secretly like it. When he died, it was weird and confusing. Of course it was. You loved him as much as you hated him. I’m sorry for being so nasty about it for all this time.

“I forgive you,” she said out loud. Who, Marcus? the Violets called out nosily from the windowsill.

No! I never
stopped forgiving him! Me. I forgive me for staying
with him. A pressure she didn’t know she was feeling suddenly released. It felt like she was unclenching her fists for the first time in a decade.

Someone did a ladylike little fart during “Beginner Yoga for Mums-to-Be.”

At the time everyone was lying flat on their backs, eyes shut, pinned to blue foam mats. The lights were dimmed and the cross-legged teacher was delivering gentle, melodic instructions: “Breathe in…one, two, three…and out…one, two, three.”

Gemma’s pupils danced behind her eyelids. That was not the slightest bit funny, she told herself sternly. You are not a schoolboy.

“Excuse
me!” The frothy hint of a giggle in the culprit’s voice
was irresistible. All around her Gemma sensed the quivering vibrations of chortling, pregnant women.

“Breathe in…” continued the teacher reprovingly, but it was too late, the class united in a gale of warm laughter.

And at that moment, as Gemma laughed with them, she felt a small but unmistakable movement in her belly, like the delicate flutter of a butterfly’s wings. It wasn’t like those other peculiar tummy rumbles she’d been experiencing; this was separate from her, yet part of her.
Well, hello there, little butterfly baby! So, you really are in there! Do you think it’s funny too?

As the class pulled themselves together and the teacher resumed her chanting, a single tear slid down Gemma’s cheek and straight into her ear, where it tickled.

Hello, sweetie! I’m your Auntie Gemma.

“It’s absolutely gorgeous.” Gemma stood in Cat’s spare room surveying the exquisite nursery that was emerging. “You’re so clever!”

“Yes, I am.” Cat looked content in her yellow paint-splattered overalls, a glass of red wine, a bag of pretzels, and a portable stereo on the floor next to her. “I didn’t realize home improvement could be so therapeutic. And check this out, I’ve been stocking up!” She opened the linen cupboard to reveal neatly stacked shelves of baby stuff—bibs, booties, disposable nappies, fluffy blankets. “Lyn’s been giving me things.”

“Oh, good! She must be coming around to the idea.”

“I don’t think so. Every time she hands something over, she says, “Don’t think this means I approve!”

“She might need that stuff for herself if she gets pregnant.”

“She told me yesterday they’ve revised the five-year plan. They’re going to wait until Maddie is three. She wants to expand the business this year, set up a franchise operation.”

“Gosh. She’s so
driven.”

“Michael told her he was leaving her if she didn’t hire an assistant.”

“Oh, that’s so lovely of him!”

“Yes, I was pleased with him. What’s your five-year plan, by the way? What are you going to do once the baby is born?” Cat gave her a sudden keen look.

“I work on five-minute plans,” said Gemma. “But lately, I have been thinking about getting a real job. Maybe I’ll go back to teaching. Or study again. Or maybe I’ll travel for a bit!”

“Gosh, Gemma,” Cat picked up her wineglass and grinned at her. “You’re so
driven.”

In August, when Gemma was seven months pregnant, Frank moved back into the family home at Turramurra.

A few weeks after, Maxine—not fooling anyone with her lighthearted tone—organized a “casual” family dinner. At the last minute Michael had to work, Nana got a better offer, and Kara offered to stay home and mind Maddie. So, for the first time in twenty-seven years, Frank, Maxine, and their three daughters found themselves sitting self-consciously around the dinner table.

“Well, I hope you girls all eat your vegetables these days!” Frank joked heartily, and then quickly jammed a huge forkful of food into his mouth, as if he’d heard his own words and realized how inappropriate they were, because the long-ago battles over vegetables hadn’t really been that funny.

When they were in kindergarten, Cat developed a psychotic aversion to “green-colored food.” “No
green!” she’d cry passion
ately, as if it were a religious belief. In Gemma’s memory there wasn’t a dinnertime where Maxine hadn’t raged, “You’re not leaving the table until you’ve finished every scrap on that plate!” They’d argue violently back and forth until Frank would suddenly explode, “Oh for Christ’s
sake,
leave the child alone!” and then it was no longer about Cat eating her vegetables, it was about Mum and Dad and hard, hating words and silent, vicious chewing and the cross clatter and scrape of cutlery across plates. “I’ll eat them!” Gemma would offer desperately. “I
love
green!” Lyn, her plate
cleared, would say in a tired, grown-up voice, “May I be excused?”