Page 89 of The Mother-in-Law

‘Of course he is.’ She avoids my gaze, the way she did when she was little and didn’t want to talk about something. ‘Of course he is.’

‘How are things with Patrick, Nettie?’ I ask. ‘Is your relationship . . . solid?’

She shrugs. ‘Sure it is.’

‘Really?’

Nettie looks up, takes in my sceptical expression and becomes guarded. ‘What?’ She sounds almost angry.

‘You know Patrick has been unfaithful, don’t you?’ I say. ‘You must know, Antoinette.’

The expression on Nettie’s face—a kind of bewildered rage—is so jarring that for a moment I wonder if it’s possible that shedoesn’tknow. Then she laughs. ‘Of course I know. Everyone knows.’

I hesitate a moment, thrown by the bizarre laugh, but decide to plough on. If I’m going to help my daughter, I need to understand her, see her side of things. ‘Thenwhywould you want to bring a baby into a relationship like that? Tell me, darling.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘It’s not about Patrick, don’t you see that? It’s about me.’

Nettie stands up, starts pacing. She goes back and forth, several times.

‘Nettie, I’m worried about you,’ I say. ‘You’re not in a fit state to go into surrogacy right now. I think you should see someone, get some professional help.’

Her pacing stops abruptly. Her eyes lock on mine. ‘Does this mean you won’t help me?’

‘It depends what you mean by help. I’ll help you find a psychologist to speak to. I’ll help support you if you decide to leave Patrick, and I’ll help support you if you decide to stay with him. But I won’t be funding your egg donor and surrogate pregnancy, no. Not right now.’

Nettie hovers over me, her hands shaking with rage. She shifts from foot to foot in front of me. I remain still, as if trying not to spook a frightened animal.

‘Do you haveany ideawhat it’s like to have the one thing you want taken away from you?’ Her voice grows in volume and intensity as she speaks.

‘Yes.Tomwas taken away from me.’

‘Did it make you question your own life? Your purpose?’

‘It did.’

‘I don’t believe you. If you knew what I was talking about, you would never do this to me.’

‘Believe me, Nettie, I know,’ I say. ‘I understand what it’s like to feel that your entire purpose is wrapped up in one thing, one person.’ I hadn’t intended to tell Nettie about my planned suicide, but suddenly it feels like the one thing that might bring her to her senses. ‘After your father died, I contemplated suicide. I researched it, I bought poison online—it’s still in the door of the darn fridge! But it was madness, the whole thing. I loved Tom, but he wasn’t my entire life. I have you and Ollie and Lucy. I have my grandchildren. My friends. My charity. And Nettie, you may not see it now, but your life isn’t about having a baby.’ I stand so we are eye to eye. ‘Forget about babies. Take your life in a different direction. You could do anything you want!’

‘So you won’t give me the money?’ she says, when I’m finished.

‘Nettie! Have you heardanythingI’ve said?’

Nettie turns her back to me and for a moment, there is total silence. But after a few seconds a curious noise begins, thin and reedy, like the ragged edge of a tin can. It takes me a moment to realise the noise is coming from Nettie. I reach for her shoulder but before I grasp it, she spins around and lunges at me like a force. Her elbow catches my nose and I careen backward, landing hard on my tailbone. As I cry out, Nettie appears over me, gripping the cushion so tight the veins in her hands pop out.

‘Nettie. Darli . . .’

I fall silent. The expression on her face is pure and unadulteratedhate. I think of Ollie’s visit a few minutes ago and I see the juxtaposition, suddenly, of sons and daughters. Sons see the best parts of you, but daughters reallyseeyou. They see your flaws and your weaknesses. They see everything they don’t want to be. They see you for exactly who you are . . . and they hate you for it.

‘This is over, Mum,’ Nettie says, and I’m not sure what she means until she presses the cushion into my face and holds it there with a resolve that tells me she is not letting go. I feel her weight on my chest. I grab hold of her wrists and squeeze hard, but she just pushes the cushion harder into my face. I can’t take a breath. My lungs burn. And as the edges fade to black I think to myself . . . she got that resolve from me.

60

NETTIE

The past . . .

Mum’s legs stopped moving first. She didn’t go down without a fight, but that was classic Mum. And it worked in my favour, each kick had only served to tire her out faster. Now I sit astride her chest, the same way Ollie used to sit on me when I was a kid and he wanted to interrogate me for snooping in his bedroom. Slowly her vice-like grip on my wrists weakens until she lets go entirely, but I keep holding the pillow down until she’s been still for several minutes. Finally I stand, leaving the cushion over her face.