Page 64 of The Good Sister

‘Nothing,’ the three of us said in unison.

‘Are you sure?’ Mum asked.

‘Yep.’

That was our line and we were sticking to it, at least where Mum was concerned. But even in private, Fern wasn’t talking. It was strange. I was starting to get the feeling that I was right when I suspected Fern liked Billy. And now she was mad at us.

‘Come on, kids, snap out of it,’ Daniel said, finally. ‘It’s your last night. Go swim. Go on. Off with you.’

We tried to protest, saying we were tired, but Mum and Daniel were adamant. I think they wanted some privacy.

We walked to the river in single file. Billy got straight into the water, keen to get away from the obvious tension. I sat on the riverbank beside Fern and waited. One thing I knew about Fern was that she wouldn’t talk until she was ready.

After an hour had passed and she still hadn’t talked, I felt nature call. Billy was showing no signs of getting out of the water – splashing and swimming and swinging from the rope – so I headed deep into the trees. After everything that had happened, I didn’t want Billy seeing me pee. It was slow going; it was dark and I was barefoot – I had to watch every step I took.

When I returned to the river, Fern was gone.

‘Fern,’ I called. ‘Fern! Where are you?’

It was strange for her not to be in the spot I left her. It might have been that, combined with the fact that I was a worrier, that put me instantly on guard. ‘Fern?’

‘Here,’ came a small voice.

And then I saw her, illuminated by a patch of moonlight in the shallows of the river. She was standing eerily still.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked. There was something about her facial expression . . . it gave me a bad feeling even before I saw what she’d done.

I took a step toward her and she lifted her hands. Something rose to the surface of the water beside her. A sliver of pale, unmoving flesh.

‘Fern,’ I whispered. ‘What have you done?’

FERN

Time passes. It’s one of the few things in life that I can rely on. The library is my solace. Once my colleagues recover from their initial shock at my pregnancy, their questions about the paternity of my baby cease and they are extremely supportive. Gayle knits me a pair of baby booties and Linda gifts me a bunny-rug. Carmel purchases me a book of 10,001 baby names. I haven’t told anyone yet that I’m not going to be the one naming the baby, or putting booties on it or wrapping it in a bunny-rug. It feels like the sort of thing that I’d be better off waiting to tell them. If I tell them at all.

At home, Rose vacillates between pestering me – about what I am eating, how much I am working, whether I am exercising – and pampering me. Last night, for example, I came home and found Rose on her knees setting up a foot spa for me – ‘to relax, after being on your feet all day.’

Owen, Rose tells me, is finishing up his contract and will be back in time for the baby’s birth. I’m looking forward to having him back, and it’s clear Rose is too. She thanks me, profusely and often, for giving her her life back. It occurs to me that this is exactly what I wanted to do for her in the first place – give her a baby and restore her relationship with Owen. I don’t understand why it doesn’t feel as good as I expected.

Every day, I think about Wally. I don’t pause to think about him or ‘allow’ myself to think about him, he’s merely in the periphery of my every thought, like the smoky edges of an old photo. He’s there every time I stare at someone, every time I arrive somewhere fifteen minutes early, every time I put in my earplugs or put on my goggles. Every time I feel a movement in my belly. He’s part of everything.

Every now and again, after Rose has gone to bed, I hop on the iPad and search his name. I usually only ever get hits for old articles about Shout! But one day, when I’m about seven months along, a new article about him pops up, along with a photo. He’s wearing his navy suit with the tapered pants. His hair is combed with a side part again and his glasses are new and he looks positively terrified. The article is announcing FollowUp, his new app, the headline declaring that he has ‘smashed back onto the scene with an app that makes Shout! look amateur’. I don’t read the article, I’m too taken by the photograph. I touch the screen, half-expecting to feel the stubbly skin of his cheek under my hand. Then, after checking that Rose is nowhere to be seen, I lean forward and kiss the screen, right where his lips are.

*

I survive the next couple of weeks mostly thanks to Rose – who feeds me, cares for me, even ties my shoes when I can’t reach. When I become too pregnant, Rose offers to shave my legs. It is hard to describe the intimacy of this. I can’t imagine having anyone in the world but Rose do this for me. Nor can I imagine the alternative – leaving them unshaven. In this way, as well as many others, my sister holds the key to my sanity (even though I never gave it to her).

Owen’s return is delayed, and then delayed again. In the meantime, Rose and I busy ourselves with what she’d previously deemed to be ‘Owen’ tasks – such as assembling the crib and the changing table and painting the nursery. I relish the opportunity to be busy to take my mind off the baby, Billy, Mum, Wally – all of the things I’ve lost or am losing.

In the ninth month, I’m still working at the library. With all the excitement of my impending delivery, Rose seems to have abandoned her quest for me to give up work and rest around the clock, which is great, even if I do spend more time than usual in the secret cupboard. It’s tiring, the third trimester. Aside from the Braxton Hicks contractions I get periodically, my legs have become quite swollen and I get terrible pelvis pain if I’m on my feet for more than an hour or two. Carmel doesn’t seem to mind it when I disappear, she doesn’t even ask where I am anymore. It’s funny how at first I’d thought Carmel was so different from Janet, but now, as it turns out, I think they would have liked each other quite a lot.

One morning, at the library, I find myself making small talk with Gayle. It starts out normal, with her asking me how I’ve been – a question that I’ve always found difficult to answer. Usually I ignore this kind of question, pretend I didn’t hear, but today, on a whim, I decide to indulge her.

‘Are you enquiring after my physical health, Gayle?’

She appears to think about this, as if she herself isn’t entirely sure. After contemplating for a few moments, she says, ‘I suppose I’m asking if anything of interest has happened to you lately?’

‘But how am I supposed to know what is of interest to you?’