Broken (14 page)

Last of all they went on the rotor. Mattie held her mother's hand tightly as they were directed to stand around the periphery, their backs flattened against the rounded walls. And then it started. Just a slow spin at first that gradually became faster and faster. Still holding tight to her mother, Mattie turned to grin excitedly at Hannah but as the rotation sped up, her grin stretched across her face like a caricature of a manic clown. And still it went faster. Until Mattie's hand was ripped away from her mother's and she stood alone, splayed out against the wall and unable to move. Then the floor dropped away and her stomach disintegrated, bringing up halfdigested pieces of hotdog and fairy floss and spreading them across the wall around her
.

More striking even than the terror was the feeling of impotency. She wanted desperately for the ride to stop so that she could get off, more intensely than she had ever wanted anything before, but she knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to make it end. It was totally out of her control and she simply had no option but to see it through. With nothing holding her up but her own momentum
.

T
he flowers arrived on Monday afternoon. A huge colourful arrangement of burnt-orange and egg-yolk yellow blooms that clashed badly with the lounge-room drapes. Mattie put them in the laundry, on top of the washing machine, and closed the door. Because she simply didn't want to see them, or smell them. There was something about the aroma of florist's arrangements, perhaps from the little foam cushions as they aged, that she found unbearably depressing.

The day before, Mattie had begun with every intention of staying in bed for the duration. Just pulling the covers over herself and hibernating until the children were back. But instead, after an hour of lying there feeling sorry for herself, she began brewing a righteous anger that eventually energised her to such an extent that she was propelled out of bed to roam the unit with her fists clenched. How dare he do that to her. How
dare
he.

And, strangely, the anger pleased her. For the past few years her anger had been blunted by a dull acceptance, whereas today it felt sharp and precise, and by lunchtime she had convinced herself that what had happened last night was actually for the best, because it clearly told her how right she'd been to leave. He would never change. Never. So all the guilt and doubts that had been collecting within her about this whole bid for freedom were baseless furphies. She'd done the only thing possible, and Jake was the one who bore ultimate responsibility, not her.

But nevertheless she hurt. Physically and emotionally. Intense,
stabbing pains shot through her neck from the base of her skull to her shoulders whenever she turned too quickly. And if she bent her head backwards to look up, the pain was so extreme that her vision blurred. Apart from that, a dull ache throbbed through her skull and shoulders, accentuating her anger. And because of this she told herself that she welcomed the pain. It demanded attention, prioritising itself against the emotional hurt that she refused to acknowledge, and sharpening her sense of righteousness.

In the early evening she showered, pulling an old tracksuit on and then taking more painkillers before sitting down in the lounge-room to await the arrival of the children. As if preparing for their arrival, or in fear of Jake's, her anger had begun to wear off, a wary apprehension replacing it. Much as she had on her first night in the unit, she watched the shadows lick across the walls until she was sitting in almost complete darkness. And once again she found the darkness comforting, like a cloak of invisibility, whereas the indiscriminate brightness of the overhead light was both confronting and intrusive.

It was nearly nine o'clock before the unit was flooded by headlights that were almost painful themselves. Mattie turned on the lights and listened for the sound of doors slamming – one, two. The car was already reversing as Max and Courtney ran up the path to the front door. They searched her face uneasily as they came in. Even Courtney was uncharacteristically quiet. She hugged them both, reassuring them with her presence, and being reassured by theirs. And although the events of the previous evening weren't spoken about, they hung in the air as an almost palpable entity, clearly visible in Courtney's overt affection and Max's sullen misery.

Mattie had long recognised the differing ways in which her children reacted to stress. Max became withdrawn, like a crab drawing itself slowly up into its shell; only his darting eyes, which couldn't quite meet anyone else's, indicated his internal distress. Whereas Courtney, normally ruled by the self-centredness of an extroverted six-year-old, became overly tactile, needing to touch and be touched as a form of comfort. Or, in this case, apology.

And their presence dulled Mattie's anger even further, replacing it
with guilt. Guilt that they'd seen what they had. Guilt that she'd left, guilt that she'd stayed so long. Guilt at being such a failure as a wife and mother. Guilt that she loved Jake, still, and guilt that she obviously didn't love him enough. And overwhelming, gut-wrenching guilt because she couldn't think of a way out without jeopardising everything that she held dear.

She went through the next few days a bit like a Stepford mannequin. All the actions were right, but something intrinsic was missing. She cooked and cleaned, washed and ironed, hugged and kissed, did her duties at school, attended the Monday afternoon swimming lesson, chatted cheerfully with other mothers – but without really connecting. Just an animated shell, while deep down the real Mattie sat with her knees drawn up, laughing at herself hysterically because she'd been naive enough to think things would be different. That just because she had moved out, put some distance between them, that she and Jake would be able to start anew, rebuilding the foundations of their relationship so that the rest of their lives could be solid and secure, instead of constantly in danger of collapse.

The phone rang twice on Monday afternoon but she didn't bother answering. Then, when she came back after dropping the children off at school on Tuesday morning, Hilda rang the bell before knocking on the door, a brisk no-nonsense rapping that demanded an answer but didn't get one. Mattie didn't even go to the door when the flower-delivery man knocked, instead waiting until he'd gone before collecting the arrangement from the porch and carrying it straight through to the laundry.

But the flowers did achieve something the past few days hadn't. They forced her to acknowledge the pattern, of which she knew they were only the first stage. Next the phone-calls would become more insistent, then would come the face-to-face confrontation, and finally the sex to seal the deal. And after those necessary stages had been completed would come the good times. Those irresistible, intoxicating, glorious good times that always felt like they would last forever. A few weeks when everything was wonderful, and Jake would be the best husband in the world, and she the best wife, and the children would flourish in the periphery of the glow.

The trouble was that each time the pattern played itself out and she crawled blinking from the dark again, she emerged with a little less of herself. Her pride, her self-respect, her
essence
. What made her Mattie. And if she was being chipped away, slowly but surely, then there had to come a time when she would crawl out with nothing left, when the shell that she became for those few days would be permanent. She would go through the actions each day, well-trained and obedient, but with nothing flickering behind the blank eyes. Just a dull sense of once having been more. Much more.

And that scared Mattie intensely, more greatly even than the deadness of Jake's gaze when he turned. Because she knew that when he was like that, cruel and vicious and totally without heart, it wasn't the real Jake, the one she loved. No, the real Jake was there somewhere, but buried so deep down that he was powerless to do anything and was forced to watch helplessly while this alter ego, this
changeling
, took over.

So although his eyes might terrify her at those times, might make her shrivel in fear of both his words and actions, she always knew the real Jake would re-surface, given time. But if she was eventually whittled down, if a time came when she emerged without her soul, then the real Mattie would be gone forever. And nothing would ever bring her back.

The phone-calls commenced in earnest on Wednesday morning. By then the ache that ringed her neck and stabbed at her skull had begun to lessen, and the headaches at last became manageable with painkillers, but the phone-calls started the pain up again. They came every half an hour or so, and rang so incessantly that even the intervals echoed with sound. Nevertheless she didn't take the phone off the hook. That would have been too pro-active, when it was easier to remain an outsider, simply noting the number of calls and knowing, almost enjoying, the fact that they represented Jake's growing desperation.

She resisted getting changed out of her tracksuit until lunchtime, knowing that to change her outfit would be to acknowledge the importance of his opinion. But finally she gave in, shedding the old grey tracksuit in favour of a layered broderie anglaise skirt and a snug red
t-shirt. And then she took two painkillers and waited, with her book unopened in her lap.

He arrived just before two o'clock, sitting in his car for a few minutes before opening the door and walking slowly, heavily, up the path. He was dressed in his work clothes, dark grey suit with a white shirt and navy tie, but he had removed the jacket because of the growing warmth of the day. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, his tie was loosened and he looked hot, and very tired. Mattie knew it was useless not to answer his knock. Firstly, he had seen her car in the carport, and secondly, she knew, from experience, that he would just persevere until she gave in. So she opened the door and led the way, wordlessly, into the kitchen, where she put on the kettle and Jake slid onto one of the chairs. The silence deepened while Mattie made a pot of tea and carried it, with two cups and the carton of milk, over to the table. She sat opposite Jake and poured out the tea, still without saying a word.

Jake finally broke the silence. ‘Did you get my flowers?'

‘Yes, thanks. Very nice.'

‘Then where are they?'

Mattie tipped some milk into her tea, avoiding his gaze. ‘In the laundry.'

‘Ah, I see.' He sighed. ‘Look, Mattie, I don't know what to say.'

‘Don't you?'

‘That is . . .' He paused, looking at her searchingly. ‘I don't know what I
can
say.'

‘No, I don't suppose you do.'

‘Not making this any easier, are you?'

For the first time, Mattie looked at him full on. ‘Me?
I'm
not making it easy?'

‘Point taken.' Jake sighed again and stirred his tea absently. ‘Mat, I don't know why I do the things I do, I really don't. It's like I've got a self-destruct wish.'

‘But it's not
you
that you're trying to destroy,' said Mattie, with a flash of insight.

‘That's where you're wrong.' Jake leant forward earnestly. ‘I
am
trying to destroy me, because you mean everything to me. Everything.'

‘They're only words.' Mattie looked at him sadly. ‘Words are so easy.'

‘You think this is easy?' Jake shook his head emphatically. ‘Christ, Mattie, you've got no idea. This is hard.
Bloody
hard.'

Mattie looked at him, while in her head she asked whether it was as hard as seeing your children watch you creep away, thoroughly beaten in every sense of the word, with your shirt torn and tears and snot smeared across your face. Was it harder than that? Did it hurt as much as her stiff neck did every time she turned her head? Would he even ask about her pain? She already knew the answer to that.

‘The thing is, Mattie, that I can't stand the thought of losing you. I just can't
stand
it. I can feel you slipping away and it feels like there's nothing I can do. It drives me mad. And stuff like you volunteering down at some centre, meeting new people, having some sort of party with friends I thought you'd left behind, well, it scares me shitless.'

‘But, Jake, those aren't the things that are driving a wedge between us.' Mattie tried to speak evenly.
‘You're
doing that.'

‘Then come back home and I'll stop.' Jake grabbed her hand and held it tight. ‘I promise. Come back home where you belong and it'll never happen again. Never.'

Mattie opened her mouth and then closed it again. She knew he was being sincere, that at this moment he really meant it, but it made little difference. There had already been too many promises, and too much sincerity.

‘You don't trust me.' Jake let go of her hand slowly, and sat back. ‘Either that or you don't really want to come back, and you're just using me as an excuse.'

‘That's not fair.' Mattie flinched at the injustice. ‘There's nothing more I'd like than to go home. To live happily ever after.'

‘Then do it.' Jake looked at her challengingly. ‘Come on. We'll pay the rent on this place until they find new tenants and I promise I won't hold the money against you. To tell you the truth, I'd never have agreed to this if I thought you'd actually see the whole thing through. So you can look at it as a win, okay? You did it. You've made me see how serious you are about all this. So if you come home now, we'll give it three
months and if you don't think it's working out, then we'll get counselling. I promise.'

‘I asked you to get counselling last year! You refused!'

‘Well, to be honest I don't see the point. I reckon it's all a crock. But I'm trying to show you how serious I am here, that I'd even do something I don't believe in if it's what you want. C'mon, be fair, Mattie, I can't do more than that.'