Relativity (35 page)

“Maybe if you'd told Ethan exactly what happened, he wouldn't have needed to make that time machine.”

“You're a smart girl.”

“I know.” She pointed to a silver wagon driving up High Street. “That's my mum.”

“Thank you, Alison. You saved his life.”

The girl smiled and squinted into the sunlight. “No big deal. He'd do it for me too.” Alison climbed into the car and waved from the window of the front seat.

Claire waved back as she watched them drive away.

Corridors and faces flashed past as Claire hurried back to the consultation room. In her rush, she almost tripped over a lunch cart. She pressed the elevator button over and over again. Inside the elevator, she glanced briefly at her reflection. Her skin looked weathered and discolored. When the elevator door opened, Claire walked straight into Mark, who was about to step inside.

“Where are you going?” She pulled him back into the corridor.

Mark didn't look at her. “I can't stay here. This is too much.”

“But Ethan—”

“Claire, I thought I could handle this. You. Ethan. But I can't.”

For the last twelve years, she'd wondered how Mark really felt. Claire knew her pain well but she never understood what was inside his head. In front of her right now, he looked like a lost little boy, left behind by his parents in a crowded place. Even when accusations started flying all those years ago, Mark had seemed totally assured of himself, of his innocence. Now she wasn't so sure.

“You can't just leave—”

“Claire, listen. There are things I went through in prison that you wouldn't understand. I can't ever explain them. But being around you both is worse. It's torture,” he said. “I can't handle it. I have to go.”

“What about Ethan?”

Mark looked like he was about to cry. “Ethan is extraordinary. You know, I've spent almost his entire life convinced I didn't do anything wrong. Twelve years is a really long time. Tell yourself something for twelve years and you'll definitely believe it. But being inside this hospital again, seeing how sick Ethan is . . .”

Claire didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry.” He placed his hand on her cheek and looked at her face. Then he stepped into the elevator and pressed a button.

“Mark, wait.” She reached for the door of the elevator as it closed. Mark looked right at her. The elevator shut. Claire rested her forehead against the cool steel door. What was he trying to say?

Ω

ETHAN WAS WAITING
for her in the consultation room. Claire knew he'd been crying; there was a wet patch on the sleeve of his hospital robe and the tip of his nose was pink. He looked small and cold. Light glinted off the metallic table.

“I'm really tired, Mum,” he said.

“Let's get you back to bed.” She kissed his forehead.

Back in the emergency bay, Claire watched her son fall asleep. She thought of her conversation with Alison, wondered where to find those fragments, those shards of truth. Pieces that could help her put it all together for Ethan. But maybe her word wasn't enough. There was so much more to their story—official records, affidavits, sworn statements, medical reports, scans. Enough concrete evidence to convince a jury. She just had to get her hands on this stuff.

But Claire had forgotten so many of the details. She couldn't even remember the name of the Crown prosecutor, and what was the name of the judge? Who gave evidence? So much of her memory had crumbled and disappeared; there were so many holes and gaps.

But other memories were stubborn, indestructible; they still echoed intact across her mind. Some piece of Claire would always be trapped inside that terrible moment, never able to walk away from the indelible horror of that sun-stippled room.

Abigail. The Crown prosecutor's name was Abigail Kirk. Claire grabbed her phone and tapped the name into Google. Nothing. She looked up the website of the Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, wondering if they had a staff directory. Of course they didn't. They weren't going to publish their email addresses for criminal offenders to see.

She tried a combination of the Crown prosecutor's name and surname, hoping to guess the correct email address. She wrote a quick message, asking if Abigail remembered their case and if she recalled the judge's name, knew how to get a court transcript. Ethan is twelve now, she wrote. Claire attached a photo of him and clicked send. The email didn't bounce back.

Within a few minutes, her phone rang—a blocked number. It couldn't possibly be. That was much too fast.

“Claire, it's Abigail Kirk. I just read your email and had to call. I think about your case all the time.”

“Abigail, hello. Really? You do?”

“We don't see shaken baby syndrome cases like that every day. It's stayed with me for the last ten years. Recently, we moved close to your old house. Every time I walk down that street, I think about that scene of the crime, what happened to Ethan. I've often wondered how he is.”

“He's great.” Claire burst into tears. Somebody else remembered, was haunted by it too. “I'm sorry. I'm getting a bit emotional.”

“So you wanted some help getting the court transcripts? I'll have to look it up with the name of the judge, but what you need to do is apply to the registrar of the NSW District Court. I wish I had a copy; I'd give it to you if I did.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I think it's an important thing for Ethan to have. Thanks for sending the photo. Ethan's grown up into such a handsome boy.”

“Thanks for calling straight away,” Claire said. “And thank you for all the hard work you did during the trial. I'm not sure if I ever thanked you properly at the time. I was a bit numb back then. But I'm really very grateful.”

“Being numb is normal. You needed to be, to get through it. To cope. You're welcome, Claire. It's so good to hear from you. I really wish you and Ethan all the best.” Abigail hung up the phone.

Ω

A FEW DAYS LATER
, the District Court registrar sent the entire transcript at no cost. All 387 pages of the trial, plus sentencing remarks. The victim was his child, the judge had said. He was defenseless and looked to the prisoner for protection. Instead, the victim was badly injured by the actions of his father and would have cognitive problems for the rest of his life. The words stung Claire as she read them again.

Claire couldn't believe she'd wiped so many specifics from her memory: ambulance officers, social workers, doctors, and nurses. Tiny details she'd sworn on in the witness stand—what the baby was wearing, the sequence of events—rushed back to her as she read about them again. As she turned each page of the transcript, Claire relived that nightmarish day: calling 000, riding in the back of the ambulance. The past came back to life. It was like time travel.

There was never any mistake. No misinterpretation of evidence, no misunderstanding, no miscarriage of justice. Every recent article Claire had read about shaken baby syndrome, about its faulty science and wrongful convictions, said that the triad—three symptoms—wasn't enough.

But Ethan's constellation had a few more stars.

Reams of paper, medical reports, stacks of other people's cross-examined words—she gave it all to her son.

“Ethan, it's time I was honest. You need to know exactly what happened to you,” Claire said. “I promise to tell you the truth. I promise to tell you everything.”

F
OR TWO MONTHS,
Claire had been in denial. She was exhausted, falling asleep everywhere: in her dance classes, during movies, riding on the bus. Overnight, every smell in the world had amplified; she couldn't wear perfume or visit the butcher without wanting to be sick. Food tasted different. Coffee and cigarette addiction disappeared. When she finally went to the doctor, suspecting a case of glandular fever, pregnancy was far from her mind. But Claire couldn't deny it by the time she'd done the third test. Couldn't keep talking herself out of believing those two blue lines.

Positive. Positive. Positive.

“Mark,” she said that night as they prepared dinner. “There's something I need to tell you.”

A tear ran down Mark's cheek. “Stupid onions.”

She hesitated. “How was your day?”

“Quiet. Rewrote the introduction again. How was yours?”

“Busy. Long rehearsals; we have new choreography. Had lunch at that dumpling place in Chinatown. And I'm pregnant,” Claire blurted out. She didn't look at his reaction. They'd been married just over a year, and while they'd talked about having children in the future, right now wasn't ideal. Mark had started the final year of his PhD. Claire couldn't give up ballet. There was no room in their lives for a baby.

“What? How?” Mark stopped slicing the onion and turned to look at her. “You're taking the pill.”

“Yes, I am.” She paused and cracked an egg on the side of the mixing bowl, separating the yolk and white in her hands. The slippery consistency made her feel nauseous. “Remember how I had that throat infection and took antibiotics? I didn't realize one canceled out the other and . . .” Claire started to cry. He was angry with her for being careless; she knew it.

Mark put his arms around her waist and kissed her nose. “Don't cry, Claire Bear. It's okay.”

“It's not . . . I'm so stupid. I'm sorry,” she managed to say between sobs.

“Don't be sorry.”

“I just got egg all over your clothes.”

Mark smiled. “No, silly. Don't be sorry for being pregnant. You can't take all the credit; I had a part in this too.”

Claire washed her hands. “I'll be honest, I don't think I'm ready for a baby. I can't give up my place in the company. You're still writing your thesis. And we're too young. I'm only twenty-five, you're twenty-seven . . .”

“What options do we have?”

“I'm eight weeks along. There's still time to . . . you know . . .” She shut off the tap and dried her hands on her top.

“Claire, I don't know if I'm ready either. And the decision is ultimately up to you. But you know what? I'd like to be a dad. You'd be a wonderful mother. And I'd look after you. I'd look after the baby.” Mark touched Claire's stomach. It was still flat; there were no hints of any bump.

She rested her fingers on top of his hand. Something was growing in there—a baby, the size of a bullet. Claire couldn't feel it, but the baby had already taken control of her body. The body she'd spent her whole life getting into shape.

Claire shook her head. “Mark, I can't quit ballet.”

“You don't have to quit. You'd have to take some time off, but it'd be like recovering from an injury. You'll bounce back. Once it's born, I'll still be at home writing. I could be a stay-at-home dad. We'll work it out. We always do.”

Claire looked him in the eye. He'd lost his mind. Did he really want to have a baby? There was so much to think about and so much to lose. How would she know which decision was the right one? But she trusted Mark, trusted him with her life, and knew in her heart that he meant it. They loved each other.

“You're right,” she said. “We'll work it out. I'll look at my contract.”

She rested her face against Mark's chest. He smelled of onion and herbs. This man wanted to be a father, he wanted to look after them; it made her want that too. As Claire imagined her new family, she was seized by the strangest hope. That this was a chance to put right the wrongs of her own childhood, to finally belong to a perfect family. That she could love this baby clearly and completely, exactly the way she'd wanted to be loved herself. Claire looked up at Mark and he kissed her. The half-prepared dinner was forgotten on the kitchen counter.

Ω

HER PREGNANCY
was relatively easy. Morning sickness only lasted another month and there were no complications. During the ultrasound at sixteen weeks, the baby was given a clean bill of health. The sonographer asked if they wanted to know the sex. Mark and Claire had discussed it the previous evening over dinner and decided they wanted to leave it a surprise.

“What should we name it?” Claire rubbed her belly. It had popped out that week and her clothes didn't fit properly anymore. This felt like reality now; she was pregnant. She wasn't living in some bizarre dream.

“I was thinking of Sophie for a girl,” Mark said. “After my grandmother. It means wisdom.”

“Sophie,” Claire repeated. She gave him a quick kiss. “You are quite wise yourself, you know.”

Mark swallowed a mouthful of food. “What about for a boy? I like Adrian.”

Claire scrunched up her nose. “I don't think so.”

“Do you have any better suggestions?”

She stopped to think for a moment. “How about Ethan?”