Where Have You Been? (10 page)

The girl turns back, thin eyebrows slightly raised.

‘I'd be grateful if you'd look out for my sister. She might go inside first. Perhaps you could tell her I'm outside? She won't know.'

‘What does she look like?'

Susan thinks of the girl in the photograph. What does she look like? The waitress is waiting, would sigh or tap her foot if she could.

‘Don't worry,' Susan is apologetic again, ‘I'm sure she'll work it out. It'll be fine.'

‘Just the champagne, then?'

‘Just the champagne.'

A woman walks into the restaurant alone. She is fortyish, tall, dressed casually but expensively in pale jeans and a white silk shirt, her blonded hair cut fashionably short. Susan stands up nervously as the woman looks around. She is just as Susan imagined her, just as she dreamed her. She waves, but the woman doesn't see, so Susan hurries inside. The woman is walking confidently towards an elderly couple who greet her brightly from the rear of the restaurant. The waitress follows, her pencil at the ready. Susan slinks back to her outside table, pours herself another glass of champagne. The bottle is nearly empty. Her hand is shaking. She will have to catch a taxi home.

‘Are you Susan?'

Her hair is blonde – not the golden colour Susan remembers, but peroxide blonde, dark at the roots – and straggles limply to her shoulders. Her face is thin, and pale, fine lines are etched about her eyes and mouth. Her lips are a violent magenta slash. Susan scrapes her chair back, gets unsteadily to her feet. The woman is small – much smaller than Susan remembers, or expects, she's probably no taller than Susan herself. Her worn black jeans are slung low on her hips, a grimy white t-shirt ends a few inches above her bellybutton. She has a tattoo around her upper arm, and a gleaming silver stud in her nose. Susan stands there stupidly, just looking at her. She doesn't know what to do, what to say.

The woman smiles. One of her front teeth is badly chipped. ‘You'll catch flies, Sukey,' she says, ‘standing there with your mouth open.'

When Ed and the kids get home Susan is sitting at the kitchen table, trying to work out the
Herald
wordsquare:

Ed puts a video on for the kids, comes back into the kitchen. He kisses Susan on the mouth. Recoils. ‘Jesus, Susan! You didn't drive home, did you?'

‘No. Yes, I did.' Sighs. Lies. ‘I didn't actually drink that much ... two glasses, maybe three. But early, before she arrived. She was very late.'

Susan looks back down at the paper. The letters lurch and dance about the page. She tries hard to focus, but they don't make any sense; will not form a word.

TENICIPED

CEPITINED

Ed boils the kettle, makes coffee for them both. The smell makes her feel slightly queasy.

‘Well?' He pulls out a chair, sits down heavily.

‘I just can't get it.'

‘Not the word.' He tugs the newspaper away impatiently. ‘Don't be thick, Susy. What happened? Was it her? What was she like?'

‘What happened?' Susan would like to be very blunt, to tell him everything. Even the part where she got pissed, then vomited in a public toilet and drove home very slowly.

‘Well,' she says instead, ‘you know. We had lunch. We talked.'

‘Susy. Is it her? Does she seem like she could be Karen? The way you remember her? What's she like?'

‘Oh.' Susan thinks for a moment, decides to keep it simple. ‘She's small. Blonde. Had pate for entree. Lobster for main. Drinks red wine. Likes animals and small children. She's okay.'

‘That's all?'

‘What do you want?'

He waits, counts ten. Tries again.

‘Did you ask her, Susy? Why she left. What happened?'

‘No.'

‘You didn't ask her? What did you talk about, then?'

‘Nothing. I don't know ... It was just chat, Ed. Nothing deep or meaningful. We didn't bare our souls or dredge up our dreary past. We talked about the weather, the price of eggs...'

‘Well, how will you know if it's her if you don't ask her about all that? You've got to sort it out. You're the only one who can. It's not a joke, Suse, there's hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake here. Money that we could use.' He slams his cup down on the table, grabs the newspaper and pretends to read.

‘If you'll give me a chance, Ed,' Susan's tone is suddenly edgy, serious. ‘I'll tell you why I didn't ask her about any of that.'

‘Okay.' He folds the paper, puts it down. ‘I'm sorry. Why?'

‘Because I'd have known if it was Karen. I'd have recognised her, and I didn't. I'm not interested in that woman's past, Ed, because she's not my sister. She's not Karen. She can't be.' Susan hasn't cried yet, and she's determined that she won't. Not here. Not now.

‘Shit.' Ed is looking worried. ‘Are you sure?'

She sniffs. Nods.

‘I'm really sorry.' He frowns. Taps his fingers on the table. Then: ‘Did you ring the solicitor, Susan? You'd better ring him hadn't you, in case he's drawn up the documents or something. He'll still be there won't he? D'you want me to do it?' He heads over to the phone. ‘I'll give him a call shall I? Best to get it over with.'

‘Whatever.' Susan reaches for the paper, turns back to the puzzles page. Tries to focus on the wordsquare.

‘Howard, g'day. Ed Middleton here. Susan's husband...' Ed's voice is low, expressionless. ‘Sorry to bother you so late, but...'

Susan tries writing the letters out in a line this time.

PECEDTNEI

‘You might be fairly confident, but Susan's certain that it isn't her.'

She writes the word
cent.
Then
cede, dent, deep, pent.

‘You said it yourself, mate: Susy's the only one who'll know. And she's a hundred per cent certain.' He's speaking loudly now, pulling irritably at the phone cord.

She writes
decent,
and then she has it. Writes it out in thick black capitals.

DECEPTION

‘Jesus. You've got to be joking. She's changed her name, the DNA's not conclusive, she's got no ID, Susan says it isn't her – how could she take
us
to court? ... What do you mean Susan didn't even talk to her? Of course she talked...'

She checks her answer, matches letter to letter, but it doesn't work – there's no O, an extra E.

Ed disconnects. He stands by the phone, watches his wife intently. Susan is gazing, just as intently, at her puzzle.

‘Susan,' Ed's voice is soft, gentle. ‘Suse. Is there something you'd like to tell me? About today?'

She says nothing. Checks each letter carefully, though this time there's no need. This time she's certain.

‘Susan?'

This time the puzzle contains no answers, no signs or mysterious correspondences.

‘Sue. Howard Hamilton says you didn't even speak to this woman. That you ran away.'

She stays silent. Writes down the word.

‘Susan?'

‘I've got it! It's not
deception.
It's nothing like it.' She holds up her carefully printed answer.

‘Susan?'

‘Centipede, Ed. It's
centipede.'

‘I don't get it Susan,' Anna is already puffing, her face is pink and damp with exertion. ‘How can you know? It's been more than twenty years. People change. You couldn't possibly know at a glance.'

On Tuesday mornings Susan and her friend, Anna, walk. They choose any reasonably long stretch of coastline between Manly and Mona Vale, a different beach each week, and walk for an hour or so. Usually they tramp through the soft sand, which is hard work, but today (traversing the stretch between Collaroy and North Narrabeen) they tread close to the water, where the sand is packed and firm and the walking's easier. This way the talking's easier too.

‘It isn't her, Anna,' Susan treads heavily, for emphasis. ‘I just know it.' It's a blustery day and the waves are breaking, dumping sand and weed close to the shore. The women have to speak loudly, shout almost, to make themselves heard.

‘But Suse – you've always said you can't remember Karen anyway. What makes you so certain now?'

‘I just know. Karen
couldn't
be that woman.'

‘I think you don't want it to be her.' Anna's step is faltering.

‘What? Why wouldn't I want it to be her?'

‘I'd say you don't want her to come back.'

‘For Christ's sake,' Susan says, ‘You're as bad as Ed. Don't be ridiculous. I spent half my life wishing for nothing else; why wouldn't I want her back now?'

Anna stops walking altogether, looks her in the eye. ‘I think you don't want her back because you don't want to have to think about all that.'

‘About all what?'

‘You know – the past. Whatever happened. It's perfectly understandable.'

‘Oh it is, is it?' Susan starts off again, walks furiously fast.

‘Don't get the shits,' Anna pants when she catches up. ‘I'm only trying to work out why you didn't even speak to the woman. You've got to admit that it's pretty weird, Susan, running away like that.' Anna's voice is crisp. Her statements blunt. She's got no time for hysterics and no stomach for bullshit.

‘I haven't got the shits. And I didn't run away. It just wasn't her. Okay?' Anna looks like she's ready to argue, but thinks better of it.

‘Okay,' Anna says gently. ‘Okay Susan.'

The two women walk on without speaking. Susan has picked up her pace, is power-walking now, has overtaken her friend. She is looking straight ahead, and not at the surf.

‘Watch out!' Susan hears Anna call, but a moment too late. A small wave crashes over her knees, soaks her shorts, splashes up over her waist. She doesn't hesitate, wades on through the weed and water, regardless.

At first Susan visits her mother every week. The home is full of elderly people suffering varying degrees of dementia, but it's clean, well kept, the staff cheerful, professional. Her mother is initially pleased to see Susan on her visits – she's never sure who she is of course – sometimes she's her daughter Karen, the famous film star, on a flying visit from Hollywood, at other times she's her long-dead cousin Marjory. ‘Marj,' her mother will say, ‘you're looking so old, dear. I can't imagine how you got so old so quickly. You certainly got your father's
bone structure. And you're not like Aunty Wil, are you – she was no beauty, either, but she never did let herself go.'

Other than Aunty Di, an old friend of her mother who comes to see her once or twice a year, Susan is her mother's only visitor. Her mother's only connection with the world. She had never realised, as a child, how strangely isolated her family was – neither her mother nor father had siblings, they had both been orphaned and, due to some feud, there was no contact with aunts, uncles, cousins. Susan wonders now whether, initially perhaps, it had been a recognition of their mutual solitariness that had brought her parents together. (Susan can half-understand the attraction of it – she too can exist quite easily without others, has never been one for team sports, or committees, has only one or two friends that she can be bothered seeing on a regular basis.) Despite the best efforts of Gillian's family – her parents, her three siblings, though geographically distant, had forever been ringing, sending parcels, visiting whenever they could – her father had always maintained a slight distance from his enthusiastic new in-laws. Gillian had almost always travelled back alone to visit them. It wasn't really until she'd met Ed that Susan began to understand the possibilities of family life – the benefits of such a close family – as well as the constraints, the irritations; and to identify the deficit in her own upbringing. But perhaps that's what attracted her to Ed, she thinks now, that difference. That easy accommodation of other people's desires, others' claims. She finds it difficult, certainly, to be so needed, to be so wanted, to have someone who wants to open her up, as it were, as if to see inside her, to look at parts of her that she doesn't ever look at herself – but there's no doubt that she finds it appealing too.

After the children were born Susan had considered taking them with her on her visits to the nursing home. She'd rehearsed her introduction: ‘Look Mum,' she'd have
said, ‘these are your grandchildren. Your daughter's children. Three generations. Imagine that.' She had wondered whether evidence of her own humanity, of her genes existing in perpetuity, would be of some benefit. But the doctors at the home were sceptical, didn't think that anything would help, though they didn't think that it would hurt, either. Ed was adamantly against such a visit – her mother's condition had begun to deteriorate seriously, her behaviour had become increasingly erratic, she was occasionally abusive – and he didn't want his babies exposed to any sort of danger. Though Susan felt that he was overanxious, that there was no real threat – only perhaps her own distress – she didn't press the point. Her mother never met her grandchildren.