What Alice Forgot Read online

  I said something about the weather but he ignored that and said, "How's that honorary family of yours?"

  I found myself telling him about Alice's accident and how she didn't remember anything about her marriage breakdown. I told him how worried I was about the children. He told me a rather sad story about his own son, who had gone through a divorce, and how his daughter-in-law didn't let them see their grandchildren anymore. "It broke my wife's heart," he said. He told me that his wife had died two years ago and that he truly believed she would have lived longer if her grandchildren hadn't been taken from her.

  When we got to the shopping center, I naturally assumed he would go off and do his own thing, but he cheerfully admitted he didn't have a thing to buy and he'd be happy to keep me company. I'd had enough of him by now but I couldn't think of a polite way to get rid of him.

  So he followed me around while I bought talcum powder for Alice. I needed some new deodorant at the chemist's, but I was too embarrassed to buy it in front of him, as if deodorant could only be purchased in private. Isn't that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard?

  Also, we couldn't seem to synchronize our walking. We kept bumping into each other and treading on each other's toes. It was driving me a little batty, to be honest. (I'm sure it was his fault, not mine. I'm perfectly able to walk alongside other people. You and I used to go on such long walks! Never a problem!)

  At one point we saw a toddler sitting in one of those toy cars. The child was having a tantrum, screaming, "Just one more turn!" at his poor harassed mother. Next thing, Mr. Mustache took a coin from his wallet and leaned past the toddler and popped it in the slot to activate the ride. Of course, the toddler shrieked with delight, while the poor mother didn't know what to do.

  We were having quite a spirited argument about this (I felt that he had rudely undermined the young mother's authority) when he suddenly got all excited by a pink neon sign advertising free iced doughnuts with your coffee. He insisted on buying me a cappuccino. For something to say, I told him about Ben and how he designs rather beautiful neon signs for a living, and that led to us talking about Elisabeth's problems.

  He was very sympathetic to Elisabeth and, strangely, that made me want to argue with him. I said that babies weren't the be-all and end-all and that Elisabeth might do better to concentrate on her marriage and her lovely husband.

  He asked whether I'd ever had a "lovely husband" myself.

  I said no.

  Then I got a little snappish and said that my doughnut was stale.

  That was a fib. It was actually quite delicious.

  Elisabeth's Homework for Dr. Hodges It was surreal hearing Alice ask me if I tried again, so wide-eyed and respectful. I nearly laughed. I wondered if it was an act.

  It's been a long time since I've thought properly about those early "losses," as you call them with a straight-mouthed grimace, as if you're constipated. I sort of hate that face you pull, Dr. Hodges. I bet your wife does, too. It always makes me think about what else I could be doing with the $150 I spend on you. I remember in one session you wanted me to start talking through the "early losses" (grimace, grimace), and I gave a dramatic sigh and said I didn't think I could, but really I was just so irritated by that expression on your face.

  Mostly now I just think of my "losses" as bullet points on my medical history. If a doctor asks me for my history I can reel off every single procedure and test and crushing disappointment without even a tremor in my voice, as if they don't mean a thing, as if they happened to somebody else.

  So I can say "second first-trimester miscarriage in April 2006" without blinking, and I don't even think about what it was like, or how it felt.

  I want you to know that I've missed all of Grey's Anatomy now. I'm really working hard on this therapy. I wish you were grading me. You should give grades to your approval-seeking patients.

  I remember how happy we were when we got pregnant again, because this time, for some reason, we managed a "natural" pregnancy.

  That was to be my January baby, due on 17 January (the day after Ben's birthday; imagine if it was born on the same day! But no, shhhh, don't say that out loud). We kept the pregnancy a secret this time. We thought that telling everybody about the first baby had been our beginner's mistake. I imagined announcing my second pregnancy with calm, womanly confidence after I'd passed the first trimester. It seemed a more grown-up, safer way to handle things. "Oh no, not an IVF baby this time," I'd say casually. "A natural pregnancy." This time we didn't talk about names, and Ben didn't pat my stomach when he kissed me goodbye each morning. We said things like "If I'm still pregnant at Christmas" and lowered our voices to a whisper when we used the word "baby," as if getting our hopes up had been the mistake, as if we could trick the gods into not noticing us sneakily trying to have a baby.

  This time Ben was there for the first ultrasound and we both dressed up carefully as if it was for a job interview, as if our clothes would make a difference. The woman doing it was young, Australian, and a little cranky. I was worried, but on the other hand I was faking it for the cameras, if you know what I mean. I was all twitchy nerves on the surface, but deep down part of me was enjoying observing my anguish: Ooh, look at her digging her nails into her hands as she lies down, the poor, traumatized thing, when of COURSE there is going to be a heartbeat THIS time because this sort of thing doesn't happen twice! I could already feel the huge rush of relief that would be released. I had tears of joy banked up, just waiting for me to push "go." I was ready to send a poignant message of love to my first baby, something along the lines of "I will never forget you, I will always hold you in my heart," and then it would be time to focus on this baby: our real baby. Alice's baby would only be a few months older. We could still call them twins.

  The cranky girl said, "I'm sorry ..."

  Ben clenched his jaw hard and took a step back, as if someone had just threatened to hit him in a pub brawl and he was trying not to get involved.

  I've heard so many professional "I'm sorry"s now, Dr. Hodges. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Yes, your colleagues in the medical profession are all very sorry. I wonder if one day you'll be the next to say, kindly and sadly, "I'm sorry but I can't cure you. You're a nutter. It might be time to look at other options, like transplanting somebody else's personality."

  I was embarrassed that it had happened twice in almost exactly the same way. I felt as if I was wasting people's time, constantly turning up for ultrasounds of dead babies. What? You thought you had a real live baby in there? Don't be ridiculous. Not you. You're not a proper woman with these half-hearted, faintly ridiculous attempts to have a baby. There are women out there with proper swollen pregnant stomachs and live kicking babies.

  Afterward, I felt it had been wrong not telling the family about the baby, because then I wanted them to know about the miscarriage, so that they knew the baby had existed. But when I told people, they seemed more interested in the fact that I'd kept the pregnancy a secret. They felt they'd been tricked. They said things like "Oh, I did wonder that day when you didn't drink at the Easter BBQ but you said you just didn't feel like drinking!" In other words, LIAR.

  Ben's mother was offended. We had to take her out twice for a "buy one, get one free!" meal at the Black Stump before she forgave us. The point of it seemed to be that I'd hidden the pregnancy, not that I'd lost the baby. People weren't as upset as with the first one, and how could they be, when they'd only just heard it existed in the first place. I felt this ridiculous protective feeling for my January baby, as if nobody loved her, as if she wasn't as pretty or as smart as the first baby.

  I know she was a girl. This time they sent off the "fetal material" for testing and told me it was a chromosomally normal female. They said they were sorry but they couldn't find any reason why I'd lost the baby. They said there was a lot they didn't know about miscarriage, but according to the statistics I still had an excellent chance of having a healthy baby next time. Chin up. Try again.

  A week
after the D&C (such a chipper name for something so horrible; I never feel so desolate as I have after waking up in Recovery from a D&C) I went to visit Alice in hospital and see her new baby girl. Of course, Alice said I didn't need to go and Ben said he didn't want me to go, but I went. I don't know why but I was determined to do everything I normally would.

  I went to the greeting card store and chose a card frosted with pink glitter saying "Congratulations on your darling little girl." I went to Pumpkin Patch and bought a tiny yellow dress with embroidered butterflies all over it. "It just makes you long to have a baby girl, doesn't it!" cooed the saleslady.

  I wrapped up the dress in pink tissue paper and wrote on the card and I drove to the hospital and found a parking spot and walked through the corridors with the present under one arm and some trashy celebrity magazines for Alice under the other. The whole time I floated alongside myself, impressed. "You're doing fine. Well done. It will all be over soon and you can be home watching television."

  Alice was on her own in the room, breast-feeding Olivia.

  My own breasts still ached and burned. It's so mean-spirited of your body, the way it keeps acting like you're pregnant, even after the baby has been scraped out of your womb.

  "Oh, look at her!" I said to Alice, ready to begin the new-baby patter.

  I'm so good at it these days. Just last week I went to visit a friend who had given birth to her third child and, even if I say so myself, my performance was flawless. "Look at his tiny hands!" "Oh, her eyes/nose/mouth is just like yours!" "Of course I'd love a hold!" And, breathe. And, chat. And, smile. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it. There should be Oscars for that sort of thing.

  But Alice didn't let me get started on my act.

  As soon as she saw me, she held out the arm that wasn't holding the baby and her face crumpled and she said, "I wish it was me visiting you."

  I sat on the bed with her and let her hug me. Alice's tears dripped straight onto Olivia's soft, tiny, bald head, but she kept right on sucking Alice's nipple, as if her life depended on it. She's always loved her food, that kid.

  I'd forgotten all about that day until now--how much it meant to me that Alice cried so genuinely for me. It was like she was taking on some of my grief. I thought, It's okay, I can do this, I can get through it, I'll be fine.

  I just didn't realize that "this" would keep on going and going and going.

  Mmmm. I think we may have just had a mini-breakthrough in my journal-writing therapy. Although no need to get too big for your boots, Dr. Hodges. It wasn't like I'd repressed that memory with Alice. I just hadn't thought about it for a while, but still, bravo, maybe there is something in this, even though I've just missed what was promised to be an "explosive" episode of Grey's Anatomy.

  I'd toughened up by the next "loss."

  Elisabeth said, "You're not just pretending you don't remember, so you can make some sort of point, are you?"

  Alice felt the same punched-in-the-stomach feeling as when Nick had yelled at her on the phone. He'd said something about her making a point, too. Had she become a person who had points to make?

  "What sort of point?"

  "Forget it. I was just being paranoid." Elisabeth stood up and walked into the kitchen. She stopped in front of the refrigerator. It was covered with magnets, notices, photos, and children's drawings. "I wonder if there is an invitation here for this party of yours."

  Alice twisted on the couch to watch her. Her head ached.

  "Libby. Please. What sort of point? I don't understand. Sometimes you talk to me like you--well, it's almost like you don't like me anymore."

  "Ha!" Elisabeth picked up something off the fridge and brought it over to her. "Here's the invitation. There's another woman's name on it for the RSVPs. You should ring her and ask if she can change the party venue."

  She went to hand it over, but Alice ignored it.

  Elisabeth sighed. "Of course I still like you. Don't worry about it. There's nothing to worry about. Here--this woman's name is Kate Harper. Actually, I think I've heard you talk about her before. I think you're quite good friends with her."

  She looked expectantly at Alice.

  "I've never heard of her," said Alice dully.

  "Okay, then," said Elisabeth. "Well, why don't I call her and you can go upstairs and lie down. You look like death warmed up."

  Alice looked at Elisabeth's lined, anxious face.

  Have I let you down? Have I lost you and Nick?

  Chapter 14

  Alice stood in the middle of her unfamiliar bedroom, looking for something--anything--that belonged to Nick. There was no sign of him. No pile of books or magazines on his bedside table. He liked bloodthirsty thrillers (they both did), war histories, and business magazines. No cylindrical piles of coins taken from the pockets of his trousers each day. No ties draped over the door handle. No giant dirty sneakers. Not even a lone crumpled T-shirt or sock.

  They were both messy. Their clothes were normally tangled together on the floor in flamboyant embraces. Sometimes they purposely asked people over just to give themselves the incentive to clean up in a frantic rush before they arrived.

  But the carpet (dark maroon--she had no memory of choosing it) was pristine, newly vacuumed.

  She went to the wardrobe (they'd found it lying on its side outside someone's house for council pickup; it was autumn, like now; they brushed away a layer of crackly brown leaves to reveal patterned mahogany). It was filled with spaced-out good heavy hangers containing beautiful clothes that presumably belonged to Alice. Although it gave her fleeting pleasure to feel the lustrous fabrics as she flipped through the hangers, she longed to see just one of Nick's shirts. Even a boring white business shirt. She would wrap its sleeves around her like his arms. Bury her nose in the collar.

  As she closed the cupboard door and slowly looked around the bedroom, she realized it smelled and felt essentially feminine. There was a white lacy duvet on the bed and a row of small shiny blue cushions. Alice thought the bed looked absolutely beautiful (actually it was her dream bed), but Nick would have said that all that prettiness would render him instantly impotent; so, fine, if that's what she wanted, he was just warning her. There was a Margaret Olley print hanging above the bed that Alice knew would have made Nick wince as if hit by a sudden attack of nausea. The dressing table had rows of different-colored glass bottles (What exactly is the point? Nick would have said) and a crystal vase containing a big bouquet of roses.

  This was the bedroom she would have created for herself if she were living on her own. She'd always wanted to collect beautiful glass bottles and thought it was something she would never do.

  Except for the roses. She remembered how the image of exactly those roses had popped into her mind while she was in the ambulance yesterday. She went over to the dressing table and studied them. Who gave her those? And why was she keeping them in her bedroom when she hated that sort of arrangement?

  There was a small square card sitting next to the vase. Nick? Nick wanting her back and forgetting she didn't like roses? Nick making a point by sending her roses he knew she would hate?

  Alice picked it up and read: "Dear Alice, I hope we can do that again one day--next time in the sunshine? Dominick."

  Oh God. She was dating.

  She plunked herself down on the end of the bed, holding the card between disbelieving fingers.

  Dating was meant to be something from her past, not something from her future. She'd never enjoyed it that much anyway. The self-conscious, trapped feeling when you were sitting in the car together for the first time; the constant horrifying possibility of food caught in between your teeth; the sudden feeling of exhausted boredom when you realized it was your turn to come up with the next stilted topic of conversation. So what do you like to do on the weekends?

  Oh, sure, yes, there was nothing better than when a date actually worked. She could remember the euphoria of those early dates with Nick. There was a night where they'd
watched Australia Day fireworks from a bar in the Rocks. She was drinking a huge creamy cocktail, and Nick was telling a story about one of his sisters and he was so funny and so sexy and Alice's hair looked nice and her shoes weren't hurting and there were curls of shaved chocolate floating on top of her cocktail and Nick's hand massaging her lower back and she felt such an intense sensation of happiness it frightened her, because surely there was a price to pay for this sort of bliss. (And was this the price? All these years later? Nick swearing at her on the phone from the other side of the world. Had she finally been sent an exorbitant bill?)

  A date with any man other than Nick would be boring and awkward and stupid. Dominick. What sort of a name was Dominick?

  In a sudden rage, she took the card and tore it into tiny pieces. How could she betray Nick like that by keeping these flowers in her bedroom?

  And then there was that other man--that physiotherapist from Melbourne--who had sent her the card with the mention of "happier times." Who was he? Was she already on to her second relationship after breaking up with Nick? Had she turned into a hussy? A point-making hussy who went to the gym and upset her beloved sister and hosted "Kindergarten Cocktail Parties"? She hated the person she'd become. The only good part was the clothes.

  This all had to stop. She had to get Nick's coins and his socks and his sneakers back in her bedroom, and these roses gone.

  She lay back on the bed. Elisabeth was downstairs phoning up that Kate Harper woman trying to get tonight's party canceled.

  Alice crawled across the bed, pulled back the duvet, and got into crisp, clean sheets, still wearing her red dress.

  She looked at the ceiling (plastered and painted, the water stains and cracks gone as if they'd never existed) and thought of that moment in the bathroom at the hospital when she had been going through that odd makeup routine and she had that rush of feeling after she smelled her perfume. It had seemed like she was about to fall headfirst into all her memories but then she'd deliberately resisted it, stepped back from the edge when she really should have let herself go. It would be far easier and less confusing if she could just remember what the hell was going on in her life. She sniffed at her wrist where she'd sprayed the perfume that had seemed so evocative of everything, but this time she experienced only a confused, choppy mass of half-remembered feelings; they were insubstantial and slippery, gone before she could even attempt to name them.