The Soulmate(6)

Indeed it is. And that’s the reason, I suspect, why I was reluctant to offer the police any information that might reflect badly on Gabe, even though I know he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s been a different man – a better man – since we moved to the beach. Better than I had even allowed myself to hope. He’s like a man who has come off drugs, or found God, or both. Only a few days ago, I looked at him and thought, You’re fixed. I didn’t say it out loud, obviously. Believing people can be ‘fixed’ is a dangerous idea; it encourages young women to stay in relationships with men who ‘just get a little too angry sometimes’. And yet, some people can be fixed. Gabe is living proof.

So I know there will be a reason why Gabe was holding his hands out in that way. He’ll explain it to me and I’ll feel that glorious sense of relief spread through me. Then we’ll fall asleep holding each other, and tomorrow we’ll get through this together. I’m looking forward to it! Which means I’m disappointed when I enter the bedroom and find Gabe, still fully clothed and still wearing his shoes, lying on top of the bedcovers, fast asleep.





4


AMANDA

AFTER



So, this is it. I’m dead.

The police are retrieving my body. An arduous process, apparently, and they are out of practice to boot.

I’ve heard it said that the most difficult death to process is that of a loved one who is taken from you without warning. I agree that that is difficult. But I can now confirm that it is equally traumatic to be the one taken without warning. The whiplash of it. One minute you’re here and the next you’re gone – yanked from one world to the next as if torn with forceps from the womb. Except, instead of being placed into the arms of a loving mother, I’m alone.

The moment of my death was distinct. There was no slowing down, no light at the end of the tunnel, no moment in which to choose. No decision to make at all. There was a crack, like glass breaking, painless and clean. By the time I realised what was happening, it was done. Nothing to fear in death, I realise. No pain or suffering, at least physically. And yet, I feel a feverish desperation to claw my way back. Because unlike the scores of people who have come to this spot before me, I did not come here to die.





5


PIPPA

NOW



It’s still raining when I wake. I enjoy three blessed seconds of calm before the horror of the previous evening collapses over me. The woman. The cliff. Gabe’s outstretched arms. My lie to the police. It’s a wonder I managed to fall asleep in the first place.

I reach for the lamp, switch it on. Gabe’s side of the bed is empty, his clothes from last night draped over the bedside chair. Gone for a surf, probably. This is a regular occurrence for Gabe, and probably exactly what he needs. Still, I worry that the distance he seems to be putting between us is the opposite of what he needs.

I pull on a robe and head out to the kitchen. The half-empty coffee cup on the counter and muted television (on the weather channel) provide evidence that Gabe was here. I check the back deck for his surfboard and wetsuit, and find them both missing, confirming my surfing theory. The weather is awful, but that has never stopped him before.

I take his coffee mug, empty the last of it into the sink and put it into the dishwasher. Usually, I love the quiet of early morning, when the kitchen is spotless, the benchtop clear of clutter, and the floors clean. It is my time to take care of household admin before the girls wake up. Sometimes it’s the only time in the day when I’m alone, and I’ve learned to savour it. Today, though, as I book the girls’ four-year-old vaccination appointments, and transfer money for a spa voucher for their preschool teacher’s birthday, I find myself watching the door, yearning for Gabe to return.

‘It’s not normal, the way you love your husband,’ Sasha Milinkovic said to me recently. We were at a trivia night, to raise money for the preschool’s new eco playground. Gabe had volunteered to perform in the talent quest segment of the evening. He played the guitar and sang ‘Annie’s Song’ by John Denver, and I cried. It was, most likely, the three chardonnays I’d consumed. Also, I loved ‘Annie’s Song’. But as I wiped my eyes, everyone gave me hell.

‘I’d cry too if Stew sang,’ Emily Kent said. ‘But not for the same reasons.’

Everyone laughed. I had to admit, there were moments that I felt in the outer because of my adoration of Gabe. There was something about the camaraderie of women good-naturedly slandering their husbands, each of them competing to have the worst.

‘Stew fed them McDonald’s? Dave didn’t feed them at all for twenty-four hours! I came home and found Lenny in the pantry, scavenging for crackers!’

‘They got crackers? Ours had to survive on fresh air!’

Occasionally, I tried to chime in for friendship’s sake. ‘Gabe forgot to pick up the milk last night,’ or, ‘He put Asha in two different shoes!’ but it always sounded a bit lame.

It would be arrogant to say that our marriage is better than other marriages. Arrogant and, let’s face it, farcical, if you look at our history. But it is, quite simply, the truth. It’s the way Gabe looks at me, even when we’re in our tracksuits ambling around the garden, as if I’m the most beautiful, most interesting woman in the world. It’s the way he touches me – whether I’m un-showered, postpartum, saggy or soft – without hesitation, as if I’m a cherished gift. It’s the way he leaps to my defence, almost involuntarily, when he hears someone say something that could be perceived as critical of me. We’ve been through the fire, probably more than most couples. I think of our marriage as the reward for sticking it out.