The Soulmate(7)

I close my computer and check my watch. It’s 6.44 am. Then I tiptoe down the hall and peek into the girls’ room. It’s always a struggle to get them to bed at night, but on the other hand, it means they are sleepy in the morning, often not emerging until almost eight o’clock, with great tufts of head hair and smooshed faces. It’s not the first time I’ve taken advantage of this. During the summer, Gabe and I occasionally duck out for an early morning swim. Other times, we stay in bed to pass the time.

I find the girls sound asleep, their snoring mismatched. When I’m sure they’re still out cold, I slip out the back door. I lock the door behind me and take the path to the steps down to the beach. The rain is more of a mist now. There’s something about the ocean air – everyone always says it, but since we’ve moved here, I can vouch for it. You cannot go to the beach without coming back feeling a little better, I’d said recently, as if it were a universal truth. But I doubt the woman from last night would agree.

Gabe is standing on the rocks, staring out across the ocean, his wetsuit rolled down to his waist, looking like he’s stepped out of the pages of a surfing magazine. I’m close enough to admire his smooth, tanned, muscular back, when I notice something small and silver slip from his fingers.

‘You dropped something,’ I say, by way of greeting.

He turns, startled. His face is pink, as if he’s been crying.

‘Oh, babe.’ I touch his shoulder. ‘Talk to me.’

He winces, his eyes on the ocean. ‘I was just thinking about what I should have done differently. I can’t stop replaying it over and over in my head, wondering what I did wrong.’

I wrap my arms around his waist. He’s warm, even out here in the cold, and I feel his heart beating against me. ‘Don’t do that to yourself,’ I say.

‘She wouldn’t listen to me. She was so upset. I couldn’t talk her down.’ He rubs his temple with one hand. ‘Maybe I should have . . . I don’t know . . . tried to get help.’

‘Help was on the way,’ I say. ‘You were right to stay with her.’

Down the beach, a man in a raincoat walks his dog. I wonder how we must look, standing on the rocks, holding each other in the rain.

Gabe wipes his face with his forearm, then smiles. ‘Sorry. I’ll be fine.’

‘It’s okay not to be fine, Gabe.’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘But I will be. I’m dealing with it.’

I suppose he is, in his own way. He’s been for a surf; got some fresh air. Gabe was raised by a single mother who believed that fresh air and exercise were the answer to all the world’s problems. And maybe they are, in a lot of cases. Still, given some of Gabe’s difficulties, I’d encouraged him to do some more work on himself in adulthood. And this was one of those times when I thought that fresh air and exercise might not quite cut it.

‘Would you like me to make an appointment for you with Thelma? It’s been weeks since you’ve seen her.’

Now I thought of it, it might have been months. When we’d first moved to the beach, he’d seen Thelma every week. Thelma was a local psychologist, a lovely no-nonsense woman in her sixties with wild grey hair and purple spectacles on a chain. Gabe had really connected with her. But only a few months into their sessions, she moved back to Melbourne and they’d had to switch their sessions to Zoom. I remember Gabe mentioning that he’d found it harder to connect over the computer. After a while, I guess, their sessions petered out.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Gabe says. I’m not sure whether he’s just saying it to placate me.

He takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine. I stare at them, entwined. Seeing his hand up close reminds me of what I saw last night. The way his hands were positioned the moment after the woman went off the cliff.

‘Gabe,’ I say, after a moment. ‘I’m not sure if it’s the right time to ask . . . but I saw you through the window right after she jumped. Your hands were . . .’ I untangle my hand from his and hold my arms out, palms facing him. ‘Like this.’

Gabe observes them for a moment, then looks back to the water. The guilt on his face is unmistakable.

‘I tried to grab her,’ he says.

I can’t help it – I gasp. ‘Gabe!’

‘I know . . . I know I’m not supposed to, but . . . you see someone leap from a cliff in front of you, you can’t help it.’

(‘Never try to grab them,’ said the police officer who came to our house after the first potential jumper. He’d been very clear about this. ‘If you do, they might grab you and then we have two dead bodies.’ It was the number one rule, he told us.)

‘I nearly had her. She was right there.’ He closes his eyes.

I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight, trying not to think about how easily it could have gone wrong. At the same time, I can’t deny my relief. That’s why he was holding his hands out. It made total sense.

‘I’m sorry, Pip. I’m so sorry.’

I’m not sure if he’s sorry for reaching for her, or for missing. Perhaps both. Either way, I’ve already forgiven him.

‘Come on,’ I say, resigned. ‘Let’s get back before those girls wake up.’

The rain is getting heavy now. Gabe bends to pick up his board. I tiptoe over the rocks and am already on the steps when I turn back, remembering.