The Family Next Door(37)

Fran gathered up her purse and the baby seat, and shuffled into the room.

“Hello,” he said, sitting behind his desk. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Fran told him.

It was the truth. There was something comforting about Dr. Price that always put her at ease. And she wanted to feel at ease, even for a few minutes. Despite her decision to leave the past in the past and move forward with Nigel, she felt like no matter what she decided, her mistakes were destined to haunt her.

Dr. Price had white hair, spectacles that perched on the end of his nose, and a fondness for short-sleeved checked shirts and chinos. In her appointments with him while pregnant with Rosie, they’d spent much of the time talking about all matters other than the pregnancy. The parking fine his nineteen-year-old daughter had been contesting, Fran’s recent holiday to Bali, the outrageousness of paying five dollars for a cup of coffee (“daylight robbery,” Dr. Price said). But while pregnant with Ava, Dr. Price had become more doctorly, somehow. He’d started inquiring after her health, asking if she was taking it easy, looking after herself. It was nice and at the same time, uncomfortable. As if he was seeing things she didn’t want him to see.

Today, as he sat in front of her, Fran found that she was unable to meet his eye.

“So,” he said. “How have the first few weeks been?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Getting much sleep?”

“Does anyone ever say yes to that question?”

“Only the dads.” He grinned. “How’s the bleeding?”

“It’s stopped.”

“Good. And any issues … with anything?”

Yes, she thought. My child might not belong to my husband.

“No.”

He was silent a moment. “Fran?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re not looking at me.”

He was right. She’d been focusing on a spot of wall to the right of his head. She forced herself to look at him now. She noticed his eyes were a striking blue.

“Has your mood been low—in general?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Unexplained bouts of crying?”

“Not unexplained exactly.”

“Any trouble sleeping?”

“Yes. My newborn sees to that.”

“Have you got anyone supporting you? Family?”

Fran shrugged. Her mother, father, and brother were all in Sydney living their own lives, being overachievers. Her brother and his wife were both investment bankers and had opted not to have children lest it interfere with their careers. Her parents, who described themselves as “busily retired,” visited Melbourne once or twice a year, usually when it coincided with an event they wanted to go to, like an exhibition or musical. Fran could have called them if she was really struggling and she knew they would come. But they wouldn’t have understood. Overachievers didn’t struggle with new babies. They didn’t have marriage troubles. They certainly didn’t have extramarital affairs or illegitimate children.

“Okay, Fran, this is going to sound dramatic, but I want you to be honest. Have you considered, or made any plans to commit suicide? Or had any thoughts of harming Ava?”

The question baffled her. Who had time to make plans to commit suicide when they had a newborn? Certainly not her. And she’d never, not for a fraction of a single second, thought about harming her child.

“No,” she said. She wished she had postnatal depression. Then he could give her a pill and a referral to a psychologist who would make everything go away. She soared on that thought for a moment. The lovely, quiet sessions, in a clean office with a therapist, talking about her feelings. Ange would probably organize a food-roster, and the neighbors would drop around a meal every night. Essie or Barbara or Mrs. Larritt would come by sporadically and pop in a load of laundry while Fran napped. But she didn’t have postnatal depression. She had a potentially illegitimate child. No one organized a food-roster for that.

“I did want to ask you something though,” Fran said.

“Oh?” He removed his glasses again. “What’s that?”

“Is it possible to find out if your husband is the father of your baby,” she said, “without him knowing about it?”





23


FRAN


Fran reached for one of Essie’s banana muffins. She’d run for seven miles without stopping that morning, and she hadn’t run that far since before she was pregnant with Ava. When she got home she’d breast-fed Ava and made scrambled eggs on toast for Nigel and Rosie. Somewhere in between all of that she’d forgotten to eat herself.

“I was thinking,” Essie was saying, “if we are going to start catching up regularly like this, maybe we should invite Isabelle next time. After all, she does live on the street. What do you think?”

Regularly? Fran thought. When had they decided to catch up regularly?

Essie had been the one to instigate this catch-up and Fran’s initial thought was to politely decline. With everything going on she couldn’t feel less in the mental space to sit through coffee and pleasantry with the neighbors. But then she heard a funny note in Essie’s voice. It was subtle, barely there at all. She might have decided that she’d imagined it if she hadn’t noticed that Essie had seemed a little flustered lately. And, given last time, Fran decided she really should accept. She didn’t know she was accepting a regular catch-up.