The Family Next Door(58)

“For one thing, she looks nothing like you. For another, she moved you both away from Sydney when you were a newborn and you have no contact with her friends or family. You have no father in the picture. Often women take babies to hold on to a man but it rarely works. They usually end up alone in a codependent relationship with the child, exactly like you and Barbara are.”

Isabelle didn’t know if any of this was registering with Essie. Her jaw was set—which may mean she was refusing to listen, or possibly, that something had struck a chord.

“Essie,” she said as the door opened. It was Barbara.

“Oh! Hello, Isabelle. Sorry, am I interrupting?”

Barbara held a pile of magazines and an overnight bag, and she smiled warmly at them. After a moment, her smile faded. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Essie said, “though I am a bit tired. You probably should go, Isabelle. And I think it’s best if you don’t come back while I’m in here. I need to focus on getting better.”

There was a moment’s silence. Barbara glanced at Isabelle, a question in her eyes.

“I’d really like to come back in a few days,” Isabelle said. “You might be feeling a bit better and we can talk further.”

“No,” Essie said, avoiding her gaze. “Mum, can you tell the nurses, please? No more visitors. I need to rest.”

“All right,” Barbara said, disconcerted. She sent Isabelle an apologetic look. Isabelle slid her gaze to the floor.

“Thanks for coming, Isabelle,” Essie said.

“I’ll call you,” Isabelle replied, but Essie’s expression made it clear that she wouldn’t be answering.





42


FRAN


Fran was in purgatory. Or limbo. Or perhaps it was hell? It was certainly hot enough. After a few days of slightly cooler temperatures, the heat had surged again and today the winds were set to pick up, so the fire authority was on high alert for bushfires.

Fran was on high alert too, for a verdict on the future of her marriage.

She and Nigel sat on the floor of the lounge room while Rosie crouched inside the little puppet theater that Santa had brought last Christmas. Ava sat in Fran’s lap, gurgling happily. Fran had been pleased when Rosie suggested putting on a show, partly because it was far more common for her to conduct a science experiment or read an atlas, and partly because it would be a few minutes where she and Nigel wouldn’t have to find other things to do to avoid speaking to each other.

For the past few days she and Nigel had gone about their lives as if nothing had happened, save for a few small changes. Now Nigel shut the bathroom door when he showered, and he dressed in pajama pants and a T-shirt for bed, rather than just boxer shorts. In the morning, when Fran woke, he was already out of bed and making breakfast, and as they ate, they both talked only to Rosie. He needed time to think, he’d said. It was so typical of Nigel. He was methodical and fair, even when it came to matters of the heart.

Fran wished she had someone to talk to, but everyone seemed to be caught in their own personal drama. Essie, it seemed, was in the hospital. Ben hadn’t given details, but Fran gathered it was more postpartum issues. She couldn’t help feeling guilty about that. She’d noticed Essie wasn’t doing well. She was just across the road. But she’d been too wound up in her own life to do anything. What kind of a person did that make her?

Rosie’s hands were stuffed into a pair of frog puppets, which were wrestling or dancing or doing something that was illegal in public on the stage of Rosie’s little theater. Fran flicked a smile at Nigel. His gaze, she noticed, was on Ava.

He’d been looking at her a lot, these past few days. Checking her out from different angles, in different lights. She didn’t blame him, of course, she’d been doing the same thing if the situation were reversed. Problem was, it wouldn’t tell him much. Ava changed constantly. She was starting to lose that newborn look now. Her face was filling out and her little hands had gained a nice layer of fat, making them look like they were screwed onto her arms. She looked entirely different from Rosie as a baby. But that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“We should get a paternity test done,” she said.

Nigel stiffened, but he kept his gaze right ahead at the puppet show. Rosie was singing a song about a frog on a log. “If you like.”

“I mean … isn’t that what you want?”

He turned to her, slack-jawed. “No. I do not want to get a paternity test on a child that I thought was mine. That is definitely not what I want.”

Fran looked back at the show.

“Daddy! You’re not listening.”

“I am,” he said, not missing a beat. “Frogs don’t make that noise.”

The frogs disappeared from the stage, and Rosie’s head appeared. “What noise do they make?”

“It depends on the species. But it often sounds like a chirp, like this.” Nigel made a noise that Fran had never heard before, but she didn’t doubt that he was right. Neither did Rosie. Nigel was the encyclopedia Rosie went to whenever she needed facts. Nigel was the one she went to for everything. He was, for that matter, the one Fran went to for everything. Nigel was the heart and soul of their family. It was why, when he was struggling, the whole family struggled with him.

Rosie imitated the frog’s call perfectly, then disappeared again. The show resumed.