The Good Sister(44)

‘All right,’ I say when I see no viable way to protest. I place my backpack in the filing cabinet’s empty bottom drawer and lock it, then quickly scan my schedule and emails. After that, I head for the floor, Carmel hurrying after me.

Out in the main library, I make my way to the children’s section.

‘I thought you were on the front desk this–’ Carmel starts, but instead of finishing her sentence, she gives herself a little shake. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Carry on.’

I nod. My eye has already been drawn to a group of mothers in yoga pants sitting cross-legged on the floor, drinking coffee and chatting. A few metres away, their toddlers happily pull books off the shelves and drop them in piles. I make a beeline for the kids.

‘Would you like me to read you a story?’ I ask a little boy with red hair and pale blue eyes.

He nods eagerly as a couple of the mothers glance over and start to apologise half-heartedly for the mess. I ignore them, pick up a copy of Incy Wincy Spider and sit in a small wooden chair I’ve grabbed from a nearby aisle. One by one, the other kids plant themselves at my feet. When I finish, a small girl hands me another book and I read it. I read two more books before an elderly lady with a walking frame approaches.

‘Excuse me, Fern, I’m sorry to interrupt while you’re reading but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed Cat’s Eye. I was utterly transported from start to finish.’

The yoga mums have finished their coffee now, and they begin to load their kids back into their strollers. Amid a flurry of bleary-eyed thankyous from the mothers, I take the opportunity to stand, and Carmel, who has been sitting quietly nearby, does the same.

‘I thought you’d like it, Mrs Stevens,’ I say. ‘Now that I have earned your trust, would you consider reading Margaret Atwood’s 2000 novel, The Blind Assassin? Follow me, I’ll see if we have a copy in.’

Mrs Stevens had been turned off by the title The Blind Assassin, and refused to read it so I’d had to lure her into the delights of Margaret Atwood the back way. I was still hopeful that she might enjoy Alias Grace or even The Handmaid’s Tale if she was introduced slowly. ‘Ah, here it is. Why don’t I borrow this for you right now?’

The day goes quickly and most of the time I don’t even notice Carmel hovering. It’s rather nice, not even having to check my schedule for where I need to be. I simply roam the floor and go where I’m needed. To my surprise, Carmel doesn’t stop me, not even once. She is a true shadow.

At the end of the day, she sits on the edge of my desk and lets out a long sigh.

‘Wow. I never realised what a gift we had in the library.’

I replay the sentence in my head, trying to make sense of what she is saying. Still, I come up blank.

‘You, Fern,’ she explains. ‘You are the gift.’

Unlike the shadow analogy, which I had come to respect, the gift analogy bears little logic. I find myself with questions – if I am the gift, who is the giver? And who is the receiver? And what is the occasion? But rather than help Carmel understand the failing in her logic, I decide to let it go. After all, Carmel has been a faithful shadow and hasn’t once brought up the photocopiers, which as far as I am concerned is a win.


At the dot of five o’clock, I place my backpack on my shoulders and start the walk home. It’s my practice to walk home in silence, preferring my quiet thoughts to an audiobook as I wind down for the day. The evening is mild and there are people about, jogging, walking in groups of two or three, or pushing bulky strollers all over the pavement. I even pass a pregnant woman, carrying hand weights and walking briskly. It strikes me as ironic that it is at exactly the moment I pass her that my phone beeps with a text from Rose.

I have made an appointment for you at the family-planning clinic tomorrow morning.

I still haven’t told Rose she is the reason this baby exists, despite plenty of opportunities. It’s not that I think I can keep the baby myself – I understand now that that wouldn’t be what’s best for the baby. But as for deciding to hand him or her over to Rose? That might take a little more time. After hours of discussing my options over the weekend, Rose and I had decided it would be prudent to visit a family-planning clinic. I am aware, of course, that the family-planning clinic is not a place to go to plan one’s family, but rather, a place most people go for the opposite reason – to undo an unplanned family.

‘Just a visit,’ Rose had said, ‘we don’t need to decide anything right away.’

And so, as I turn into my street, I text a reply to Rose: Okay.

When I reach my block of flats, Wally’s van is parked outside, and the back doors are wide open. Wally is sitting in his folding chair with his computer on his lap and, despite the sunshine, his bobble hat is perched high on his head. He grins when he sees me coming.

‘Welcome home,’ he says, reaching for his second fold-up chair, which is tucked into a compartment in the back of the van. He unfolds it and I sink into the canvas seat and, for a glorious moment, close my eyes. I am usually on my feet most of the day but today I feel more tired than usual.

After a deep breath, I say, ‘Do you want children, Wally?’

I open my eyes.

Wally doesn’t seem surprised by the question, but over the course of our short relationship, I have asked him a number of investigative questions as part of (I assume) the normal exploratory process of getting to know someone. Off the top of my head, I can remember asking: ‘At what age did you start walking?’, ‘Do you recall ever believing that you could jump off a roof and fly?’ and ‘Why do you think so many people believe in religion?’ On no occasion has he ever expressed any concern or issue with my questions. Nor does he now. As always, he treats my question with the utmost respect, taking the time to sift through his innermost thoughts before delivering his answer, verdict or opinion.