33.
Are there any weapons in your house?” asked the counselor.
“Pardon?” said Celeste. “Did you say weapons?”
Her heart was still pounding from the fact that she was actually here, in this small yellow-walled room, with a row of cactus plants on the windowsill and colorful government-issued posters with hotline numbers on the walls, cheap office furniture on beautiful old floorboards. The counseling offices were in a federation cottage on the Pacific Highway on the Lower North Shore. The room she was in probably used to be a bedroom. Someone had once slept here, never dreaming that in the next century people would be sharing shameful secrets in this room.
When she’d gotten up this morning Celeste had been sure she wouldn’t come. She intended to ring up and cancel as soon as she got the children to school, but then she’d found herself in the car, putting the address into the GPS, driving up the winding peninsula road, thinking the whole way that she would pull over in the next five minutes and call them up and say so sorry, but her car had broken down, she would reschedule another day. But she kept driving, as if she were in a dream or a trance, thinking of other things like what she’d cook for dinner, and then, before she knew it, she was pulling into the parking area behind the house and watching a woman coming out, puffing furiously on a cigarette as she opened the door of a banged-up old white car. A woman wearing jeans and a crop top, with tattoos like awful injuries all the way down her thin white arms.
She’d envisaged Perry’s face. His amused, superior face. “You’re not serious, are you? This is just so . . .”
So lowbrow. Yes, Perry. It was. A suburban counseling practice that specialized in domestic violence. It was listed on their website, along with depression and anxiety and eating disorders. There were two typos on the home page. She’d chosen it because it was far enough away from Pirriwee that she could be sure of not running into anyone she knew. Also, she hadn’t really had any intention of turning up. She’d just wanted to make an appointment, to prove she wasn’t a victim, to prove to some unseen presence that she was doing something about this.
“Our behavior is lowbrow, Perry,” she’d said out loud in the silence of the car, and then she’d turned the key in the ignition and gone inside.
“Celeste?” prompted the counselor now.
The counselor knew her name. The counselor knew more about the truth of her life than anyone in the world besides Perry. She was in one of those naked nightmares, where you just had to keep walking through the crowded shopping center while everyone stared at your shameful, shocking nudity. She couldn’t go back now. She had to see it through. She’d told her. She’d said it, very quickly, her eyes slightly off-center from the counselor’s, pretending she was keeping eye contact. She’d spoken in a low, neutral voice, as if she were telling a doctor about a revolting symptom. It was part of being a grown-up, being a woman and a mother. You had to say uncomfortable things out loud. “I have this discharge.” “I’m in a sort of violent relationship.” “Sort of.” Like a teenager hedging her words, distancing herself.
“Sorry. Did you just ask about weapons?” She recrossed her legs, smoothing the fabric of her dress across them. She’d deliberately chosen an especially beautiful dress that Perry had bought for her in Paris. She hadn’t worn it before. She’d also put on makeup: foundation, powder, the whole kit and caboodle. She wanted to position herself, not as superior to other women, of course not, she didn’t think that, not in a million years. But her situation was different from that woman in the parking lot. Celeste didn’t need the phone number for a shelter. She just needed some strategies to fix her marriage. She needed tips. Ten top tips to stop my husband from hitting me. Ten top tips to stop my hitting him back.
“Yes, weapons. Are there any weapons in the house?” The counselor looked up from what must be a standard sort of checklist. For God’s sake, thought Celeste. Weapons! Did she think Celeste lived in the sort of home where the husband kept an unlicensed gun under the bed?
“No weapons,” said Celeste. “Although the twins have lightsabers.” She noticed that she was putting on a well-bred private schoolgirl sort of voice and tried to stop it.
She wasn’t a private schoolgirl. She’d married up.
The counselor laughed politely and noted something on the clipboard in front of her. Her name was Susi, which seemed to indicate a worrying lack of judgment. Why didn’t she call herself Susan? “Susi” sounded like a pole dancer.
The other problem with Susi was that she appeared to be about twelve years old, and quite naturally, being twelve, she didn’t know how to apply eyeliner properly. It was smudged around her eyes, giving her that raccoon look. How could this child give Celeste advice on her strange, complicated marriage? Celeste should be giving her advice on makeup and boys.
“Does your partner assault or mutilate the family pets?” said Susi blandly.
“What? No! Well, we don’t have any pets, but he’s not like that!” Celeste felt a surge of anger. Why had she subjected herself to this humiliation? She wanted to cry out, absurdly, This dress is from Paris! My husband drives a Porsche! We are not like that! “Perry would never hurt an animal,” she said.
“But he hurts you,” said Susi.
You don’t know anything about me, thought Celeste sulkily, furiously. You think I’m like the girl with the tattoos, and I am not, I am not.
“Yes,” said Celeste. “As I said, occasionally he, we become physically . . . violent.” Her posh voice was back. “But as I tried to explain, I have to take my share of the blame.”
“No one deserves to be abused, Mrs. White,” said Susi.
They must teach them that line at counseling school.
“Yes,” said Celeste. “Of course. I know that. I don’t think I deserve it. But I’m not a victim. I hit him back. I throw things at him. So I’m just as bad as he is. Sometimes I start it. I mean, we’re just in a very toxic relationship. We need techniques, we need strategies to help us . . . to make us stop. That’s why I’m here.”
Susi nodded slowly. “I understand. Do you think your husband is afraid of you, Mrs. White?”
“No,” said Celeste. “Not in a physical sense. I think he’s probably afraid I’ll leave him.”
“When these ‘incidents’ have taken place, have you ever been afraid?”
“Well, no. Well, sort of.” She could see the point that Susi was trying to make. “Look, I know how violent some men can be, but with Perry and me, it’s not that bad. It’s bad! I know it’s bad. I’m not delusional. But, see, I’ve never ended up in the hospital or anything like that. I don’t need to go to a shelter or a refuge or whatever they’re called. I have no doubt you see much, much worse cases than mine, but I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Have you ever been afraid that you might die?”
“Absolutely not,” said Celeste immediately.
She stopped.
“Well, just once. It was just that my face . . . He had my face pressed into the corner of a couch.”
She remembered the feeling of his hand on the back of her head. The angle of her face meant that her nose sort of folded in half, pinching her nostrils. She’d struggled frantically to free herself, like a pinned butterfly. “I don’t think he realized what he was doing. But I did think, just for a moment, that I was going to suffocate.”
“That must have been very frightening,” said Susi without inflection.
“It was a bit.” She paused. “I remember the dust. It was very dusty.”
For a moment Celeste thought she might cry: huge, heaving, snotty sobs. There was a box of tissues sitting on the coffee table in between them for just that purpose. Her own mascara would run. She’d have raccoon eyes too, and Susi would think, Not so upper class now, are you, lady?
She pulled herself back from the brink of debasement and looked away from Susi. She studied her engagement ring.
“I packed a bag that time,” she said. “But then . . . well, the boys were still so little. And I was so tired.”
“On average, most victims will try to leave an abusive situation six or seven times before they finally leave permanently,” said Susi. She chewed on the end of her pen. “What about your boys? Has your husband ever—”
“No!” said Celeste. A sudden terror took hold of her. Dear God. She was crazy coming here. They might report her to the Department of Community Services. They might take the children away.
She thought of the family tree projects the boys had taken in to school today. The carefully drawn lines connecting each of them to their twin, to her and to Perry. Their happy glossy faces.
“Perry has never ever laid a finger on the boys. He is a wonderful father. If I ever thought that the boys were in danger, I would leave; I would never, ever put them at risk.” Her voice shook. “That’s one of the reasons I haven’t left, because he is so good with them. So patient! He’s more patient with them than me. He adores them!”
“How do you think—” began Susi, but Celeste interrupted her. She needed her to understand how Perry felt about his children.
“We had so much trouble getting pregnant, or not getting pregnant. Staying pregnant. I had four miscarriages in a row. It was terrible.”
It was like she and Perry had endured a two-year journey across stormy oceans and endless deserts. And then they’d reached the oasis. Twins! A natural pregnancy with twins! She’d seen the expression on the obstetrician’s face when she found the second heartbeat. Twins. A high-risk pregnancy for someone with a history of recurrent miscarriage. The obstetrician was thinking, No way. But they made it all the way to thirty-two weeks.
“The boys were preemies. So there was all that going back and forth to the hospital for late-night feeds. We couldn’t believe it when we finally got to bring them home. We just stood there in the nursery, staring at them, and then . . . well, then, those first few months were like a nightmare, really. They weren’t good sleepers. Perry took three months off. He was wonderful. We got through it together.”
“I see,” said Susi.
But Celeste could tell she didn’t see. She didn’t understand that she and Perry were bound together forever by their experiences and their love for their sons. Breaking away from him would be like tearing flesh.
“How do you think the abuse impacts your sons?”
Celeste wished she would stop using the word “abuse.”
“It doesn’t impact them in any way,” she said. “They have no idea. I mean, for the most part, we’re just a very happy, ordinary, loving family. We can go for weeks, months even, without anything out of the ordinary.”
Months was probably an exaggeration.
She was starting to feel claustrophobic in this tiny room. There wasn’t enough air. She ran a fingertip across her brow, and it came back damp. What had she expected from this? Why had she come? She knew there were no answers. No strategies. No tips and techniques, for God’s sake. Perry was Perry. There was no way out except to leave, and she would never leave while the children were little. She was going to leave when they were at university. She’d already decided that.
“What made you come here today, Mrs. White?” said Susi, as if she were reading her mind. “You said this has been going on since your children were babies. Has the violence been escalating recently?”
Celeste tried to remember why she’d made the appointment. It was the day of the athletics carnival.
It was something to do with the amused expression on Perry’s face that morning when Josh asked him about the mark on his neck. And then she’d gone home after the carnival and felt envious of her cleaners because they were laughing. So she’d given twenty-five thousand dollars to charity. “Feeling philanthropic were you, darling?” Perry had said wryly a few weeks later when the credit card bill came in, but he’d made no further comment.
“No, it hasn’t been escalating,” she said to Susi. “I’m not sure why I finally made an appointment. Perry and I went to marriage counseling once, but it didn’t . . . Well, nothing came of that. It’s hard because he travels a lot for work. He’ll be away again next week.”
“Do you miss him when he’s away?” said Susi. It seemed as though this wasn’t a question on her clipboard, it was just something that she wanted to know.
“Yes,” said Celeste. “And no.”
“It’s complicated,” said Susi.
“It’s complicated,” agreed Celeste. “But all marriages are complicated, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” said Susi. She smiled. “And no.” Her smile vanished. “Are you aware that a woman dies every week in Australia as a result of domestic violence, Mrs. White? Every week.”
“He’s not going to kill me,” said Celeste. “It’s not like that.”
“Is it safe for you to go home today?”
“Of course,” said Celeste. “I’m perfectly safe.”
Susi raised her eyebrows.
“Our relationship is like a seesaw,” explained Celeste. “First one person has the power, then the other. Each time Perry and I have a fight, especially if it gets physical, if I get hurt, then I get the power back. I’m on top.”
She warmed to her theme. It was shameful sharing these things with Susi, but it was also a wonderful relief to be telling someone, to be explaining how it all worked, to be saying these secrets out loud.
“The more he hurts me, the higher I go and the longer I get to stay there. Then the weeks go by, and I can feel it shifting. He stops feeling so guilty and sorry. The bruises—I bruise easily—well, the bruises fade. Little things I do start to annoy him. He gets a bit irritable. I try to placate him. I start walking on eggshells, but at the same time I’m angry that I have to walk on eggshells, so sometimes I stop tiptoeing. I stomp on the eggshells. I deliberately aggravate him because I’m so angry with him, and with myself, for having to be careful. And then it happens again.”
“So you’ve got the power right now,” said Susi. “Because he hurt you recently.”
“Yes,” said Celeste. “I could actually do anything right now because he still feels so bad about what happened the last time. With the Legos. So right now everything is great. Better than great. That’s the problem, see. It’s so good right now, it’s almost . . .”
She stopped.
“Worth it,” finished Susi. “It’s almost worth it.”
Celeste met Susi’s raccoon eyes. “Yes.”
The blandness of Susi’s gaze said nothing at all except, Got it. She wasn’t being kind and maternal, and she wasn’t reveling in the delicious superiority of her own kindness. She was just getting the job done. She was like that brisk, efficient lady at the bank or the telephone company who just wants to do her job and untangle that knotty problem for you.
They sat in silence for a moment. Outside the office door, Celeste could hear the murmur of voices, the ringing of a telephone and the distant sounds of traffic passing on the street outside. A sense of peace washed over her. The sweat on her face cooled. For five years, ever since it had begun, she’d been living her life with this secret shame draped so heavily over her shoulders, and for just a moment it lifted and she remembered the person she used to be. She still had no solution, no way out, but for just this moment she was sitting opposite someone who understood.
“He will hit you again,” said Susi. That detached professionalism again. No pity. No judgment. It wasn’t a question. She was stating a fact to move the conversation forward.
“Yes,” said Celeste. “It will happen again. He’ll hit me. I’ll hit him.”
It will rain again. I will get sick again. I will have bad days. But can’t I enjoy the good times while they last?
But then why am I here at all?
“So what I’d like to talk about is coming up with a plan,” said Susi. She flipped over a page on her clipboard.
“A plan,” said Celeste.
“A plan,” said Susi. “A plan for next time.”