CRESSIDA
Emma went downhill all through December, withdrawing a little further from us each day. We tested each of her relatives but none matched; none even came close. Next we tried the bone-marrow registry, but there was no joy there either, at least within Australia. I completed the paperwork for the larger international registries and sent it off with Emma’s condition listed as critical. After that all we could do was wait. Such a search usually takes between six and twelve months, but Emma didn’t have that kind of time. What sort of God makes us so unique it can kill us? Couldn’t there have been more margin for error?
A third round of chemotherapy brought a temporary remission, though only a short one. As Emma faded so did her parents, their faces growing more pallid with each passing day. The nurses moved her into a bigger room and placed a mattress on the floor so her mother could remain with the girl around the clock. But I never saw her sleep, no matter what the shift. Instead, she was invariably bending over her daughter, whispering to her or smoothing her hair, Shura clinging to her legs or tangled in a fitful doze beneath the bed. The father visited whenever he could, his workdays growing shorter as Emma declined. Toward the end he gave it up altogether and moved into the ward with the rest of his family. Each day, as soon as I got to the hospital, I’d open letters and check my e-mail, praying that a donor had been found. Then I’d make my way to Emma’s room, where their waiting faces would turn to me like plants following the sunshine, desperate for the news that never came. Hope slowly leached out of their eyes and was replaced by fear.
When I was little I looked forward to Christmas all year long. It wasn’t even the presents, but the novelty of my father being home for a full day, not just popping in for an hour or two between rounds and his own private practice. Since becoming a doctor myself, though, I’ve found the occasion depressing. I’ve worked too many shifts on Christmas Day, where the only thing that distinguishes it from any other is cold turkey and a paper hat in the hospital cafeteria. I’ve witnessed too much grief exacerbated by the supposed joy of the season, seen too many children lying inert and stuffed with tubes when they should have been unwrapping gifts or tying tea towels around their heads for the end-of-year nativity play.
My premonition was right, though it took three years to come true. Emma passed away in the early hours of Christmas Eve, not even having the strength to hold on for the visit from Santa she’d been so anticipating. I wasn’t there at the time, though the staff nurse called me at home. For the first time ever I’d been granted leave, five whole days to spend with Luke and our families. I’d planned to sleep in, but when I glanced at the clock it wasn’t even six.
“That was the hospital,” I told Luke, returning briefly to our bed for warmth after taking the call.
“I figured,” he grumbled, turning over as I tried to burrow into his arms.
“Emma died. The one I told you about, with ALL.” My voice cracked as I spoke, tears spilling down my face, seeping into my ears like slugs. “I’ll have to go in.”
“God, Cress, you’re meant to be on leave,” said Luke, extending an arm in a belligerent approximation of comfort.
“I know, but she was my patient. I should be there for the parents, at least.” The bed felt chilly, and I shrugged off the covers and got up.
Luke settled back to sleep, with one final comment: “Well, at least it happened today. There’s no way I would have let you leave on Christmas morning.”
I slammed the door on my way out of the house.
The words irritated me for the rest of the day. Forget it, a part of me said; he was half-asleep, disoriented; he didn’t know what he was saying. And if he did he was just worried about you working too much, wanting you to be able to enjoy a rare holiday without something like this. Such reasoning worked for a while, but then I’d get angry again. He didn’t give a damn that she died, only that it was inconvenient. He didn’t understand how deeply I was feeling this grief.
But why was it affecting me so much? I’d had patients die before, scores of them, children just as appealing and brave and deserving of life. I’d shed tears for some, but never like this. All that Christmas Eve whenever I wasn’t angry I was crying. I cried with Emma’s parents and with poor dazed Shura and with the nurses who had cared for the girl. I cried as I made my last entry in her history and completed the death certificate, then cried some more in a locked toilet in the staff bathroom. Emma had been my first patient in the oncology unit, the first time I’d experienced my strange second sight, the first child whom I had admitted already knowing whether she’d live or die. Even so, my reaction felt out of proportion. Was it because I’d dared to hope, discharged her three years ago with everything pointing to a full recovery? Or was I just worn-out after becoming entangled in her long, slow fall toward death?
I bumped into a consultant as I emerged from the bathroom, red-eyed and sniffing. It was Dr. Whyte, the one who had agreed to let me take Emma on when she’d relapsed and returned to the unit only three short months ago.
“Oh, Cressida,” he said, ignoring my disheveled state, “I’ve been meaning to speak to you. Do you have a minute?”
He must have heard about Emma, though that wasn’t what he wanted to discuss. I was ushered into his tiny office, textbooks concealing three of the four walls, diplomas papering the last.
“I’ve got something I thought you might be interested in,” he said, scrabbling among a drift of papers on his desk, then transferring the search to an adjacent filing cabinet. Finally the document was located.
“Here we go. The Stevenson Fellowships.” He read from a dog-eared brochure. “‘For research and study in the United States. Funded for two years in the applicant’s choice of field. Recognizing clinical excellence,’ et cetera, et cetera, and so on.” He looked up to make sure I was listening. “The department thought we might nominate you, if you were interested. We’d hold your post here, of course.”
I didn’t respond. I’d thought about working overseas before—anyone who was serious about her career did. The best jobs, the longest tenures, inevitably went to those who had proved their worth in the wider world, far from the academic bell jar of Australia. But I’d always put off such a decision, comfortable where I was, unwilling to disturb my life. Dr. Whyte took my silence for reluctance.
“They’re very prestigious, you know,” he advised. “Something like that on your résumé would take you a long way. Of course, there’s no guarantee you’d be successful, but we thought you were our best shot.”
He smiled and I felt my own mouth lift for the first time that day. Suddenly the idea appealed. What was I so afraid of leaving? Luke and I were married. He’d come with me, find it easy enough to get a job in the country that practically invented advertising. Maybe his own firm could relocate him? I was sure they had offices somewhere in the States. My mind raced. It might do us good to start afresh with just each other.
“Anyway, have a think about it,” Dr. Whyte was saying. “Applications close in May, so there’s plenty of time yet. But you do need to come up with a proposal, some sort of research project that will convince them to spend the money on you. We can meet again in January and talk about it.”
I took the brochure and shook his hand, then left the hospital. Outside it was nearly Christmas.
CARY
Kate insisted on staying for drinks at her work on Christmas Eve, so we didn’t get away until late. I don’t really know why she was so keen. It was a long drive to where my parents lived and we’d already attended her department’s Christmas dinner only a few days before, but I figured the extra time would give me a chance to pack the car, water the plants, install the timer switches—tasks that were unlikely to have even crossed Kate’s mind.
When I got to the museum at our prearranged meeting time of eight o’clock Kate was waiting on the steps, more than a few sheets to the wind. The former surprised me; the latter didn’t. I’d half suspected I’d have to go in there myself and coax her out, but she climbed into the car readily enough. I leaned across to kiss her, her lips still tasting of wine.
“Did you have a good time? Do you want anything to eat? I made some sandwiches; they’re on the backseat. Just Vegemite—I didn’t want to leave anything in the fridge that might go off.”
“Cary, we’re only going away for a week,” she replied with mild exasperation, eyes closing as she settled back into the seat. “And I’m not hungry. Not for sandwiches. How about some McDonald’s? A hamburger, or some french fries, just cooked and dripping with oil.”
I grimaced. “Not in my car. We’ll smell it for days. And we’re already late enough. I’ll stop in Ballarat if you’re still craving junk food then.”
Kate didn’t answer. She’d fallen asleep.
Years ago, the drive from home to town had seemed to take forever, a daylong odyssey of golden paddocks and solitary gum trees cycling endlessly like the background in a TV cartoon. We lived just outside Horsham in the Wimmera, a wheat-growing district three or four hours north of the city. Age and new highways had condensed the journey. I’d learned there were more distant places, though it never seemed so when I was growing up. Back then, Melbourne was another country, as foreign and exotic as Paris.
Now I was going back for perhaps only the fifth or sixth time in the two decades since I’d left. There had never really been much of a need. Mom and Dad visited Melbourne frequently, and there was no one from school whom I’d stayed in contact with. Usually, when I thought of the area it was with a wash of ennui, of hours just aching to be filled, long, hot afternoons with no company save the heat waves crackling over the endless fields of wheat.
But as the car moved beyond the suburbs, then through the bigger country towns, I felt the stirrings of excitement. We slipped through Ballarat, then tiny Beaufort, the halfway point, and on past Stawell. The Grampians flickered briefly to my left, bulky as a liner against the undulating oceans of grain. Bogong moths as big as finches fluttered against the windshield, and every so often my headlights picked out the eyes of some night creature crouching amid the stringy trees on the edge of the road. Kate slumbered on, her head against the window, face flushed and childlike. Seeing her like that I felt protective, almost paternal, and very much in love. Things had shifted subtly between us in the last month, but there were lots of reasons for that: the time of year, my being away at conferences, her own increased workload. Then, too, there had been the question of children. To be honest, I had dreamed about crowning Christmas Day by telling my parents that Kate was expecting, knowing that they were anticipating such an event almost as keenly as I was. It hadn’t happened yet, but I had reason to hope. Just last week I had arrived home early and come across Kate in the bathroom, sobbing her eyes out. When I asked her what the matter was she had hesitated, then hidden her face in her hands and hiccuped that it was that time of the month. I’d consoled her, of course, but secretly I was elated. If she cared that much she must want it too.
Kate finally stirred as we inched through Horsham, deserted by all except the most determined revelers. It was five to twelve; we’d made good time.
“Hey,” she said stretching. “You never stopped at McDonald’s.”
The smile that followed was provocative and cheeky and mine. I felt my heart contract in gratitude, and suddenly realized what I’d been looking forward to through all the miles behind us. Not going home so much as going there with Kate. Time just for us, with no distractions—time we’d been sorely lacking in the last six months. Time to spend with Kate and Mom and Dad, the only people in the world I loved. I felt my foot go down on the accelerator. Beside me, Kate hummed a carol and threw an arm around my shoulders even though I was driving.
LUKE
Though it was only a week I thought it would never pass. Christmas took care of one day; then we spent another couple at home bumping uneasily against each other in the unfamiliar togetherness. The days were long and hot and quiet, our friends away on holiday, the suburbs deserted. It was almost a relief when Cress went back to work.
For years I’d nagged her to take some leave, and when she finally did what happened? All I could think about was Kate. Cress may have been my wife but she was suddenly a distraction, a nuisance, something I had to attend to when all I wanted was space to fantasize. Everything Cress and I had previously enjoyed together—walking a neighbor’s dog in the local park, going out for breakfast—became a trial, tedious and inconsequential. I snapped at her once or twice and I know she felt the change in me. There were tears late one night and I ended up making love to her apologetically, relieved that I still found her desirable enough to at least get some pleasure from that.
I didn’t like the person I’d become; nor was I proud of what I was doing. I tried to talk about it to Tim on a rare occasion when he wasn’t trotting at Joan’s heels, but that was no use.
“Don’t worry about it,” he’d advised, suddenly the expert on relationships. “You’re just readjusting to each other. When was the last time you spent more than a day together?”
I had to think. Cress usually ended up working at least one shift each weekend, and half the time when she was home I had arrangements for golf or to go to a football game. When it came, the answer wasn’t reassuring.
“Easter last year,” I’d told him. “But we weren’t alone—we went away with Cary and Kate.”
“Ah, yes. You haven’t seen them for a while, have you?” Tim was almost smirking. Since going out with Joan he’d become far too confident.
“Well, thanks for your help, mate,” I’d said, turning as if to go.
“Hang on, Luke. I was only kidding. Sorry—I thought that was long forgotten.”
“It is, but that wasn’t what we were talking about.” I’d toyed with the idea of telling Tim—to unburden myself, and for the rich guilty pleasure of Kate’s name on my lips. But now as we spoke I realized just what a pipe dream that was. Tim would never recover from the shock, the defilement of his moral boundaries.
“You’re just out of practice with the whole togetherness thing. Go on a vacation. Take up a hobby that you both enjoy.”
I guessed that the advice was sensible, though I didn’t see how any amount of ballroom dancing or wine tasting was going to put things right. Still Tim trickled on.
“Join a gym together, or buy a beach house—something that gives you a focus. How long have you been married?”
“Coming up to two years.”
“There you go then. Plan some romantic getaway; fly her to King Island or Uluru; take a balloon trip over the Barossa. Make it something memorable, just for the two of you.”
Despite everything I had to laugh.
“Balloons? King Island? This from the man who thought Lorne was the height of vacation excitement only a few short months ago.”
Tim flushed and conceded my point.
“Yeah, you’re right, but things change. You meet someone and everything’s new. Nothing’s ever the same again.”
I couldn’t have agreed more, though I kept the thought to myself.
Two weeks before I’d agonized over what to get Cress and Kate for Christmas. There’s an old joke about a man who buys a cookbook for his wife and a negligee for his mistress. Somehow, though, the two parcels get mixed up and he fears that all will be lost. But on the contrary, both women are delighted: the wife thrilled to be viewed in a sexual manner after years of domestic tedium, the mistress overjoyed that her lover considers her as more than just a body. I imagined the scenario as I trudged my way through Myer and David Jones. Should I look for lingerie for Cress, reassure her that despite all the hiccups of the past few months I still loved and wanted her? I thought I did, but a leopard-print G-string didn’t seem the right way to express that.
As I left the department store I had a sudden nauseating vision of Cary presenting Kate with the same thing. I assumed that they must have sex. They were married; there was no reason not to. And if she didn’t he’d no doubt become suspicious, so it was in my interests that she kept him happy as well. But why should I even imagine that she didn’t? Kate was a sexual woman; she’d have no trouble sleeping with both of us. Stupidly I found myself trying to remember her underwear. There was a purple set I’d seen her in once or twice, albeit briefly. The color was remarkable, regal and whorish all at once. Not something Cress would wear, though it would suit her too. Was it a gift from Cary? Had he gone into a shop, knowing her measurements, familiar with the weight of her breasts in his palms and anticipating exactly how she would look when she tried them on? I found myself suddenly sweating and angry and with no justification for either.
Cress solved one problem by suggesting we buy a barbecue as a joint gift to each other. She’d already picked out the model. I was grateful to be let off so easily and in my relief bought a tiny bottle of her favorite scent so she had something to unwrap on Christmas morning. Kate’s gift was proving more difficult. She never wore perfume, claiming that clean skin was a more appealing fragrance. She barely wore jewelry either, or makeup, and I could hardly buy her clothes. Maybe it would have to be a cookbook after all.
I gave her the present on Christmas Eve. We had just two short hours together, having skipped out of our respective office parties to meet under the Moreton Bay fig in the botanic gardens. Dusk was falling, a humid twilight with the sun hanging heavy and crimson above the horizon. There was the prediction of a scorcher for Christmas Day.
“What’s this?” Kate asked, looking delighted and abashed all at once as I handed her the package.
“Open it and find out,” I replied rather predictably, enjoying her excitement.
She tugged at the wrapping, shredding tissue paper and tape. Inside was an unlabeled CD, the silver disk blinking up like the eye of some great landed fish.
“I made it,” I explained. “It’s all the songs I hear you humming, plus the ones that remind me of you.” I hurried on, suddenly scared she would think I was cheap or presumptuous. “I’ve left it anonymous, just for us to know about. Play it in your car or put it on your iPod for when we’re apart.”
Kate was quiet for a moment, turning it over in her hands, not meeting my gaze. When she did look up her eyes were wet.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “That’s the most beautiful thing that anyone’s ever done for me.”
She moved into my arms and we kissed, deeply and at length, passion joined for the first time by something stronger. When we broke apart Kate was smiling.
“I didn’t bring anything for you, but I’ve just had an idea. Close your eyes.”
I did as I was told, leaning forward with my head in my hands. Kate busied herself behind me, quietly crooning the melody from one of the songs I had recorded. After five minutes she announced she was ready.
“Turn around,” she commanded, lifting my fingers away from my eyes. Carved into the trunk of the Moreton Bay fig in front of me was a small heart, its outline sharp in the desecrated wood. Inside it were our initials, stacked neatly one above the other like a child’s blocks.
KH
LS
The gesture was pure Kate: impulsive, heartfelt and probably illegal. Instinctively I glanced around to make sure we hadn’t been spotted. The tree was well over a hundred years old. I’d read somewhere that it was thought to have been planted by a descendant of the First Fleet, yet Kate had defaced it without a second’s thought. The gesture moved and awed me.
“Do you like it?” asked Kate, sitting back on her heels and reattaching a tiny Swiss army knife to her keys. Its red casing winked once between her fingers like blood.
“Like it? I’m overwhelmed,” I replied truthfully, flattered but a little uneasy.
“Don’t worry. It will grow over in time. Soon no one will know it was there.” She regarded me coolly, as if daring me to express relief. I felt it, but kept my counsel and kissed her insouciant mouth instead. What the hell. There was more at stake than a tree.
KATE
Five more months it went on. Good months, that is, the ones before the tears and the ultimatums and the all-encompassing pain. Summer months composed entirely of stolen hours and phone conversations, months when we must have made love a thousand times. Months of getting behind in my work, of frowns followed by warnings followed by reprimands. Months when I laughed and glowed and didn’t care about anything in the whole damn world except Luke and when I would see him next. Months, in short, when I lived.
I played the CD the first time I was alone after Cary and I returned from our Christmas visit to his parents. As I lifted it from its case a tiny scrap of tissue paper floated to the ground. I picked it up, assuming it had come from the wrapping, but there was something written in Luke’s hand on the opposite side. I love you, Kate. The fragment leaped and quivered in my fingers, as fragile as a bedroom promise. So he loved me, enough to put it in writing. To plan and consider, to set down the words free from pressure or desire, without hope of any immediate gain. I tucked the scrap in my underwear drawer, then, reconsidering, fished it out and placed it in my wallet instead, sandwiched anonymously between two business cards. I wanted the words close to me, where I could read them at will, warm my hands at their blaze.
Of course I loved him. Had for a while, maybe even since that night on the roof. Is it possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? I imagine Sarah would say no, that any such emotion was the product of lust and likely to be as fleeting. Cary, too, would say that love grew out of trust and time, a slow revealing of yourselves to each other. Maybe so, but then, I’d known Luke for a year or two before he requested that tango. It wasn’t as if he were a complete stranger. We’d been friends before we were lovers, and the latter was enhanced by the former.
Well, mostly. I loved him, but I didn’t want to know about his life. His real life that is, the part where Cressida shared his bed, sat opposite him at dinner, assumed his surname. The part where I no longer existed, banished since that kiss at the wedding. Once, in January, he mentioned going away with Cressida for the weekend to her family’s beach house, how for some reason she’d been all over him for sex, walking in on him in the shower, grabbing his thigh under the table at mealtimes. I think he was complaining, but I didn’t care. The words seared; the images lodged in my brain like fishhooks. Out of pique, I needled him back. Yes, Cary could be like that too. Wanting to try things we’d never do at home—it must be something about a novel environment. “What things?” Luke had asked, and I’d shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly. “Oh, you know. Role playing, a bit of bondage—nothing too heavy, though. Wanting me to pretend to be the nurse to his patient, or some girl he’d picked up in the street.” Luke blanched at the last one, but he never called Cressida by name with me again. I returned the favor: whenever we conferred about when or how we’d meet, our spouses were only ever he or she, not even mentioned unless absolutely necessary. As if neglecting to name them could somehow nullify their very existence.
For a while I thought about Sarah’s question: Where’s it all heading? Doubts and worries would surface like sharks whenever I left Luke, hurrying home or back to work with my thighs damp and hair disheveled, or waking up the next morning and realizing it wasn’t his arms around me. But I never found an answer, so after a while I stopped wondering. I had enough on my mind. There was the whole juggling act to plan, and Cary to mollify. Every so often I’d realize guiltily that I wasn’t giving him as much as I should: as much time, or attention, or affection, or sex. I was still his wife and I was around most nights, but as Sarah had predicted my thoughts were elsewhere. I stopped making an effort over our meals, lost track of how his research was progressing, missed three departmental functions in a row. When he finally confronted me about the lapses I burst into tears and sobbed that I was depressed about our inability to conceive. As I’d envisaged, he was immediately all concern, forgiving me everything and sharing my sorrow. He suggested we look into IVF, but I shook my head no; I wanted to have a baby naturally. Besides, I’d never stopped taking the pill, and couldn’t risk that secret being discovered.
I’m not proud of any of this; truly I’m not. Looking back I can’t believe how I acted, how each deceit flowed so seamlessly from another. My only excuse is that I was addicted, and like any addict all I could think about was my next hit. Hurting Cary didn’t seem of any consequence; neglecting Sarah or my work was unimportant. All that mattered was Luke and the singing in my veins whenever we were together.
CRESSIDA
As summer faded into autumn I began to prepare my application for the fellowship. Over the previous months I’d hugged the secret to myself like an unplanned pregnancy, unwilling to talk about it even with Luke lest he scoff at my chances and destroy the dream. Late nights and sunny weekends were spent chasing references at the university medical library, or investigating possible research centers using the Internet. Every other week I’d meet with Dr. Whyte, nervously handing over my latest ideas or proposals. I wasn’t home much, but Luke never complained. Actually, he wasn’t home all that often himself.
I wanted to study leukemia—in memory, I suppose, of Emma. More specifically, I hoped to trial methods of reducing infection rates in unrelated allogeneic bone-marrow transplants, where the donor comes from outside the patient’s family. Dr. Whyte appeared excited about the work and, more important, my chances.
“It’s just the sort of thing they’ll go for,” he declared in early March as he read through my latest draft. “Children, technology and fatal illness—great stuff.”
I blushed, praise unnerving me more than criticism.
“The application doesn’t need much more work,” he continued, “but have you thought about which hospitals you might try?”
I had, actually. Originally I’d found myself daydreaming about the East and West Coasts, New York or Los Angeles. Isn’t that where everyone aspires to succeed? My searches, however, had revealed that my best chance lay with the less glamorous but funding-rich specialty centers of the interior: Chicago, Pittsburgh, Minneapolis. I mentioned them all to Dr. Whyte and he sat back in his chair, tapping his teeth with a pen.
“Maybe even Michigan,” he said. “There’s a very impressive pediatric oncology center that recently opened there. Let’s see if I can find their number….”
He began burrowing through the papers on his desk, mumbling to himself, but I wasn’t listening. Michigan or the moon, it didn’t really matter. I just wanted to go.
CARY
Another six months passed with no baby and growing panic, at least on my side. I was thirty-six and in possession of possibly the only male biological clock known to mankind. Every month I found myself anxiously wondering if maybe this time we’d cracked it; every evening I was alone with Kate I scanned her for signs of fatigue, nausea, even weight gain. She was moody, not sleeping, but there was still no announcement.
I’d always liked children, but this was different. Before, I’d simply enjoyed having my friends’ offspring around at picnics or dinner parties; now my eyes followed every baby carriage that passed on the street, watched covetously as the gestational bump of a departmental secretary inflated beneath her clothes. Without telling Kate I went off and had my sperm count checked in case the problem lay with me. One hundred million, with excellent motility. I should have been proud, but it wasn’t getting us anywhere.
I dearly wanted Kate to undergo some tests of her own. I’d waited long enough and now it was time to get serious, but I didn’t know how to approach her. Kate had become withdrawn, unpredictable. Weeks went by when I felt as if there were a fine mesh between us, distancing and distorting every communication. I’d call in the evening when I knew she should be home, yet the phone would go unanswered. She’d appear distracted, and I’d no longer hear her singing to herself as she went about the house. Then, just as I’d start to panic, the mood would shift and the old Kate would resurface, complete with bursts of affection, sex and laughter. I wondered if it was hormones, or some form of depression. Every time we hit a trough I resolved to speak to her about it, though such a course was fraught with danger and liable to end in denial and tears. Weeks would pass while I screwed up my courage for a confrontation; then the pendulum would swing back and I would relax and think everything was okay. Maybe it was her reaction to stress, and what was more stressful than trying—and failing—to conceive? I knew that pain only too well and resolved to be more understanding of Kate’s moods. Whatever happened, we were married. I was sure we could ride it out.
LUKE
Everything was wonderful, but at times I felt guilty. Not because I was cheating on Cress or deceiving her per se, but because I had so much for so little. An embarrassment of riches, like the millionaire who wins the lottery. Before Kate I would have said that my life was close to perfect: a beautiful wife whom I loved, a good job I enjoyed, an income that allowed us everything we wanted. Cress’s hours were a pain, but in all honesty I didn’t always mind them, even if I said I did. I liked being free to do my own thing, be that playing golf, meeting friends for drinks or just watching TV without interruption. I loved that I’d retained most of my independence within marriage and had the best of both worlds. Everything was pretty well settled.
Then there was Kate, and life got better still. She restored perhaps the only things I’d been missing from my bachelor days: the thrill of the chase, the excitement of sexual hunting and gathering. And at first, as I said, I felt almost guilty. Also a little apprehensive—I had it all; I wasn’t just tempting fate: I was taunting it. But you know what? After a while guilt fades, fear evaporates, and you start believing in the status quo. Initially I wondered how long it could last, but soon I forgot to do even that. Kate exhilarated; Cressida soothed. One stirred me; the other needed me. One for private, one for public. Between them they were everything a man could want. This was my life, and I had no desire to change it.
KATE
Early May. We were now meeting every day, making any excuse for half an hour and the chance to talk or kiss or make increasingly frantic love. Every weekday, that is, weekends being off-limits. Cressida’s shifts meant that Luke was available at least every second weekend, though I didn’t have such a ready-made excuse with Cary. Where he’d once popped into work on the occasional Saturday, now he’d spend the days puttering about, never far from my side, suggesting we go for a walk or to the movies or out to dinner. Keeping an eye on me. That’s what it felt like, though I had no real reason to be paranoid. I could still get away if I had to. I saw a lot of Sarah that summer, even spending two memorable weekends together down on the coast. Not that she knew anything about it, of course, but I figured she’d cover for me in a pinch. I bought a second cell phone and left it turned off. Only one person had the number, and it meant I could check his messages and movements without worrying about the call showing up on my real phone or relying on e-mail. Not even Cary knew I owned it—I paid cash so it didn’t show up on any of our credit card statements. The little deceptions.
For all that, it wasn’t easy. I felt like I spent half my life looking at my watch, or driving furiously from one man to the other. Fatigue shadowed me, but I found it difficult to sleep. I’d never had so much sex in my life—not just with Luke, but with Cary too. I’m not a fool. I knew that we’d drifted apart, though not a terminal distance; I saw the hurt in his face when I was late coming home again or disinclined to chat after dinner. Naively, I thought I could make up for it with sex—that by maintaining one variety of intimacy I’d sustain the illusion that we’d preserved it all. Cary went along with it for his own reasons: reassurance, maybe, or to try to conceive the child he thought we were striving for. But gradually the passion went, and then the enjoyment. Cary and I had always laughed and talked during sex. Now we performed in silence, as if locked in combat. I hadn’t wanted anything to change, but it appeared that something would have to.
LUKE
It was Cressida who brought things to a head.
“Here, read this,” she said one night after dinner, a rare meal that we’d prepared and eaten together, her pager obligingly quiet on one hip. I took the document she handed me, photocopied and crumpled, obviously much perused. The Stevenson Fellowships.
“What is it?” I asked, not much interested. “A conference or something? Is it expensive?”
“Just read it,” she replied, a little insistently. I glanced up and was surprised to see her looking flushed and nervous, her hands threaded together in front of her as if they might otherwise begin to tremble.
Research … Scholarships … Applicant’s choice of destination. I was about halfway through before it dawned on me just what she was after.
“Do you mean you’re interested in this?” The words came out with more force than I’d intended, but Cress didn’t appear perturbed.
“Yes, I am. Dr. Whyte thinks I have an excellent chance.” When I didn’t reply she quickly went on, pressing her case. “It’s two years overseas, full funding for my research. I can go anywhere in America I choose, provided, of course, that the hospital or university accepts me. But the fellowships are so generous that no institution is going to decline.”
“I didn’t know you were so keen on research,” I said, my head swimming. “You haven’t done any since that paper with Cary.” It felt strange saying his name out loud.
“I know,” she conceded, “but I quite liked that. And it’s not as if I get the time—I hardly have the chance to eat lunch at work, never mind conduct studies as well. This would give me the opportunity to try something different. Even if I hate it, it would look great on my résumé, so I could apply for more senior positions when we return.”
Cress has always been ambitious, so I shouldn’t have been surprised. Those senior positions were important to her, the same positions that her father and sisters held. She’d spoken before of how difficult advancement was within the hospital system, how you had to move outside it if you were to get ahead. I’d never really paid much attention, to be honest. She’d always achieved everything else she’d set her sights on, so I’d figured that if a consultancy was what she wanted, then in time she’d get that too. Still, I should have seen this coming.
“What about me? Do I take it I’m part of the deal?”
“Don’t be stupid,” she replied, color in her cheeks. “We’re married. Of course you’d come. A fellowship would cover both our airfares, plus something for accommodation. We could even rent this place out, make some extra money while we’re gone.”
“But I’d still have to give up my job.”
“Yes, you’d have to give up your job,” she snapped, voice angry and rising. “But why is that such a big deal? America must have thousands of jobs in advertising. Your company could probably even transfer you, if you asked. Or you could go back to studying, try something different while we have the luxury of doing so.”
“You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?” I asked, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. To tell you the truth, her proposal had knocked me sideways. “I suppose you’ve already decided where we’re going?”
“I’ve looked into it, yes, but only so I could tailor my research project to facilities with the appropriate equipment and personnel.”
“And?”
“And I thought maybe Michigan. Actually, it was Dale’s suggestion. There’s a brand-new pediatric hospital there he tells me is state-of-the-art.”
“Dale?” I asked. Jealousy lunged at me before I had a chance to reflect on how ridiculous that was.
“Dr. Whyte. Don’t look like that. He’s about fifty-five, with grandchildren. And he’s my principal reference, so I need his support.”
“Michigan? God, could you have chosen anywhere less glamorous?”
“It’s not about glamour, Luke; it’s about my career. Why are you being so negative?” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I thought you’d be excited. The timing’s perfect: we’re both young, with no commitments. We can add in some travel, see something of the world before we’re tied down to school vacations or my private practice or whatever. And there will be more time just for us! I’ll be doing a research job: regular hours, no shifts, no pagers.” She leaned across the table, eyes bright, breasts rising and falling in agitation. “You could at least be pleased about that, but all you’re concerned about is being somewhere glitzy. I bet you don’t even know the first thing about Michigan anyway!”
And with those words I fell in love with her again. I don’t think I ever stopped loving her, really, but I had stopped feeling it, as if a dimmer switch had been used on the emotion. Apart from her looks, one of the things that originally attracted me to Cress was her drive, her ambition. At times now her dedication to her profession annoyed the hell out of me, but in the beginning I was impressed by her single-mindedness, perhaps because I wanted to be single-minded too. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the job, but I’ve never gotten into my career the way she has hers. I enjoy it, but what I enjoy is not so much the work but the ease of that work, the idea of it—getting paid for making things up, for saying things you don’t mean. Work without feelings or accountability or even much effort. Now here was Cress, passionate and focused. It was a long time since I’d seen her like that, and it sparked something in me. Or reignited.
We talked some more after that. Actually, we sat up half the night and talked, something we hadn’t done since before we were married. Despite myself, I was intrigued. My job wasn’t going anywhere in particular, and while it paid well the figures weren’t so staggering as to tie me to it for life. Anyway, America probably paid even better. We moved into the lounge and Cress insisted on making up a fire, the first for the season. In the light of the flames she looked young and excited, happier than I’d seen her for a while, animation accentuating the beauty of her features. For a second I felt content, an emotion so unfamiliar it took me a moment to identify it.
“Here it is,” said Cress, looking up Michigan in the atlas, then passing it across for me to see. The state nestled in the top right-hand corner of the country, spread across two peninsulas jutting into the Great Lakes.
“Imagine how lovely it would be in the summer,” Cress was saying. “We could go camping or sailing or waterskiing.”
And with that my reverie ended. Waterskiing. God, what was I thinking? Just the word brought Kate so sharply into focus I could almost taste her, feeling again the way her quicksilver thighs had moved through my hands, her breath warm on my neck as she shuddered beneath me. I glanced at the map once more. Michigan looked trapped, caught between Canada and the USA, surrounded by water.
“When do we have to make a decision?” I asked Cress.
“Applications close at the end of this month. I’m ready to submit mine if you’re okay with that. Then I’d hear if I was successful in another few months, and we’d leave for the start of the academic year in September.”
“Do you think you’ve got much of a chance?” I asked, palms suddenly damp.
“Dr. Whyte does,” she replied modestly. “He’s supervised other successful applicants.” Then her face broke into a huge smile, and she wrapped her arms around her legs like a girl of five. “Won’t it be wonderful if I get one?”
Wonderful indeed. What the hell was I going to do?
KATE
Things came to a head the night Cary arrived home clutching a crumpled brochure. Without saying anything he placed it between us on the kitchen table, the action both deliberate and defiant, like a man in debt playing his final ace. Only Cary has never been a gambler.
“Read it,” he instructed, hands clutched to bloodlessness around the top of a chair. His behavior was so out of character that I could only stare at him, but he didn’t look away. Eventually I picked up the pamphlet. Melbourne IVF, it read in tasteful letters, and my heart sank.
“I’ve arranged an appointment for us on Friday,” Cary said. “At lunchtime. I’ll pick you up. It’s just to talk, maybe do some preliminary tests.” When I still didn’t respond he exploded. “God, Kate, I know you’re not keen but it’s been over six months. We’re not getting any younger. I’ve tried it your way; now how about for once you try mine?”
The outburst was so unexpected that I almost burst into tears. Still, that wasn’t saying much—lately the smallest thing would have me damp around the edges. Immediately, though, Cary relented.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that I want this so much.” He ran a hand through his ash-blond hair distractedly, and for a second I felt a rush of love and compassion sweep over me. I hadn’t been thinking much about his feelings.
“Okay,” I replied, fighting to keep the panic out of my voice. “Do you mean this Friday?” It was Tuesday. Even if I stopped taking the pill now, wouldn’t it still show up on a blood test?
Cary nodded. “Kate, we don’t have to agree to anything; I promise. I know you’d rather do this naturally, but we might not have the option. Doesn’t it make sense to at least be prepared? I want this so much.”
His eyes were so fervent, his hope so raw that there was no point arguing with him. But I couldn’t risk keeping the appointment either, having to explain why I was still using contraception when we were supposedly trying to get pregnant. Maybe I’d have to invent an urgent meeting or feign illness. Or confess everything, an idea I’d been toying with anyway.
I saw Luke the next day, during my lunch hour. As usual we met across town at the botanic gardens, where we wouldn’t bump into anyone from our offices, though the days were getting shorter and I wasn’t quite sure where we would go once winter set in. He was waiting under our tree, scanning passersby and scuffing at the grass around his feet. Usually when Luke spotted me his face would light up and he’d hurry over, grinning, brushing off his pants and embracing me all at once. This time, although he smiled, he rose slowly, as if suddenly old, and waited for me to reach him. Without speaking he took my face in his hands and kissed me, thumbs taut on my cheekbones, mouth intense and seemingly reluctant to ever leave mine. The want between us flared as easily and naturally as ever…. Seven months since we first kissed, and it moved me as much as the first time. When we finally broke apart I rested my head on his chest and wrapped my arms around his waist. Luke’s heart was racing and I waited for it to slow down before I told him about Cary and the appointment he’d made.
Only I never got the chance. Before I could speak Luke was talking about Cressida, naming some fellowship and muttering into my hair how they might be moving overseas for two years. We stayed locked as we were, not looking at each other, my gaze fixed on a family feeding the swans on the other side of the lake. A small boy was gleefully hurling whole slices at one bird while his mother tried to stop him. Luke talked on, explaining and appending, his words scattering like leaves in the autumn wind. I felt suddenly very weary.
Half an hour later I left the gardens without even mentioning my own concerns. Left feeling scared and sick, my head full of words I hadn’t wanted to hear. This was Cress’s dream, I’d been informed, something she’d been working toward for months. It was all she wanted; how could he say no?
“And what do you want?” I’d asked him, numb and still afraid to meet his eyes. The family at the lake had gone home.
“I want you,” he’d said, and in a tone that almost made me believe it. Then he lifted my chin so I had to look at him and repeated the words. “I want you, but I don’t know how to handle this. I’m so scared, Kate.”
Well, so was I. Scared and sick and never more in love with him. Loving and losing. They’re such similar words.
LUKE
I sweated over the situation for two nights, then realized I should just wait it out. Really, it occurred to me, what was the point of making a decision? If Cress didn’t get a fellowship there wouldn’t be a problem; things could go on as they were. What were the odds? From what I could make out, the fellowships were highly sought after, and she was still only a junior doctor with no track record in research to her name. Cress might be bright, but so were her competitors, no doubt. Once I realized that I felt much better, and cursed myself for having panicked. Kate would still have had to know, but I could have downplayed it, dropped the thing into conversation as if it were of no consequence. Would that have been taking the easy way out? Maybe, but such strategies had worked in the past.
I just couldn’t imagine life without Kate. I’d tried, but it felt empty, stunted. In the weeks since Cress had told me about the fellowship everything between Kate and me had intensified: the sex, our phone conversations, even the weather. There was a sudden last burst of sunshine, unheard-of at this time of year—nine or ten days where the city was flooded with light and you could almost kid yourself summer was beginning all over again. We met every lunch hour we could, making love once in the gardens for what was probably the final time before it got too cold to meet there, Kate pressed up against the trunk of the Moreton Bay fig while I kept an eye out for tourists and held a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggling. Before walking back to work afterward I pulled a leaf from the tree and tucked it in my wallet. Who knew if I’d be coming back next year?
At home life went on as usual. Meals were prepared and eaten, bills were paid, sex, when it happened, was confined to the bed. Cress submitted her application and, after some initial excitement, slipped back into the grind, working long shifts, appearing tired and distracted. She refused to talk about her chances or speculate on where we might live if she was successful, superstitious for the first time in her resolutely scientific life. I’d watch her napping, exhausted, on the couch after dinner and feel both tender and annoyed, torn between the urge to cover her with a blanket or wake her up so I had someone to talk to. On occasion I daydreamed about living with Kate, but the contingencies were too vast to fully envisage. Separating from Cress, the explanations and tears, informing our parents, selling the house—I just couldn’t imagine going through with anything so chaotic. So instead I’d try to picture Cress and me together somewhere foreign: her coming home at a reasonable hour, me watching the Super Bowl and drinking strange beer. Neither alternative seemed possible or indeed likely. But were there any other options? My imagination was my paycheck, but it was failing me now.
LUKE
I sweated over the situation for two nights, then realized I should just wait it out. Really, it occurred to me, what was the point of making a decision? If Cress didn’t get a fellowship there wouldn’t be a problem; things could go on as they were. What were the odds? From what I could make out, the fellowships were highly sought after, and she was still only a junior doctor with no track record in research to her name. Cress might be bright, but so were her competitors, no doubt. Once I realized that I felt much better, and cursed myself for having panicked. Kate would still have had to know, but I could have downplayed it, dropped the thing into conversation as if it were of no consequence. Would that have been taking the easy way out? Maybe, but such strategies had worked in the past.
I just couldn’t imagine life without Kate. I’d tried, but it felt empty, stunted. In the weeks since Cress had told me about the fellowship everything between Kate and me had intensified: the sex, our phone conversations, even the weather. There was a sudden last burst of sunshine, unheard-of at this time of year—nine or ten days where the city was flooded with light and you could almost kid yourself summer was beginning all over again. We met every lunch hour we could, making love once in the gardens for what was probably the final time before it got too cold to meet there, Kate pressed up against the trunk of the Moreton Bay fig while I kept an eye out for tourists and held a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggling. Before walking back to work afterward I pulled a leaf from the tree and tucked it in my wallet. Who knew if I’d be coming back next year?
At home life went on as usual. Meals were prepared and eaten, bills were paid, sex, when it happened, was confined to the bed. Cress submitted her application and, after some initial excitement, slipped back into the grind, working long shifts, appearing tired and distracted. She refused to talk about her chances or speculate on where we might live if she was successful, superstitious for the first time in her resolutely scientific life. I’d watch her napping, exhausted, on the couch after dinner and feel both tender and annoyed, torn between the urge to cover her with a blanket or wake her up so I had someone to talk to. On occasion I daydreamed about living with Kate, but the contingencies were too vast to fully envisage. Separating from Cress, the explanations and tears, informing our parents, selling the house—I just couldn’t imagine going through with anything so chaotic. So instead I’d try to picture Cress and me together somewhere foreign: her coming home at a reasonable hour, me watching the Super Bowl and drinking strange beer. Neither alternative seemed possible or indeed likely. But were there any other options? My imagination was my paycheck, but it was failing me now.