‘Sure, of course.’
I glance at her as I rise from the couch. She’s staring lovingly at Olive, who is grabbing intently at her thumb. Carol seems happy to be trapped.
In the kitchen I pause to take in the effect of the room. The dove grey couch looks incredibly soft. A mohair blanket is folded across the top cushion. The blinds are drawn and the room is cool from the air-con. The fridge hums healthily and a row of indoor plants look well-watered. A towering pine is dotted with red bows and a large gold star is perfectly centred on top. Brightly wrapped gifts are stacked high under the tree. Clearly Jack is well-behaved enough to be trusted around this perfectly styled Christmas scene. I move over to the bench and can see happy snaps on the fridge of Carol and her husband Seth. His arms are wrapped around her and she smiles symmetrically at the camera. There are photos of Jack and Olive and other small children. Nieces, I assume; I remember Carol mentioning her sister’s children. At least a dozen invitations to kids’ birthdays and christenings are secured with magnets. Two wedding invites and an invitation to a love ceremony covered in silver foil are displayed in a little fan.
I always have such high hopes before my visits to Carol’s that everything will suddenly click, that Carol’s contentedness might rub off on me, and then, within minutes, I feel a flat disappointment. I just can’t seem to slot into this world. I always end up leaving earlier than I need to.
I flip back the gauzy cloth covering the cakes and take them into the lounge room.
‘These look amazing!’ I say, trying to will the time along.
‘Oh, well. We’ll see. I like trying new recipes but I have been a little unlucky lately. Hopefully these are better than the jam tarts I took to mothers’ group last week!’
She bites into her cake and a few crumbs drop onto Olive. The baby scrunches up her tiny face in protest but Carol doesn’t notice.
‘Do you still see the others much?’ I ask.
‘Oh, sometimes.’ Carol’s voice is breezy-light for my benefit. ‘You know how it is, everyone is so busy with the kids but it’s always nice to catch up when we can.’
‘How’s Casey?’
‘She’s good, I think.’ Carol nods as if considering this. ‘Yes, she seems good.’
Casey’s husband suffered a stroke when their baby, Zoe, turned one. Billy now requires high-dependency care. The only place suitable near Smithson is an aged-care home about thirty minutes away. Casey visits him every day.
‘I mean, I think she cries every night—I know I would—but she seems to be getting better. Making it work. Zoe’s a joy.’
I wonder whether I would cry every night if Scott had a stroke. I can’t imagine it.
Carol shakes her head. ‘Anyway, did you know that Sasha is having another baby?’
‘That’s great.’
‘Yep, that makes everyone but you and Casey having two.’
I nod, thinking about the blood in the shower last Saturday morning. I clutch at my stomach involuntarily and then quickly drop my hand. Carol is too busy stroking the soft hair on Olive’s head in a slow half-circle to notice. A faint red rash peeks out from behind her tiny ear: the eczema. A thread pulls deep in my memory. I think I can remember my mum stroking my head like that and I shift on my chair and try to focus on eating the cake. My bones itch from all the sitting still.
‘You and Scott still only want the one?’ Carol says it indifferently but I know she wants the answer to be no. Everyone wants the answer to be no. One child never makes sense, apparently. Over the past year I’ve had a front-row seat to the instinctive desire people seem to have to right this wrong. Ben needs a sibling. I will regret only having one child in years to come. Scott deserves a football team. A daughter to dote on. I will enjoy motherhood more with two. It’s easier the second time around. I’m selfish.
‘Yes,’ I say firmly. ‘I think Ben is the perfect amount for me. For us.’
‘Well, it’s just lucky you both agree,’ Carol trills, looking lovingly at Olive.
‘Yep,’ I say, kicking a toy back towards Ben.
I shift my weight the way I always do when the conversation gets intimate. I don’t like having to justify my choices. I don’t like talking about Scott either. I never tell people much about our relationship. Especially not anyone from the mothers’ group, seeing as they barely know him anyway. It’s far too complicated to explain and is a conversation far better suited to have over wine than cake.
Carol pushes a finger into Olive’s mouth, disconnecting her from her breast with a loud pop. Olive blinks and seems somewhat put out. Carol holds her up to burp her, stopping when she gets the required sound. ‘Right, here you go, sweetheart. Some tummy time.’
Olive stares up at me like a helpless beetle. Her useless arms and legs flail at her sides. Ben and Jack look over and giggle at her. She smiles a big gummy smile back at them. I sigh, feeling like the whole world is conspiring against me.
‘I mean, one child must be sooo nice sometimes!’ Carol smiles at me and then pushes herself back against the couch, closing her eyes briefly. ‘The cake was good, wasn’t it?’
I nod.
‘Yes, I thought so too. Good, well, that’s another keeper. It will be perfect for Seth’s work picnic thing.’ She’s lost momentarily in a bubble of domestic to-do lists. ‘So …’ Abruptly, she leans forward, her eyes large. ‘How is the case going? I saw you on the news this week.’ She casts a guilty look at the children, as if they might be exposed to the darkness of my job if she talks about it.
‘It’s early days really. We’ve covered a lot of ground but there’s still a lot to do.’
‘Do you think you’ll find the guy?’ Carol is gripping the side of the couch now, wanting details. She has the same look that new officers get when they want bad things to happen so they can really feel like cops.
‘I hope so. But it’s a tricky one.’
‘What do you think though? Random psycho? Jealous boyfriend?’ Carol grabs a cushion and hugs it. ‘I heard that she was seeing one of the teachers. Maybe a married one? It all makes sense in a way. I mean, she was so beautiful.’
Carol is now looking dreamily at the floor as if romanticising the beauty of dying in some torrid love triangle.
My bones start to shift inside my skin. I have to move. I stand up and look around for my bag. ‘I need to head off, I’m afraid. I have to drop Ben home and get a few things done.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Work things?’ She straightens the plump aqua cushion and then smooths the lime one. She must put extra stuffing in them.
‘Yeah, work things. I have to interview someone.’ I gesture to Ben. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go.’
‘Wow,’ says Carol. ‘Well, good luck. We’ll just be here watching boring old Disney movies.’
Chapter Thirty-four