Let Her Go Page 10

  Lou shook her head. Despite herself, tears sprang to her eyes. ‘What kind of meeting, I said?’

  ‘Don’t get upset,’ he said. ‘You’re not in trouble. We’re going to see a therapist who works with young people and families; he wants to see all three of us. We know that this is not just about you, Lou – your behaviour is about all of us, so we’re taking responsibility for this too.’

  Lou sniggered. Clearly her dad had already been talking about her with this therapist; those weren’t his own words. He’d never seen her behaviour as anything other than her own responsibility, and he’d told her that, many times. Her mum used that lingo all the time, but with her it was superficial, nothing but sounds coming from her mouth.

  ‘What do you think, Lou?’ Her mum was biting her lip.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course it matters.’

  Lou narrowed her eyes. ‘If I say no then we won’t go, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Well, no … I —’

  ‘What your mother is saying,’ her dad said, ‘is that we do have to go. It was one of the conditions for the police letting you off, and for school not expelling you. You don’t have to say anything, but you do need to come along and at least be polite.’

  Her mum nodded, eyes darting between Lou and her dad. ‘Just give it a chance, darling.’

  ‘Well,’ Lou said. ‘We’ve started off brilliantly, making the decision together as a family. Bodes well, doesn’t it?’ She picked up her bowl and stormed out of the room.

  * * *

  Lou sat in the back of the car while her dad drove. Her mum, in the passenger seat, looked out of the window, nibbling at her nails. Lou was surprised they hadn’t put the child locks on the doors, or that her mum hadn’t sat in the back with her to make sure she didn’t jump out and run off. They were obviously trying to show that they trusted her.

  They didn’t travel far: just five minutes along the highway, past the turnoff to Lou’s school. They stopped outside a Californian-style bungalow with a bronze plaque on the limestone wall bordering the paved front yard: Seaview Therapy Centre. A flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos pecked at the verge out the front, in the shade of a tall pine tree. Lou’s mum’s repeated sighs merged with the crashing of waves on the beach at the bottom of the road. Lou’s stomach was churning, but she said nothing as she followed her parents inside.

  The waiting room was clearly the converted lounge room of the original house: scratched floorboards, a dusty fireplace with a decorative basket of logs, a pressed tin ceiling with patterns of entwined roses. A receptionist sat behind a modern black desk in the far corner of the room. Lou waited, shifting from foot to foot, while her mum checked in, then they all sat on white plastic chairs while her mum filled in some forms on a clipboard.

  A few minutes later, a bearded man wearing jeans and a polo shirt came out and called them through to his office. Lou took a deep breath; her dad put his arm around her shoulders and ushered her through, with her mum following behind.

  Inside the small room, four mismatched chairs were arranged around a circular coffee table that Lou recognised from Ikea. There were rustles and creaks as everyone settled into their seats.

  ‘Good morning,’ the bearded man said. ‘I’m Ross Pettit. Thank you all for coming along today.’ He smiled at her parents. ‘We’ve spoken on the phone, obviously.’ He turned to Lou. ‘Louise, is it?’

  She nodded, then looked down at her feet. Of course, they’d been talking about her behind her back.

  ‘So, Louise, my name is Ross.’

  You said that, she wanted to say, but instead she stared at the scuffed toes of her black school shoes.

  ‘I’m a therapist. I see families and young people who are having some difficulties with their relationships, feelings or behaviours. Does that make sense?’

  Lou shrugged.

  ‘And I know from Mum and Dad that your family has been having some difficulties lately. Do you think that’s fair to say?’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘Well, what I’m going to do is start out by finding out a little bit about you and your family, and then we’ll talk about the problems you have at the moment, and hopefully we’ll come up with a plan. I’d like to talk as a family first, and then I’ll spend some time with each of you alone, so if there’s anything that you find difficult to say in front of each other, save it up and tell me later.’ Ross leaned forward. ‘Now, Louise, it’s important that you know that anything you tell me is in complete confidence, and I won’t say anything to your parents unless I have your permission. There are exceptions to that, though: if I think that you or someone else is in danger of being hurt, then I have to break your confidence by law. OK?’

  Lou nodded. She noticed her mum and dad glance at each other, and almost smiled at their discomfort as they realised that she could say whatever she wanted to Ross and he couldn’t tell them: she bet that wasn’t part of their plan. She pressed her lips together. Did they really think that this would make her open up and tell them what she was thinking, when that had never been how their family worked? Her mum and aunt were polite to each other, but distant. She saw her mum’s parents quite a lot, but her dad’s father had died, his mother was in a nursing home and his sister lived in South Australia. Harry, Violet and Charlotte lived interstate now, and besides, they were all so much older than her that even if they lived closer, there was too much of an age gap for her to have much of a relationship with them. So she could hardly be blamed for not communicating, could she?

  Ross began asking the basics: how old everyone was, what did they do, if they had any pets. Lou stared at him and raised her eyebrows at the ludicrous questions. She knew he was trying to put them at their ease, lull them with the simple things and make them believe he was a friend, and then hit them with the tough questions.

  ‘And so,’ he said finally, ‘I’d like to talk about what brought you here today to see me. Who would like to go first?’

  After another round of uncomfortable glances, her mum cleared her throat. ‘OK, I will. Unless you want to, sweetheart?’ She aimed a tense smile at Lou.

  ‘No thanks.’

  Her mum let out a big breath and clasped one crossed knee. ‘OK. Well, as Louise knows, we love her very much, more than anything.’

  Lou looked up at the ceiling, at a discoloured patch that was probably possum piss, or maybe rat. She didn’t want to see her mum cry again, though she wasn’t sure whether it was because she was embarrassed for her, or because she knew that she’d cry too.

  Her mother went on. ‘But things have been very difficult with her for a while now. Probably for a year or so, don’t you think?’

  Her dad nodded. ‘About that.’

  Her mum counted out Louise’s issues on the fingers of her left hand. ‘She has been withdrawing from us, cutting herself, her teachers say she’s doing much worse academically at school —’

  ‘I still get Bs! I’m hardly failing.’

  ‘No, sweetheart, but you used to get As.’

  ‘So? The work is harder! It doesn’t mean you had to drag me here!’ Lou shouted.

  Lou’s mum kept her eyes and smile fixed on Ross, as if to say, See what I mean? ‘Well, of course we’re not here because Louise is getting Bs. Lou knows very well what’s been happening. The crisis that brought us here today is that she’s been using drugs – hard drugs – and two weeks ago, she broke into the medical practice where I work, and stole amphetamines from the doctor’s office, then got herself arrested.’

  ‘I didn’t break in. I had your keys.’

  ‘Louise!’ Her dad glared at her. ‘Don’t be a smart arse.’

  Lou leaned back in her seat as they all looked at Ross; she raised her eyebrows. Was he going to let her dad swear at her like that?

  ‘Louise, is there anything you’d like to say about what your mum just said?’ Ross asked.

  ‘I don’t use hard drugs.’

  ‘What drugs do you use?
’

  ‘No more than any other teenager. Mum has this idea in her head that I should be the perfect daughter all of the time, but she doesn’t understand that every single kid in my class does the same things that I do.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ her mum said.

  Lou swivelled in her chair. ‘How would you know?’ She spat the words at her mother, tears filling her eyes. ‘How the hell would you know, Mum?’

  Her mum looked at Ross, her face flushed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. Lou could see his stripy socks and pale, thin shins covered with wiry dark hair. He made a steeple with his fingers. ‘Perhaps now is a good time for us to split up so I can hear from each of you in turn. Louise, would you like to talk to me first, or would you like me to talk to your parents?’

  ‘Don’t care,’ said Lou, then, ‘Them.’ She indicated with her head.

  ‘Well, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat outside, I’ll just talk to your folks for twenty minutes or so. I’m just going to ask them some questions about your childhood, themselves, and what their worries are, and then we’ll swap, OK?’

  Lou nodded, then stood up and left the room.

  * * *

  The receptionist was playing the radio softly. Lou flicked through a magazine, wishing she’d turn the radio off so she could make out what her parents were saying behind the closed door. Every so often, she’d hear the low tones of her father, or a high-pitched cry or giggle from her mother. This was the way it had been for so long now; Lou felt like she’d spent the last year or two hovering around closed doors straining to overhear conversations, trying to make sense of whispers. But a closed door couldn’t hold back the tension that seeped through the house. And now there were sobs coming from Ross’s office. Lou’s pulse began to quicken and she tapped her foot on the ground, wanting to listen, yet wishing that she wasn’t here, that if her parents had to get upset, they would have the decency to wait until she wasn’t around so she didn’t have to hear them.

  ‘Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?’

  Startled, Lou looked up at the receptionist, who had spoken loudly, as if trying to distract her. Lou shook her head.

  ‘Some of those magazines are a bit grown up for you, eh? We should get some more for the young ones. What do you like to read?’

  Lou frowned. ‘These are fine.’

  The woman kept talking, asking Lou about school, her friends, persisting in spite of Lou’s monosyllabic responses. Finally, the door opened. Lou looked up, biting her lip. Her mum smiled, though her eyes and nose were red. She walked quickly towards Lou and hugged her. Lou sat stiffly in the embrace. Her mother so rarely hugged her these days that Lou didn’t know what to do, so she patted her on the back and waited until she let go.

  ‘Your turn now, Lou.’ Her dad smiled.

  She nodded, glanced again at her mother, then walked into Ross’s office.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nadia dropped the children at the school gates, then glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She’d still make the gym class if she hurried. She’d been putting it off for weeks. She’d been for her six-week check-up with her obstetrician last week, and he’d given her the all clear to start exercising again. It had been three weeks since Louise’s parentage order had been made and it seemed like everyone else had settled back into a semblance of normal life. Nadia knew that she had to try to do the same. Remnants of the pregnancy with Louise still clung to her, and she needed to shift them. She wanted her old body back; she needed to sweat out all the reminders of what she’d been through, to get back to the capable, confident mother of three that she’d been before all this.

  Nadia checked over her shoulder, pulled out into the road and drove to the local shopping centre. After parking in the rooftop car park, Nadia took her sports bag from the boot, then walked quickly towards her gym. She scanned her membership card at the door, hurried to the changing room then walked quickly out into the gym with her towel and water bottle. The musty, damp, sweaty smell hit her. To her left, three rows of running machines, cross trainers and exercise bikes faced a wall of TV screens. About half the machines were occupied, mainly by women, though one elderly man strolled on a treadmill. The women were all about Nadia’s age, school mums. Who else had time to go to the gym on a weekday morning? She recognised a few of them; they all had the same routine. She saw them at the school gates, at the supermarket, at the park; like cliques of teenage girls, there was an unspoken hierarchy, a tacit competition – to have the cleverest children, or the nicest car, or the fittest body.

  She jogged towards the group fitness room, skirting a few men on the weights equipment, then pushed open the glass doors. The warm-up was just finishing. Nadia breathed out; she hadn’t missed too much. The instructor was on a stage at the front of the room, and the uneven rows of women bobbing up and down on their step platforms were reflected in the mirrored wall in front of them, briefly disorientating Nadia. She put her water bottle and towel down against the wall, picked up a step platform and risers, then negotiated her way to a space near the front of the room. She picked up the rhythm, beginning to clap her hands from corner to corner as she kicked and curled along with the loud music, the stress dripping out of her.

  When the class was over, Nadia put her step away, thanked the instructor and went back through the doors into the main part of the gym. Two women whom she’d known from when their kids went to playgroup together were chatting just outside the door to the creche. Nadia looked at the floor, but they saw her and waved. She looked up, feigning surprise.

  ‘Hi, Kate, sorry, I was in a world of my own there,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, Nadia, how are you?’ Kate said as Ankita’s eyes flicked down briefly towards Nadia’s stomach. Nadia sucked it in.

  ‘Yeah, good. Hard class, wasn’t it? I was late as usual …’

  ‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Ankita. ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘They’re good, thanks. They’re all at school, which is great, gives me some time to myself, you know?’

  ‘And … the baby?’ Kate blushed and looked at Ankita, who smiled, then looked at the ground.

  Nadia fixed a smile on her face. Why were they tiptoeing around the subject, blushing and whispering? She had never kept it a secret; she’d been proud of being a surrogate, even though it clearly made everyone else feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Louise? That’s her name. She’s seven weeks now.’ Her voice cracked; she took a swig of water from her bottle. ‘Zoe and her husband are thrilled.’

  Kate and Ankita both smiled, and Kate raised her eyebrows. ‘Wow, Nadia. That’s amazing. Good on you.’

  ‘Was it hard?’ asked Ankita. ‘You know, giving birth then giving her away? I don’t know if I could do that.’

  Nadia blinked rapidly. ‘No – well, yes, a bit, but I knew from the start. The baby – Louise – I was just carrying her. So I didn’t let myself get attached.’ She looked up at the clock on the wall of the gym. ‘Sorry, ladies, I’d better go, I’ve got to do the grocery shopping. Good to see you …’ She raised her hand in a wave and started walking towards the door before she started crying.

  * * *

  Nadia didn’t make it to the supermarket. She was too shaken by the encounter with her old friends. She sat in the car and tried to compose herself. She turned the radio on to a loud pop song, then switched the air-conditioning on full and aimed it at her face as she took deep, slow breaths. She gripped the steering wheel tightly to try to stop the trembling in her hands. She was shocked at how she’d responded to Ankita and Kate’s questions; she’d thought she was in control, that she was coping with the aftermath of the surrogacy. And she was, generally, but she also knew that not far below the surface, she was shattered by the experience.

  Nadia knew that throughout the entire pregnancy, she’d only been pretending that she was OK, pretending to everyone: Eddie, Zoe, the clinic, the lawyers, and herself. When the pregnancy test first came back as positive, on
their second cycle of trying, she’d been thrilled for Zoe and Lachlan, and flushed with a feeling of success, of achievement, as though she’d proven herself. And for as long as the pregnancy had just been a hormone level on a computer screen, she had almost succeeded in detaching herself from the baby. Then the morning sickness had hit.

  One morning, when she was about eight weeks pregnant, she’d woken at the peak of her unrelenting nausea. She wasn’t sure what had woken her: the girls squabbling in their bedroom, or her pounding headache. She didn’t want to open her eyes. Eddie was snoring gently. Slowly, she rolled her head on the pillow to face him, waiting for the dizziness to hit her. Then she smelled a sour, chemical odour, old aftershave or deodorant; she turned back, breathing through her mouth. She knew what was coming. As her stomach spasmed, she clasped her hand over her mouth. She gagged, then it passed. She lay still, a cold sweat trickling across her upper lip.

  Eddie opened his eyes. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Nadia nodded her head in a tiny movement, hoping it was enough to convince him but not enough to trigger the hammering in her head. She’d been trying to hide the nausea from him and, until now, thought she’d succeeded. The last thing she needed to hear from him was, I told you so.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  She tried to smile. ‘Oh, a little. Not too bad, it’s OK.’ She turned away and reached for her glass of water, then took a sip. It felt lukewarm and gritty, as though it was full of dust.

  Eddie frowned.

  ‘I’m just going to the toilet, be right back.’

  She sat up and stepped out of bed, knowing she had only moments to reach the bathroom. She wanted to go to the toilet out in the hall, but that would have looked suspicious, and besides, she wasn’t sure she’d make it in time. She took two big strides across the carpet to the ensuite and closed the door behind her.