Chapter 1
‘Jess. I’m home.’
The front door slams and I hear Brad’s voice weaving towards me down the hallway. I shake my head, dragging myself from the past – from the might-have-beens – back to the now. A breeze sweeps past from the uncurtained window, carrying the sound of Brad’s voice away, yet bringing with it the sudden sweet scent of roses. From outside I can hear the late-afternoon warble of a magpie.
I’m in the kitchen at the far end of the house, staring out into the yard. For one awful moment I cannot remember how long I’ve been standing here, or what has brought me to this room. A drink of water perhaps, or to begin the rudimentary preparations for our meal? But the sun, I note dully, is still high in the sky, and the hands of the clock are not pointing to the usual time of Brad’s homecoming.
Brad, my husband of four years and lover of eleven, is thirty-one, two years older than me. He’s an aquatic biologist, working for the E.P.A. – Environmental Protection Agency – in Brisbane. He studies inland water. Creeks and rivers, swamps and lagoons: any place where water lies and attracts other living things.
Over the years I’ve become used to the specimens and water samples he brings home, and the windowsill over the kitchen sink is usually littered with the debris of his work. The clean-freak part of me has learned to ignore this, to close my eyes to the assortment of jars and bottles, pipettes and labels. I’ve also learned not to examine too closely the contents of those jars and bottles – snails, shrimps, bugs or tiny fish – suspended in the regulation alcohol-water mix.
As though on cue, Brad comes up behind me now and wraps his arms around my chest. For one brief moment I stiffen, fighting against his embrace. Then I lean backwards against him. He smells faintly of aftershave and preserving fluid.
‘Jess,’ he begins tentatively.
I pull away from his grasp. There is a tone to his voice that demands attention. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing! Everything’s coming together for a change.’
He sweeps his hands wide, as though encompassing the whole room. A shock of fair hair flops against his forehead and I fight back an impulse to lean forward and brush it away. The old Jess would have done that, unconsciously, but I’m not the same person I was a year ago.
‘Remember the grant I applied for?’ Brad says. ‘The field trip for the bio- assessment of the Diamantina River?’
Cautiously. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve been given funding for six weeks.’
Six weeks, I think. He’ll be away for six weeks. Forty-two days of being by myself, thinking my endless thoughts and rehashing all those jagged memories I surely must have worn smooth by now. Forty-two sleepless nights.
‘Starting…?’ I thrust my thoughts back to the conversation, vainly trying to insert enthusiasm into my voice to match his obvious excitement. But the question dies away, unfinished.
‘The wet season isn’t far away, another three months or so. So, if I don’t run with this now, it’ll be ages before I get the chance to get up there.’
I stare at him, trying to make sense of the words, but they tumble together in my mind. Mentally I tally the days. Now. He wants to go now. The thought of him not being here, especially at this time of the year, is abhorrent. It means he’ll be away…
‘Come with me.’
My head snaps upwards. He says the words earnestly, and I think we might be any ordinary couple discussing an upcoming holiday. He says the words and watches me, distressed, blue eyes unblinking. I shake my head, unable to form a reply.
‘Jess!’ There’s a note of raw anguish in his voice. His mouth twists into an odd lopsided shape. He leans forward and takes my hand in his. ‘Please!’
I fight back the urge to wrench my hand away and run from the room. The past sidles towards me, raw and shocking, and momentarily I find it hard to catch my breath. The memories are like an ongoing bad dream, a nightmare from which I know I’ll never wake. The images stay with me every hour of every day. I shake my head again. ‘I can’t’, I whisper, closing my eyes momentarily against the sight of his grief-stricken face. ‘It’s too soon.’
Brad looks down at the floor, as though he can’t bear to watch me. I can see his throat working, swallowing hard. His voice, when it comes, is measured, controlled. ‘I don’t have to take the grant. Just say the word and I’ll knock it back. There’ll be other times.’
I try not to see the disappointment in his face. Brad’s like that. He’s always thinking of others, putting everyone else’s needs before his own. It was one of the qualities that first attracted me to him, all those years ago.
‘Of course you have to take it!’
My response is swift and automatic. There’s no question of him not going. Brad has wanted this so badly. He’s spent weeks preparing his submission, and the results will form part of his thesis which is due next year. I hesitate and glance towards the fridge, thinking about preparing yet another meal I don’t have an appetite for. ‘It’s only for six weeks,’ I say faintly.
But Brad is shaking his head. ‘No. I’ll can the whole idea. Maybe I’ll go next year when things have settled. Besides, I don’t want you here alone—’ He breaks off. Mentally I supply the words he can’t bear to say: on the anniversary.