good, but I craved the danger of being with him in the same way he craved the danger of alcohol and drugs. I felt so alive, buzzing with the excitement of living on the edge, not for one minute imagining I would fall over that edge and get pregnant, or that one day my own daughter — thanks to me — would be exposed to the very same Jamie-brand danger.
‘God love us,’ Mum says now. ‘If he were living with you, Family Services would be trying to protect her from him, but because you’re apart they don’t seem to care. It’s completely backward, that’s what it is.’
She’s right. It is backward, and it is wrong, so fuckin’ wrong. Jamie was oblivious to Isla for the first year of her life, barely aware of her existence. Then some stupid bloody counsellor suggested that he should see his daughter more regularly, forge a proper relationship with her. She was treating Isla like a pawn, like some sort of step in his recovery program instead of an incredibly vulnerable toddler. Of course I fought the weekend custody hard, but Jamie’s mum, Sue, weighed in, so respectable and full of guarantees, and the counsellor, unfortunately, seemed to have a lot of influence with the court.
‘It’s a terrible system,’ Mum laments again, ‘and I know you’ve tried as hard as you can to make them see sense. All we can do is pray, love, that’s all we can do.’
Three years ago, after Dad died from a sudden heart attack, my mother became religious. Amidst the dank stairwells and hallways of her block of flats, the perpetual smell and litter and dirt, and the drug deals happening virtually outside her front door, she found the pure, shining presence of God. Before she started quoting from the bible, my mother used to have a wicked turn of phrase. Before she started praying, she used to figure things out for herself, and yeah, she made many mistakes, but at least she wasn’t forever abdicating responsibility to a higher being. Even though we disagreed more violently back then, I prefer that sharper, less-devout version of my mother. But in a completely contradictory fashion, I do like the way she fosters Isla’s spirituality, and that she sometimes takes her to Mass and has instilled in her the ritual of praying before she sleeps at night. At times like this, when she’s with her father, Isla needs someone to watch over her and keep her safe. She needs God, no bloody doubt about it.
I talk to Mum for another ten minutes or so, chit-chatting about Isla and Eddie, the dismal weather and a morning tea she’s hosting after tomorrow morning’s Mass. We get through the conversation without snapping at each other. This in itself is testament to how utterly despondent and helpless I feel, and perhaps testament to Mum’s empathy, too.
Later on, I decide to do my nails after all, rubbing oil into the cuticles, pushing back the frayed skin, filing and shaping, buffing until they look shiny and healthy. Two coats of pale pink gloss later and they’re finished. Then I busy myself making a cup of tea, after which I send Louise a text: Home alone. Call me if you’re at a loose end. Need cheering up.
A mindless TV show later, I decide to call it a night. Though I take my time checking the door and windows, washing my face and brushing my teeth, Louise hasn’t replied by the time I turn out the light.
In the darkness, I do exactly what my mother and my daughter do before they fall asleep at night: I pray. My mother prays for world peace and the safety and health of her family. Isla’s prayers are recitals from her prayer book. My prayers are the brutal kind.
Please, God, just make him go away. Let him fall out with one of his shady friends and have to go on the run. Or have him meet some woman from another city, preferably another country, and move away permanently. Or — forgive me for this — let him die. An overdose, car accident, serious illness, I don’t care. Anything to get him out of our lives forever. Amen.
Chapter 5
Louise
My shoulders and neck ache from the strain. All morning, I’ve been bent over the painting, cleaning it, millimetre by millimetre, using a mild alkaline solution. Everything about this painting is delicate. Nothing can be rushed, so it has taken me two weeks to get this far. Once this first layer of dirt has been dealt with, I can move on to the varnish removal, which is even more painstaking. Non-professionals find it startling that the whole process takes so long. I find it equally startling that something so important, so very delicate, should be rushed.
Heidi appears at my elbow. ‘Time for cake,’ she announces excitedly.
My colleagues seem to have a fetish for cake. On my first afternoon they surprised me with strawberry sponge cake. After two slices, I felt resoundingly welcome. And last week we had chocolate mud cake for Peter’s birthday. It was a bit too rich for my liking, but this did not deter me from having a second helping, just like everyone else. Today Analiese is meant to be popping in with the baby, and the cake is in her honour.
Following Heidi to the staff kitchen, I wash my hands at the sink. Peter is standing nearby, already scoffing cake, catching the crumbs with his plate.
‘Oh,’ Heidi drools. ‘It’s hummingbird cake, my favourite.’
Gabriella slices and deftly transfers the piece to a plate, which she proffers to Heidi. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Analiese. She texted twenty minutes ago to say she was in the car park. What on earth is she doing?’
‘She’d better hurry,’ Peter grins. ‘Or there’ll be none left.’
Gabriella waves the sticky knife at him. ‘You’ve had your share. Keep away.’
As Gabriella is serving me, Analiese and an oversized pram finally appear at the doorway.
‘Sorry, sorry.’ She’s clearly flustered. ‘I needed to change her nappy, and then she started fretting so I fed her. And then there wasn’t room for my pram in the lift, and I had to wait for the next one …’
Gabriella drops the knife, the clatter startling all of us, including the baby, who lets out a sharp cry. Enveloping Analiese in a hug, Gabriella’s hands then rise to clasp either side of her face. ‘Oh, you poor thing. Sit down. I will mind the bambina. Would you like coffee? Peter, make yourself useful and get this new mother some coffee.’
Analiese is not what I expected. She’s short, like me, and has dark curly hair, a little longer than mine. I had married her meticulous notes to a thin, sparing personality, but she’s not sparing at all. Everything about her is generous — her smile, her figure, her honesty.
‘You must be Louise. Sorry I wasn’t here to hand over as planned. And that I haven’t even phoned to see if you have any questions. The last few weeks have been a blur.’
I smile in return, and nod at the baby, whom Gabriella is presently extracting from the pram. ‘You’ve clearly had your hands full.’
Heidi takes over cake-dispensing responsibilities, allocating an extra large piece to the guest of honour. Meanwhile, Peter has come through in the coffee department. Analiese looks touched by their attentiveness.
‘This is such a treat. Coffee and cake. I don’t think I’ve managed to finish a cup of coffee since Stella was born. As for cake, I don’t have the time to buy it, let alone bake it …’ She fills her mouth with a bite, some of the icing lodging on her lip. ‘Oh, it’s heavenly …’
Her gratitude conjures up memories of Emma when Isla was a newborn. The glazed look in Emma’s eyes, the dark roots growing through her highlighted hair, her jerky movements as she tried to settle the baby in her arms, and how she burst into tears when I offered to take Isla for a walk so she could enjoy the luxury of a shower without straining to hear if the baby was wailing in the background. We were so young, both of us. Analiese is older, so much more mature and accomplished than Emma was, but as I watch her I realise that all first-time mothers, no matter what age or background, battle with sleep deprivation, the uncertainty of each day and night, the anxiety about whether or not they are doing things the right way.
Analiese begins to speak about the painting. Between spoonfuls of cake and sips of coffee, she enquires about where I am up to in the project, my opinion on how we should deal with the damage to the face, and if any new information about the origin of the painting has come to light.