Three Wishes, Page 28

  Cat and Lyn both looked at her stomach.

  "Bad for Cat's baby," observed Lyn.

  "Don't start," said Cat dangerously.

  "I think I see our mains!" interrupted Gemma, even though she didn't.

  "There's something I need to say about this," said Lyn.

  "I do see our mains!"

  "Just say it, Lyn," said Cat.

  "Oh! I nearly forgot!" Gemma cried. "Guess what I brought tonight!"

  She nearly lost her balance reaching down for her bag, which for some reason didn't want to be picked up.

  The woman at the table next to them said something that Gemma couldn't hear.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "She said the strap's caught around your chair leg. Here. Stand up."

  The woman's dining companion reached over and dislodged her bag. He was short and broad, like Charlie, except fair, with a sunburned nose and a grin that scrunched his eyes.

  "Thank you," said Gemma. "How does that always happen?"

  "A mystery," agreed the man.

  Cat rolled her eyes as the man sat back down. "The mystery is why there's always a good-hearted bloke around whenever Gemma does her damsel-in-distress thing."

  Gemma pulled three crumpled stained envelopes out of her bag. "Do you remember when Miss Ellis made us write letters to ourselves to read in twenty years' time?"

  Blank looks.

  "Religion class. We were fourteen."

  "That's right," said Lyn. "She was talking about achieving your dreams. It was a pointless goal-setting exercise! You need to set short-term, medium-term--"

  "What? You've got all our letters? You managed to keep them for twenty years without losing them?" Cat reached out to grab them. "Let me see!"

  "Nope. Not until after we sing 'Happy Birthday.' That's when we officially turn thirty-four."

  The distraction was successful. Lyn and Cat began an impassioned argument about whether Miss Ellis's pink fluffy cardigans indicated latent lesbian tendencies, while Gemma sat quietly and wondered if the tiny person currently kicking her with such energetic determination was perhaps a boy.

  Yesterday, she'd walked by a little boy and his father in the aisle of Woolies. They were buying globes.

  "Dad? How does a light globe work?" the little boy asked, frowning with masculine concentration.

  As Gemma walked by with her wagon, the father was squatting down, pulling a globe from its cardboard box.

  Maybe the baby would be a little boy like that.

  One of those sturdy, serious, interested little boys.

  Freckles.

  Long, curvy eyelashes.

  Their three birthday cakes arrived with dozens of wildly crackling sparklers. The lights were dimmed, and Olivia led a choir of waiters and waitresses hollering three over-the-top renditions of "Happy Birthday." Eventually, the whole restaurant seemed to be singing. The final round of applause was ridiculous, Olivia shouting "Hip, hip!" and the restaurant responding "Hooray!" thumping their feet on the floor, as if they were in a raunchy theater restaurant, not a Good Food Guide recommendation.

  Gemma watched her sisters' laughing faces illuminated by the fizzing sparklers, and remembered how excited their placid Nana Leonard used to become on their birthday.

  "Make a wish, girls!" she'd say, fervently clasping her hands, as the three of them stood in a jostling row to blow out the candles on their shared cake. "Make a special wish!" It was as if she truly believed their birthday wishes could and would come true and as a result Gemma would construct elaborate wishes with multiple clauses: like school being canceled forever and living in a chocolate house and becoming a ballerina and Daddy finally coming back home.

  The lights came back on and they blinked at one another. Olivia took their cakes away for cutting, promising to take some home for herself.

  "Time to hear from our fourteen-year-old selves," ordered Cat. Her eyes were glassy. "Hand 'em over."

  "We'll each read out our own letters." Lyn's words were blurring around the edges.

  So that's what they did.

  Cat went first.

  Dear ME,

  This is a letter from you in your past. You probably don't even remember it but once you had to do these STUPID, SHITTY things called religion lessons with this IDIOT teacher who PISSES ME RIGHT OFF. Glad you're finally FREE, I bet! I bet you're just laughing your head off remembering how boring school was and how you felt like you were in PRISON. (By the way, Gemma is sitting in front of me sucking up to the teacher like you would not believe. Meanwhile Lyn has got her arm wrapped around her page as if I'll try and steal her future for God's sake.) So--I've got to tell you what I hope you've achieved.

  Here it is:

  You should drive a red MX5.

  You should have traveled EVERYWHERE.

  You should have a LOT of money.

  You should have a tattoo.

  You should have your own really cool apartment.

  You should go to any concert that you want. GO RIGHT NOW IF YOU WANT! COS YOU CAN, RIGHT? So just go!

  You should be very SUCCESSFUL--I'm not sure in what. You are probably a famous war correspondent. (I hope they haven't got world peace yet. There are still wars, right?)

  That's about it. I don't think you should be married yet. Wait till you're 35. You don't want to ruin your whole life like Mum did.

  From, CATRIONA KETTLE, AGED 14.

  Then Lyn:

  Dear Me in Twenty Years' Time,

  GOALS YOU SHOULD HAVE ACHIEVED BY NOW ARE:

  Enough marks to do Hotel Management at uni.

  Travel to exciting places.

  Your own successful catering business.

  A husband with a voice like Mr. Gordon's. (Husband should adore you and love you and be romantic and give you flowers.)

  A big, beautiful house with views of Sydney Harbour.

  Lots of beautiful clothes in a walk-in wardrobe.

  One daughter named Madeline, one son named Harrison (after Harrison Ford. Mmmm, mmmm!).

  Good luck and good-bye,

  LYNETTE KETTLE.

  And finally Gemma:

  Ahoy there, Gemma!

  It's me, Gemma!

  I'm fourteen.

  You're thirty-four!

  Wow!

  Anyway, here's what you should have achieved by now:

  A degree in something or other.

  A career in something or other.

  A HUNKY, SPUNKY husband whose name begins with either M, S, G, C, X, or P!

  Four children. Two girls and two boys. Order should be Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl (but I can be flexible).

  So--have you done it?? I hope so! If not, why not?

  Lots of love from Gemma.

  P.S. Hey! You've had sex. What was it like???!!! AAAGGGGH!

  P.P.S. Who did it first? You, Cat, or Lyn??? AAAAGGGGH!

  P.P.S. Give that hunky, spunky husband a big kiss and tell him it's from your fourteen-year-old self!

  "Wow," said Lyn. "We were so, so..."

  "Exactly the same," said Cat.

  "Different," said Gemma.

  It wasn't so much the things that her fourteen-year-old self wanted. It was the fact that she so blissfully, so completely, believed she had a right to want anything.

  Ahoy there, Gemma! I'm sorry, but I seem to have stuffed things up. I forgot. I'm not sure what I forgot. But I forgot it.

  She thought of her mother, the day of Cat's court case, watching Cat and Lyn obviously locked in some sort of vicious argument. "Those two need to let go!" she'd said. "What about me, Mum?" Gemma had asked frivolously. "What do I need to do?" "You're the opposite. You need to hold on, of course. Hold on to something. Hold on to anything!"

  "So, Lyn, all you need is that little boy called Harrison and you've achieved everything you ever dreamed," said Cat.

  "Yes, I know. I'm so boring."

  "You said it, not me."

  "Oh, stop it! The two of you. Just stop it." Gemma could feel something indefinable in
flating within her.

  Cat and Lyn ignored her. They both took drowning gulps from their glasses.

  "I note that your letter didn't even mention children," Lyn said to Cat.

  "It wasn't a contract."

  "It's just interesting."

  "You know, Lyn, not everything is your business."

  "It is my business! Gemma's baby is my niece or nephew. And I think children should be with their parents. That's why--"

  She stopped, took a breath and brushed at some crumbs on the tablecloth with the back of her hand.

  "That's why what?" asked Gemma.

  "That's why I called Charlie to tell him you're pregnant."

  Gemma nearly knocked over her glass. "What did he say?"

  "He wasn't there," admitted Lyn. "I didn't leave a message. But I'm calling him again. I feel really strongly about this."

  Gemma watched as Cat began to tremble.

  "You bitch. You absolute bitch."

  "Cat. It's not about you."

  "It is about me. This is my baby!"

  But it's not, thought Gemma, with surprise. It's my baby.

  "Do you know how a lightbulb works?" she asked Cat.

  "Oh, shut up, Gemma! This is serious!"

  Charlie would know.

  It seemed like the purest, most absolute truth of her entire life.

  That Charlie would know how a lightbulb worked. And he'd pull a funny face. And he'd explain it so well that electricity would seem like something magical. And Gemma didn't want to miss it. She wanted to be there, loving them both in the bright, white light of Woolworth's.

  "The thing is," she began.

  She knew what she was about to say was unbearably cruel, but she said it anyway: "I've changed my mind."

  CHAPTER 24

  She changed her mind. She just went right ahead and changed her mind.

  "I'm sorry, Cat." Gemma looked across the table at Cat with wide-eyed sincerity. "I'm really, really sorry."

  Cat almost laughed because she'd known this could happen. Maybe she even knew all along that it would happen.

  But she'd given her every possible chance.

  "Are you sure this is what you want?" she'd asked, again and again.

  And again, again, Gemma had replied, "Absolutely sure! Deep down in my heart sure."

  When Gemma had first suggested the plan, Cat had agreed in an almost lighthearted, fantastical way. It hadn't seemed possible that Gemma could really be pregnant, sitting in Cat's kitchen, in her cut-off shorts, looking normal and skinny. It felt like a game, an abstract distraction. It was the same as when she thought about the idea of going to a sperm bank. Yes, she was sort of serious, sort of very serious, but did sperm banks actually exist outside of comedy films? Did they have ads in the Yellow Pages?

  Imagining Gemma's baby in her arms helped her to stop thinking about Dan and Angela--and Angela's hair and Angela's breasts and Angela's underwear.

  It helped her to walk by parents pushing their strollers, without wanting to stop and scream with savage rage at those smug, carelessly happy women, What makes you so special? Look at you! You're not that pretty or smart! How did you manage to have a baby? When I can't? When I've somehow failed to achieve this basic boring thing!

  It helped her to sleep. It helped her get up in the mornings.

  And that was why the violent opposition from Maxine and Lyn was so hurtful. They reacted as if it were all Cat's idea. As usual, evil Cat was exploiting fragile, helpless Gemma.

  They never once said, We understand why you want to do this.

  They didn't seem to notice that it was a miracle that Cat was still functioning, when she felt like she'd been fragmented into a million pieces. They weren't incredulous, like Cat still was on a daily basis, that Dan had actually gone, that he woke up in some other woman's bed.

  Her hurt gave her a petulant resolve. Why not, after all? Why shouldn't this work, if Gemma wanted it? Why not?

  She worked for hours on the second bedroom, painting the walls a buttery yellow. While she was scraping and painting, her mind was peacefully blank.

  The nursery was beautiful. Everyone said so.

  Just yesterday, she'd bought a white cane chair with blue cushions and put it by the window, where you could see the magnolia tree. She'd sat there in a pool of morning sunshine and imagined giving the baby its bottle and considered the possibility of happiness.

  It was going to be her and the baby against the world. Just the two of them.

  And now Gemma changed her mind.

  All that softness and sunshine had been snatched away, and Cat was back out again in that bland wasteland of memos and office cubicles and divorce proceedings and nobody waiting for her to come home.

  Better to have stayed cold all along than had this taste of warmth.

  Cat sat there in the noisy restaurant with her head pounding from champagne, a huge nauseating triangle of chocolate mud cake in front of her, and for a few seconds she felt nothing, and then it came, all at once, a tumbling toxic torrent.

  It was basic, childish disappointment.

  It was "Ha ha! Who looks like a fool now!" humiliation.

  It was the smug lift of Lyn's eyebrows.

  It was tomorrow. And the day after that.

  It was because fourteen-year-old Cat Kettle would have thought she was a loser.

  Whatever it was, it sucked her down into a wailing vortex and afterward she never remembered how she came to be standing up, or what she was saying, or what she was holding in her hand until she threw it, screaming, "You have both fucking ruined my life!"

  And then:

  One day you'll go too far, Maxine always said.

  She'd gone too far.

  The fork protruding embarrassingly and impossibly out of Gemma's belly.

  Blood!

  Her first thought was, sweet Jesus, I've killed her.

  And then, I'm going to be sick.

  A roaring in her ears.

  She was on the floor, with the most tremendous pain thumping down one side of her face and into her ear and something metallic filling her mouth.

  Olivia was crouched down beside her, "It's O.K. You fainted. You all right? You hit your chin pretty hard against the table."

  All around her, Cat could see the backs of people's legs. Their table was surrounded by a frenzied group of arguing strangers.

  "Be calm! Tell her to be calm! Sweetheart, be very, very calm!"

  "The ambulance is coming. Shhhh! Is that the siren I hear?"

  "Has anybody called the police? Because I saw it! That was assault!"

  "Did you hear? They're sisters! Unbelievable."

  "Have I killed her?" she wanted to ask, but her mouth was full of marbles.

  "Everyone is freaking out!" Olivia said happily.

  "Um, Lyn?" It was Gemma's voice. She sounded perfectly alive, vaguely concerned. "I think, maybe, I just had a contraction."

  Olivia's mouth dropped comically.

  The crowd seemed to sigh and sway with the horror of it. Cat watched a pair of masculine shoes begin to shuffle discreetly away from the table. Then she heard Lyn, her voice slip-sliding into uncharacteristic panic, "Is there a doctor here?"

  Cat prayed: frantically and obsequiously. Please, God, Jesus, Holy Spirit, Mother of Mary, all of you, I'm begging you, don't let the baby die!

  "I've got my first-aid certificate," offered somebody.

  "She doesn't need to be resuscitated," said somebody else.

  "Of course I've never had a contraction before," continued Gemma thoughtfully. "So, how would I know?"

  "Helsh me up," mumbled Cat, tasting blood. Olivia pulled on her wrists and heaved her to her feet.

  "Here comes the boss." Olivia appeared to be having the time of her life. "Oooh! She'll be going ape shit over this! Afterbirth all over her floorboards."

  It was the same elegant, all-in-black woman who had so graciously offered their table at the beginning of the night. She now gave Cat a look of appalled disg
ust and used the back of her hands to firmly flap the crowd back to their seats. "Could I ask everyone to move? The ambulance is on its way."

  The grown-ups were coming. People hurried back to their tables, looking slightly embarrassed, murmuring seriously to one another.

  Ten minutes later, the paramedics walked through the restaurant radiating waves of drama and relaxed authority, like movie stars casually strolling into a press conference.

  Lyn began to speak to them, but Gemma interrupted her, her tone succinct and urgent, even bossy.

  "I'm due in three weeks. I saw my obstetrician just yesterday and she said I could expect to start feeling those pretend contractions. I don't know if that's what I just felt, or not. There's a lot of tissue around the uterus right? The fork couldn't have hurt my baby?

  "It's unlikely," agreed the paramedic. "It would have to penetrate a very long way. It looks like it's just broken the skin. Let's take a look at your blood pressure."

  "I think you should listen to the baby's heartbeat," snapped Gemma. "That's what I think you should do."

  She sounded, Cat thought, exactly like Lyn.

  Or maybe it was Maxine.

  She sounded like somebody's mother.

  Cat silently cradled her jaw and looked out the car window at the lights of the city. The guy who had been sitting at the table next to them, the one who had helped Gemma with her bag, was driving them to the hospital. Cat didn't know or care what had happened to the girl who was with him.

  He'd introduced himself to Cat, but she hadn't bothered to listen. He didn't seem quite real. Nobody did. She felt as if she were separated from the rest of the world by a blurry membrane. Nothing really mattered, except that Gemma and the baby would be O.K. The pain down the side of her face was excruciating, and she felt strangely conscious of every breath that she took.

  She could hear Lyn in the front seat, talking to Maxine on her mobile.

  "Yes, I know it's our birthday. That's why--"

  "Yes, I do know how old we--"

  "No, Mum, we're not drunk--"

  "O.K. Maybe a little tipsy."

  "Yes, a fork. A fondue fork."

  "A seafood fondue."

  "Well, we liked it!"

  "It was just a little argument, Mum. I'll explain--"

  "O.K., maybe not so little. But--"

  "Well, yes, actually. I think the whole restaurant probably saw. But--"

  "Royal Prince Alfred."

  "Fine. Bye."

  Lyn pressed a button on her mobile and shifted around to look at Cat. "Mum says take care, she loves us, and she's coming right away."