It would happen. She just had to be patient. She had four children. Four tickets in the raffle, although two of her four children were single so perhaps they didn’t count as tickets just yet. But two were in solid, long-term relationships. Logan and his girlfriend, Indira, had been together for five years now. They weren’t married but that didn’t matter. Indira was wonderful and the last time Joy saw her, she definitely had a mysterious, secretive look about her, almost as if she wanted to tell Joy something but was holding off: maybe until she got to twelve weeks?
Brooke and Grant were happily married, settled with a mortgage on a proper house and a family car, and Grant was older, so it could be on the cards soon. If only Brooke hadn’t opened up her own physiotherapy practice. It was admirable – Stan glowed with pride whenever anyone mentioned it – but running your own business was stressful, and migraine sufferers had to manage their stress. Brooke was too driven. But surely she’d want a baby soon. Brooke always knew the latest medical guidelines so she would know you shouldn’t leave it too late.
Joy secretly hoped her children might find a creative way to tell her about their pregnancies, like other people’s children were always doing on YouTube. They could, for example, wrap up an ultrasound picture, and then film Joy’s reaction as she opened it: bewilderment followed by understanding, hand clapped across her mouth, tears and hugs. They could post it on their social media! Joy finds out she’s going to be a grandma! It might go viral. Joy dressed extra nicely every time her children visited, just in case.
(She would never share that fantasy with anyone. Not even the dog.)
The Migraine Guy spoke seductively into Joy’s ears: ‘Let’s talk about magnesium.’
‘Good idea. Let’s do that,’ said Joy.
There was no way for the frypan and grater to fit together. There was no solution. The grater would have to miss out. It was clean anyway. She straightened up from the dishwasher to discover her husband standing right in front of her, like he’d teleported himself.
‘Jesus – bloody – what the –?’ she shrieked.
She pushed her headphones down onto her neck and put her hand to her thumping heart. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that!’
‘Why is someone knocking on the door?’ Stan’s lips were orange from the chilli crackers. There were damp circles on the knees of his jeans from the melting icepacks. It was aggravating just to look up at him, especially because he was looking down at her with an accusing expression, as if the knock on the door was her fault.
Steffi sat herself down next to Stan, ears pricked and alert, eyes shining with the glorious possibility of a walk.
Joy’s eyes went to the clock on the kitchen wall. It was far too late for a delivery or a market researcher. Too late for a friend or family member to drop by, and no-one really did that anymore, not without calling first.
Joy considered her husband. Maybe he was the one with dementia. She knew from her research that the spouse must be patient and kind.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ she said, patiently and kindly. She would be an excellent carer, although she might waitlist him at a nice nursing home sooner rather than later.
‘I heard a knock,’ insisted Stan, and his jaw shifted back and forth in that way that indicated annoyance.
But then Joy heard it too: thump, thump, thump.
Like someone banging a closed fist on their front door. Their doorbell had been broken for years and people often knocked impatiently after they gave up on the bell, but this had the quality of an emergency.
Her eyes met Stan’s and without saying a word they both headed for the front door, not running but walking fast down the long hallway, quick, quick, quick. Steffi trotted along beside them, panting with excitement. Joy’s socks slipped on the floorboards and she felt that all three of them, man, woman and dog, shared an invigorating sense of urgency. They were needed. There must be a crisis of some sort. They would fix the crisis, because even though there were no children living at home, they still had that mindset: We are the grown-ups. We are The Fixers.
Maybe there was even pleasure in that rapid walk to the door because it had been a while since any of the children had asked for money or advice, or even a lift to the airport.
Bang, bang, bang.
‘Coming!’ called out Stan.
Fragments of memories flashed through Joy’s mind: Troy arriving home from school when he was around eight or nine, hammering on the door and hollering, ‘FBI! Open up!’ He did this for years every time he came to a door, thought he was so funny. Amy frantically ringing the bell, back when it worked, because she’d lost her house key yet again and was always in a hurry to get to the bathroom.
Stan got there ahead of her. He click-clacked the deadlock with an efficient twist of his wrist and threw open the door.
A sobbing young woman lurched forward as though she’d been resting her forehead on the door and fell straight into Stan’s arms, like a daughter.
chapter three
‘Hello there,’ said Stan, stunned. He clumsily patted her shoulder.
For the first fraction of a second Joy assumed it was one of their daughters, but this girl barely came up to Stan’s chest. Joy’s children were tall: the boys were six foot four, Amy was six foot and Brooke was six foot one. They were all broad-shouldered, dark-haired, olive-skinned, scarlet-cheeked and dimpled, like their father. (‘Your children all look like giant Spanish matadors,’ Joy’s mother used to say, chidingly, as if Joy had picked them off a shelf.)
This girl was petite, with straggly dirty-blonde hair and blue-veined mottled white skin.
‘I’m sorry.’ The girl stood back, took a shuddery breath, sniffed and tried to arrange her mouth into the shape of a smile. ‘I’m so sorry. How embarrassing.’
She had a fresh, deep cut just beneath her right eyebrow. Trails of shiny-wet blood trickled down her face.
‘It’s fine, darling.’ Joy took a firm hold of the girl’s stick-thin upper arm in case she fainted.
She would call her ‘darling’ until she remembered her name. Stan would be no help. She could sense his eyes trying to meet hers: Who the heck is this?
The girl had a tiny seed-like piercing in her nose and a tattoo of a green vine curled around her pale forearm. She wore a threadbare long-sleeved shirt with a spatter of old grease stains on the front and ripped blue jeans. There was a silver key on a chain around her neck. Her bare feet were purple with cold. She was vaguely, blurrily, not-quite familiar.
It would be helpful if the girl said her name, but young people always assumed that they’d be remembered. It happened all the time. A young stranger would make a beeline for them, waving delightedly: ‘Mr and Mrs Delaney! How are you? It’s been ages!’ Joy would have to bluff her way through the conversation while simultaneously flicking through her mental database: A tennis kid? A club member’s grown-up child? One of the children’s friends?