1
‘Shhh! You’ll wake her up!’
Stifled laughter, the tinkling of a tea bell and the pungent smell of burnt toast drift beneath the bedroom door. Our three children are whispering outside, impatient to sneak in and surprise me. My hand slides across the mattress, reaching for Andy’s, before the crushing realisation swamps me.
He’s not here. Again.
A cold, hard nub of loneliness lodges in my chest. Andy’s overseas trips are an unavoidable by-product of his smashing career success; New York this quarter, London next, Tokyo in the spring. I should be used to it by now, but the thought of spending Mother’s Day solo makes me want to curl up under the covers and refuse to come out. For the sake of the children, however, I can’t. It’s my job to create magic on Mother’s Day now.
I stare at the paint flaking off the ceiling above our bed. Recalling the early, easy years with Andy, before there were any Mothers’ Days at all. All that spare time spent sleeping and strolling and staring into each other’s eyes. Two languid years of mutual adoration, before my body endured three pregnancies, two breastfed babies and the singular exertions of gravity itself. Back when Andy and I still saw each other, somehow.
Something clatters to the floor beyond the door.
‘Hold the tray steady!’ Milla hisses at her younger siblings. ‘Careful of that teapot, Ruby!’
‘Shut up, Bossy Pants!’ Ruby objects, with the trademark confidence of a third child.
Jackson remains quiet, presumably observing his sisters wage battle, before pointing out in his quiet drawl, ‘She’s woken up for sure.’
I make an exaggerated yawning sound, a sort of sigh and groan combined, then lie perfectly still. The ruse works: the tea bell rings sharply, the door nudges open and Ruby’s stubby fingers curl around its edge.
I hear Jackson counting to three in Mandarin.
‘Yaaah!’ Ruby bursts forth in all her nine-year-old glory, zigzagging across the room in pink sequined pyjamas and purple fluffy slippers.
‘Happy Mother’s Day!’ She launches herself onto my lap and gazes at me with earnest blue eyes. ‘I think I’ve got nits. My head’s itchy.’
‘It’s probably just your eczema, Rubes,’ I say, smoothing down her frizzy mass of golden curls. ‘But I’ll check later, okay?’
It’s only been three weeks since a lice contagion swept through Grade Three. Surely it’s too soon for another?
Milla enters the room, bearing a wooden tray laden with Pamela’s heirloom tea set, a stack of singed pancakes, several bowls of condiments, and a single pink rose in a blue Wedgewood vase. Milla’s blonde mane is always plaited in two long, perfect braids, a carryover from her netball days, while I struggle to manage a blunt-cut bob.
‘Morning, Mum.’ She sets down the tray. ‘Ruby burnt the croissants, sorry.’
‘They’re just well done,’ objects Ruby, crawling off me to admire herself in the full-length mirror.
‘I hope pancakes are okay?’ Milla murmurs.
‘Of course they are.’ I reach out and squeeze her hand. ‘You’re doing a great job, Millsy.’
She smiles. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
I’m gratified to see this compliment still means something to Milla, given most fourteen-year-olds seem far more interested in peers than parents.
Jackson files into the room now, carrying a towering pile of presents, his gangly limbs sprouting from too-small pyjamas. Unlike Ruby and Milla, whose flaxen hair, blue eyes and freckled cheeks resemble my complexion, Jackson’s brown hair, buttery skin and startling green eyes reflect Andy’s genetics.
Jackson whistles through a prominent gap in his front teeth, his head nodding erratically to some internal tune. Setting down the gifts at the foot of the bed, he drops to the floor and rolls into a headstand.
‘Careful, yogi master,’ I warn, watching his neck wobble beneath the weight.
Although Jackson is capable of holding this position much longer than most other eleven-year-olds – until he starts seeing stars – I can’t help but feel concerned. The family therapist we’ve been seeing for almost two years, Dr Louisa Kelleher, points out that ‘children with a low instinct for self-preservation’ tend to cause greater anxiety in their mothers than their fathers. If Andy were here, he’d simply tell me to relax. ‘Mothers minimise hazards and fathers maximise fun,’ he’d remind me. ‘Just let Jackson do his thing, Jules.’
Milla moves to the bedside table and begins pouring out a cup of tea, assuring me that she’s ‘warmed the pot first’. Ruby arranges the stack of gifts from smallest to largest, while Jackson flops out of the headstand and smiles at me from beneath a zany fringe.
‘Hungry, Mum?’ Ruby seizes a singed pancake and thrusts it under my nose.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, visualising a warm croissant. ‘With butter and jam, please.’
Ruby slathers the pancake, passes it to me, then starts on another.
‘Whoa, sweetie. I can’t eat more than one.’
‘But you ate heaps last year!’ Ruby looks crestfallen.
‘That was Dad,’ intones Jackson. ‘He had three pancakes, two fried eggs, a slice of bacon and an apricot pastry.’
‘Really?’ I can’t recall any such detail. ‘That sounds like an awful lot for one father to eat.’ Jackson is presumably exercising creative licence again.
‘You only had one croissant,’ says Jackson, lying down on the carpet. ‘Dad ate everything else.’
‘I miss Dad,’ says Ruby, sniffing. ‘Why does he have to go away for weeks?’ The bereft look on her face tells me exactly how much she wishes her father was here right now.
‘Oh, darling,’ I say, kissing the crown of her head. ‘We all miss Dad.’
‘I miss our old house,’ Milla says quietly. ‘I liked Erskineville more, Mum.’
The mere mention of Erskineville – our family’s home of fourteen years and maternal nest for our three precious babes – makes tears well up in my eyes.
It’s been five months since we swapped our spacious inner-city terrace for this tiny red-bricker in one of Sydney’s most sought-after suburbs. ‘Our coastal cottage,’ Andy likes to call it. His mother spotted it for sale first, encouraging us to move to Queenscliff for the ‘ready-made babysitting’ and the ‘healthy outdoor lifestyle’.
‘But this place has so much potential,’ I say, attempting to reassure myself as much as Milla. ‘And the renovation we’re planning will be…’
‘Colossal,’ says Milla. ‘That’s what Dad says.’
As will our debt levels, I reflect.
‘How about I open some of these Mother’s Day gifts?’ I ask, diverting the conversation.
‘Yesss!’ Ruby squeals with excitement. ‘Open this one, Mummy! Mine first!’
She pushes a small parcel in my direction.
I shake it theatrically. ‘What could it be?’
‘Look inside!’ Ruby claps her hands.
I peel open the wrapping paper to reveal a beaded necklace, decorated with faux gems. ‘Wow! Look at these amazing colours and patterns. Did you make this all yourself, darling?’