Hindsight Read online

  “Juliette?”

  “No, it’s OK, I’m right on it,” I say, the words forcing their way past the lump in my throat.

  Chapter 9

  I bid farewell to Patricia, move to the seating area directly outside the auditorium and get to work. Being so close to the doors will make it easier for me to slip back inside afterwards. It takes forty-five minutes to complete the task because the bimbo is holding out for a better deal, but eventually we come to an agreement. The sounds of clapping and cheering float out from the auditorium. That must be intermission, which means that it’s time to slip back inside, explain what happened and resume my rightful position alongside Chris.

  The first of the nicotine-addicted parents exit the building to light up cigarettes. Intermission must go for ten minutes at least, plenty of time to finish the call to Al and pack up. None of the family smoke, so there’s no reason for any of them to leave their seats.

  “Good work again, Juliette. I am certainly going to enjoy our business relationship,” Al says. Praise from him almost makes the dishonesty with my family worthwhile.

  There are papers and work paraphernalia scattered all around me and the bench seating I have turned into a mobile workstation. I briefly tell Al about an idea for one of our clients, wanting to reinforce in his mind that he has made the correct decision in contracting to Wilde Media.

  Suddenly, the doors open and out come a flood of people, laughing and smiling, talking about the performance; hyped up siblings excited at seeing the show, happy families spending time together. The flood slows to a trickle but, for some inexplicable reason, it doesn’t occur to me that there are children dressed in costumes with their parents. I am too caught up in my conversation and it also doesn’t register as odd that families are getting into their cars and going home; my brain is too busy trying to impress Al.

  “Good, Juliette. I like your proactivity. Good to see that PR is not just about crisis management.”

  “No Al, I am all about…” My world stops instantly.

  The clunk of my jaw dropping open in utter disbelief is so loud that it drowns out all other noises at that moment. There they are in front of me: Chris, Ethan, Anya, Sylvia, Rob, Lauren and Dash, standing about three metres away, staring at me. Dash is standing there with her hands on her hips, ready to go into battle mode. Anya and Lauren are chatting to each other and then stop to see what Dash is looking at. Their mouths gape in shock, eyes wider than dinner plates, Anya’s lips curling in evil satisfaction. Molly and Anna are busy running around, still hyped from the concert. Sylvia’s expression is full of pity, the way someone looks at a soft toy that has been ripped apart by the family dog. Rob is shaking his head as he looks over at Ethan and Chris. Chris is stony-faced. He looks as though he feels absolutely nothing but contempt. His normally handsome face is hard, cold. And Ethan… my beautiful Ethan is holding Chris’ hand with his eyes brimming full of tears which are about to cascade over his bottom eyelashes at any moment and tumble down his cheeks like Niagara Falls.

  “…being proactive.” The words literally fall out of my mouth, although how this occurs is a mystery because my body is frozen with shock.

  Ethan storms over still holding Chris’ hand, almost dragging his father along behind him. By now his cheeks are shiny with tears and his bottom lip and chin are quivering violently. His hands start to shake and the tears become hysterics as he yells, “You weren’t there! You promised you’d come, you promised! I hate your stupid work. You’re the worst Mum ever! I hate you!” He races off, with Sylvia chasing after him. Crushed under the weight of Ethan’s anger, shame and humiliation wrestle for pole position.

  Chris takes a step closer, looking angrier than I have ever seen him. The veins in his neck and forehead are bulging, his skin has turned a dark red and his fists are clenched beside him in a show of extreme restraint. It’s obvious to everyone that he’s using enormous amounts of energy to control himself.

  My heart is racing in anticipation of the fire that Chris will throw upon me. Closing my eyes slowly, swallowing hard and opening my eyes again to see Chris standing only inches away from me, he bends down and looks directly into my soul. His breath is warm and moist, not at all like the fire and brimstone I had anticipated. His choclate-brown eyes have lost all their warmth. He doesn’t have to say anything, it’s clear what he’s thinking. Everyone knows what he’s thinking because they’re thinking it too, including me. But he does say something. He says one sentence that absolutely shatters me more than any other imaginable.

  “I agree with Ethan.”

  It’s time to face the music. The house is dark and quiet as I move through to the kitchen where Chris is standing at the sink stirring a mug of warm milk and honey. Even from behind, the waves of anger surge off him and pass through my tissue paper body.

  “Chris…I…”

  He scowls and points his finger. “Not a word, Juliette. I’m getting Ethan ready for bed. He’s been through enough tonight, he doesn’t need to hear his father tearing shreds off his mother. No matter how much she deserves it.”

  “OK.” He’s absolutely right.

  Chris disappears into Ethan’s room and emerges twenty five minutes later, during which time my mind has been doing overtime attempting to come up with plausible excuses. But there are no words that will excuse my actions. None at all.

  “Is he OK?” my voice is very small.

  “No, but he will be. I’ll see to that.”

  “Will we be OK?”

  He stops washing Ethan’s dirty cup and turns slowly, staring at me with that same look of contempt. It’s hard to see him like this.

  “I don’t think so.” His voice is cold and matter of fact.

  “Tell me what do to Chris and I’ll do it.”

  “I think you’ve done enough.”

  “I am so sorry, Chris. I just…Big Al….” There is no use trying to explain because no matter what’s said, it won’t change what happened.

  “I know what you were doing. You were doing what you always do — putting your work first and us second.”

  “I’m so sorry, Chris, it was one stupid mistake, it won’t happen again.” My voice has gained a pleading edge to it.

  “Damn straight it won’t happen again. Tell me Juliette, did you think that I didn’t notice all those times you snuck out to make phone calls, all the spilt milk or suddenly mouldy bread? Do you think you’re smarter than the rest of us, than me?”

  My sneaky acts obviously weren’t so sneaky.

  “I am so sorry, Chris. Just tell me what I can do to fix this.” He’s angry now, but he’ll calm down and forgive me. Won’t he? It’s one little mistake.

  “You can’t fix this, Juliette,” he hisses. “You have lied, deceived and worst of all, let our son down, again. You promised that you’d be there. Maybe in the world you live in a promise doesn’t mean anything, but to a seven-year-old boy…”

  “I know, I know. I just got caught up. It was…”

  “Oh, don’t tell me. Some idiot client got caught DUI or fighting or shagging some tart?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “And you just couldn’t wait until after six o’clock to sort it out?”

  “No, I couldn’t!” The self-defence habit springs to life again. “If I did that Al would dump me, the contract would be gone.”

  “Oh, so that makes it alright then, does it? One hour of your time Juliette, one stinking hour. Is that too much to ask?”

  “No, it’s not.” My head hangs again.

  “Are you aware of how much work he put into this concert? Do you know how excited he was at the thought of you coming to watch him? You have no idea of the damage you’ve done to that little boy tonight, or all the other nights you’re not here, even though you should Juliette, you of all people. I’m not doing this anymore. Do you understand? I’m done.”

  “Oh right, so you’re off to be with Anya now, are you?” Bitterness possesses me like an evil spirit.
r />   “What? This has nothing to do with Anya and everything to do with you, Juliette.”

  “I know you kissed her that night.” My voice breaks. “The night you went out, I know you kissed her.” It’s a desperate attempt, but it’s all that’s left.

  “Her? Her name is Anya and she’s a wonderful, loving woman who puts her daughter first, second and third. You’d do well to learn a few lessons from her.”

  “Is she what you want now? Is she?” My heart is tearing itself into a million pieces.

  “I want a wife who loves me, a wife who loves our children and wants to spend time with us — as a family. So if that’s what she’s offering me, then that would be a nice change.” He turns to walk away but changes his mind and faces me again. “I am so tired of being a single Dad while you’re off flouncing around with all those wankers. You know, I wouldn’t mind being neglected if it was for something worthwhile, like feeding starving children or performing lifesaving surgery, but it’s not. Your work sickens me. All those overpaid egomaniacs you represent in favour of spending time with your family. It’s just such a waste. What happened to you, Juliette?”

  He exits the room and returns with a pillow and a blanket under his arm.

  “Oh, right. So you don’t even want to share a bed with me now, is that it? You’re going to sleep on the couch and leave in the morning? Leave me for her?”

  “No Juliette. I’m not going anywhere. These are for you.” He throws them at my feet.

  Silence. No words come out of my mouth because a road train has just hit me and is currently dragging my carcass behind it.

  Then he comes so close the heat radiating off his body singes my skin.

  “You want to know what you can do to fix this, Juliette? Be gone by the time the kids wake up tomorrow and don’t come back.”

  Like an out-of-body experience, my mind and body disconnect. The term ‘fragile’ always makes me think of an elderly person whose life energy is fading, but tonight, that describes me perfectly.

  I chug down vodka, one after the other, coughing and spluttering as the fire burns its way towards my stomach, spreading warmth as though a small pilot light has been ignited inside me; I am grateful that at least some feeling has returned. Is this the soothing, warm release that compelled my mother to live inside a wine cask? It’s almost understandable. It’s a very pleasant state of being when the only other option is total emptiness. See, my mother’s genes are strong in me.

  Nothing registers other than Chris’ words. Is this how a marriage breaks? How a family is shattered? Does this mean that Anya has won and will be moving her toothbrush into my bathroom cabinet soon? She purred like a cat tonight, her pouty lips unfolding into a smile of contentment, as if she knew this was the final nail in my coffin. If she’d opened her mouth to speak her forked tongue would have rolled out.

  It seems my marriage has passed the point of no return and Chris is not about to forgive me. I wonder, if it were possible to go back in time and change things, is it an option I would take? Suppose that my arrival had been punctual, Al would still have called me. Nothing could change that. The only variable was my position within the auditorium. Then the issue would have been whether that call was answered, or if it was ignored and my promise to my family was fulfilled, largely because Chris would have been sitting next to me.

  What if the universe is sending me an ‘out’ from a situation that isn’t working for me — marriage and family? The business is clearly my priority. Is it a case of me not wanting Chris, but not wanting anyone else to have him either? Surely, if marriage and family were truly where my heart was, success wouldn’t hold so much appeal, would it?

  Perhaps our time together has come to an end and the best thing to do is to let it go rather than fight for something that is clearly not meant to be. If we divorced, Chris could get custody of the boys, keep Lucy’s services and nothing would really change. It’s not as though we spend so much time together that my absence would cause trauma. It’s not as though I am a real mother or wife — not like Dash.

  On the other hand, there’s no point in questioning things — nothing is going to change by doing a few drunken ‘what ifs’. My actions speak for themselves, because tonight I am drunk and sleeping on the couch, and my husband hates me, as does my son. And Anya has just won first prize — my husband. No, it’s far better to drown my sorrows, compartmentalise it all, feel horrendously sorry for myself, and think about it tomorrow.

  I wander into the lounge room with a half-empty vodka bottle in one hand and a half-empty glass in the other and plonk down on the couch. It should feel soft and comfortable, the fluffy mohair cushions tickling my bare arms, but right now it could be covered with barbed wire or burning coals; my being is impervious to anything sensory, except unconsciousness.

  Sometime later, a cushion pressing into a full bladder wakes me.

  The need to wee is greater than the need to sleep so I stand up and fumble in the dark for a light switch. My vodka-impaired coordination fails me and I crash into something, a wall perhaps, and bounce off again, losing my balance as my feet slip and fly in different directions. The slow-motion fall results in my forehead crunching against something solid, followed by a momentary pause before the brow bone splits in two causing an instant migraine. Struggling to regain physical composure, I reach out to hold onto something, to pull myself back to a standing position. But there’s nothing; all the furniture has fled to the other side of the room. Seconds later, my limp body splats onto the floor, and then, nothing…

  Chapter 10

  Today…

  The smell of disinfectant is strong, almost overpowering. One eye squints open and takes in my surroundings. The other eye is covered by a bandage. The room is like looking into the sun; white walls, white curtains, white lino on the floor and white linen on a bed that apparently belongs to one of the seven dwarfs. This is either a hospital, heaven or a re-enactment of Snow White.

  “Mrs Taylor! Nice to have you back, dear. How do you feel?” asks the nurse. She is short, frumpy and her uniform perfectly matches the surroundings. In fact she looks like one of the seven dwarfs, minus the beard. “Mrs Taylor?”

  Is she talking to me? My surname is Wilde, Taylor is Chris’s last name and I’ve never used it because it was a bit…common. Wilde has more pizzazz. Mind you, it was never explained to Chris that way. It made sense to keep a name that already had professional associations and he accepted my reasoning, so we left it at that.

  “Mrs Taylor, can you hear me?” Suddenly her face is so close that it’s impossible to focus properly.

  “Yes, yes, it’s just that…” I’m unable to finish the sentence without being distracted by the surroundings, because it’s not that hospitals are my usual place to hang out, but this nurse looks different to other nurses. The formality of her manner and uniform for a start, as well as the hairstyle — a bun pulled tightly on the back of her head, just underneath her hat. Don’t nurses usually wear their hair in ponytails? Dash has never worn a bun, or a hat come to think of it. The starch fumes floating off her irritate my nose.

  “Where am I?”

  “You are in St Vincent’s Hospital, dear. Do you remember what happened to you?” she asks.

  It’s all a bit blurry, like a movie watched on fast-forward. Fragments of memory fly around but not enough to piece together what put me in here.

  “Ummm, no, not really. Can you fill me in?”

  “Fill you in? That’s a strange term. Your husband said that you fainted and hit your head on a table and then again on the floor when he was unable to catch you. Do you remember any of that, dear?”

  A sharp intake of breath. Oh my God! The blood drains from my face like water from a bath. It’s one of those moments where you stop breathing and don’t start again until the dizziness hits. The movie in my head comes together in all its cinematic glory — the concert, the fight, Chris’ decision, the vodka, the urgent need to wee and then the crash. Closely followed by waki
ng up on the floor, the kitsch Sixties house, the kitsch Sixties husband and kid, culminating in the discussion where Chris confirms the date on the newspaper — 1961. FAAAAAAARK!

  How easy would it be to spiral out of control and descend into a series of panic attacks right now? Struggling to control the erratic breathing that has possessed my respiratory system, violent hand trembling and compulsion to stutter, I force myself to act as normally as possible given the circumstances. Mrs O’Shane. Control the situation, don’t let it control you.

  “Mrs Taylor, are you alright? You’ve lost your colour again. Here, let’s lay you back down,” she says, as she places my head on the pillow and takes the pulse in my wrist. “You know, dear, it’s perfectly normal for you to regress into shock again. Head injuries can be unpredictable. Mind you, the doctors says yours is nothing to worry about, just a concussion. You’ll be here overnight so we can keep an eye on you. Plenty of time for rest.”

  “So, this is just a regular hospital then? Not a psychiatric one?” If it were an asylum it’s unlikely they’d be releasing me tomorrow, but best to check. Any more surprises might just kill me today.

  “Yes dear, that is correct. That’s a queer question to ask. Do you have a history of psychiatric illness?”

  “No!” Ooops, that was a bit too quick. “I mean, there aren’t any psychiatric issues.” Other than this unbelievably realistic hallucination that the year is 1961, but it’s probably best not to mention that. It’s doubtful that the people of this era take kindly to those who insist they are time travellers from the future. Mrs O’Shane.

  “Where are my things? My bag, my phone?” Oh crap, shut up! Future babble will have me locked up quicker than you can say ‘crazy lady’.

  “Your phone? Do you mean a telephone? Oh no dear! The rooms don’t have phones, just the matron’s office.” Thank God that went completely over her head. “I believe your husband is in the waiting room. Do you want to see him?” she asks.

  “Yes, of course! He didn’t do this to me. It really was an accident.” Chris is definitely not a wife-beater — that message needs to be strong and clear.