The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,137

meet with me till three months after I disembarked in Hobart. Every time I rang she fobbed me off with excuses. I was still reeling from the implosion of my life. Debbie could no doubt hear it in my voice, but I was preoccupied with finding my feet on non-Antarctic ground. I didn’t realise how broken I was. How maladjusted.

Debbie finally agreed to meet me at a café near Constitution Wharf. Hobart was already bearing down towards winter and it was a dim grey day—I clearly remember it. In the café, she sat opposite me, sipping a latte. And she dodged my eyes carefully, furtively.

I had to admit she looked well. Her cheeks were pink, her lips red and full. She was uncomfortable in my presence, but smiles still came to her easily. Somebody was being kind to her, making her feel loved. I didn’t remember her looking so self-assured when she lived with me.

‘How are you going?’ she asked.

She didn’t really want to know, so I fed her an appropriate lie. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I’m sorry about your father,’ she said. ‘He was a good man. You’re like him, the way you hold everything inside.’

I didn’t want to be compared to my father. And I didn’t want to talk about him. ‘I love you, Debbie,’ I said. ‘We can try again. I’m sorry about Antarctica. It wasn’t supposed to work out that way. But we had something before I left. A plan. Things we wanted to do together. I can be the man you want. I’m willing to change.’

‘You did try from down there,’ she said. ‘All those emails you sent me . . . they were lovely. But they didn’t help. They emphasised the separation. It was so lonely here. So isolating. Who would think that you could live in a city full of people and feel alone? It felt like you were on another planet. You tried to share Antarctica with me, but it wasn’t possible. Only people who’ve been down there understand what it’s like to be there. And only people who’ve stayed at home understand what it’s like to be left behind.’

I reached for her hand, but she had tucked herself safely behind the table. ‘Look at you,’ she said. ‘Antarctica still has a hold on you. It’s in your bones. And there’s a wild look in your eyes. It frightens me.’

If I looked wild, it had nothing to do with Antarctica. ‘I want to come home to you,’ I said. ‘I haven’t stopped loving you. Can’t you see that?’

She sipped tidily at her latte and set her cup down again, avoiding my eyes.

‘Why did you let things drift so far?’ I asked, desperate now. ‘You could have warned me our marriage was slipping. I couldn’t tell from down there. If I’d known I could have done something about it.’

She smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘What could you have done? You were so far away.’

‘I would have come back. I would have leaped on the next ship and returned to you.’

She didn’t seem to understand. ‘What about the job?’ she said.

‘To hell with the job. We had a marriage to defend.’

For a moment, she looked struck, as if this option had never occurred to her. Then her face shuttered. I knew then I shouldn’t have arranged the meeting. I was clinging to the fragile threads of recovery and just seeing her undid me. But there was something more in her eyes, the dark shape of something concealed.

‘What is it?’ I asked, pressing further. ‘There’s something, isn’t there? Something you should tell me? Please. It might help me understand.’

She hesitated and bowed her head, staring at her lap. ‘I didn’t want to mention this,’ she said. ‘And it will only hurt you. It can’t change things for us.’ She looked away from me, out the window across the wharf where salt-stained fishing boats were moored.

I waited. Her face lost its glow and her eyes became watery with tears. Eventually she looked at me. ‘I was pregnant, Tom,’ she said. ‘I found out two months after you left. I was so sick and lonely. And you were so far away. I don’t know, something creeps into relationships when a partner goes to Antarctica. It’s like this other love. This ridiculous magical bond with the ice. I could feel it in your letters, in all those beautiful descriptions you were writing to me. You were sharing it with all those other people. People who didn’t matter. But you couldn’t