The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,76
like to tell her how happy I was with Emma, but now with my sad dog on my lap, all I can do is cry big wet tears that well out and drip onto her head. Where is this coming from? I haven’t cried in years. One night with Emma and I’m breaking apart. How can I have a relationship with another person when I can’t get it right with my dog?
Jess and I sit on the footpath for a long time in the mellow afternoon light. Soon we are sitting in shadows and even with my hot-water-bottle dog still coiled on my lap the cold is eating into me through the concrete path.
‘Come on, Jess,’ I say finally. ‘We have to go inside.’
She leaps up and, follows me closely into the house like she’s glued to my legs. I put on some music and shake food into her dish. Then I set down a bowl of milk as well. She looks up at me and beats her tail against the floor. I think she knows I’m saying sorry. For a dog, milk is like a bag of lollies.
I shower and change and then stuff some clean clothes into a bag. I suppose this means I’m expecting to stay the night at Emma’s again. This may be a presumption, but if I buy two bottles of wine it’ll be a necessity. I roll up Jess’s rug and place it by the door. Still at her bowl, she lifts her head and wags her tail. She knows she won’t be left behind this time.
As the light fades over the water, I sip tea in the kitchen and struggle to compose myself. Something is skipping and tumbling in my chest and my palms are sweaty with excitement. It’s as if life is reawakening in me. The hope of a future very different from the past nine years.
A knock at the door checks me. It’s Laura, with a hesitant smile on her face.
‘Sorry to come banging on your door again . . . It’s just that I need some matches for the stove, and I wondered if you had some. I’m a bit reluctant to drag Mouse down to the shops. He gets carsick.’
I wonder what sort of person gets carsick on a five-minute drive—or why she can’t leave her brother at home—but I go to the pantry to see if I have a spare box. The phone rings and I take the call still ferreting around on the top shelf. It’s Jan. Typical of her to ring at a difficult moment.
‘What’s happening with Mum?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. Isn’t Jacinta down there now? With Alex?’
‘Yes. But I thought you might have heard from them.’
‘There’s no phone coverage at Cloudy Bay.’
‘That’s another reason why I’m so cross,’ Jan says. ‘Mum has no way of calling if she needs help.’
‘Do you want to come down with me next week?’
‘Can’t. I’ve got too much on. My whole week’s booked out.’
Sure, her whole week is booked out. What does she expect me to do for her?
‘Call me after you’ve spoken to Jacinta,’ she says. ‘Hopefully Alex will be able to talk some sense into her. And into Mum. I had a quiet word with him before they left and I think he understands my concerns. Not like the rest of you.’
She hangs up. Laura is still hovering by the door. At last, I find a matchbox at the back of the shelf and hand it to her, dropping it into her open palm. Transaction completed.
‘Thank you,’ she says. But she stays on the doorstep as if she expects an invitation inside. ‘We’re settling in all right,’ she says.
‘Good.’ Monosyllabic answers work to discourage most people. I’m expecting her to get the message soon. She gives a slight awkward smile and I can’t help comparing her with Emma. Laura: frail, timid and colourless, so thin she might snap. Emma: bold, robust and confident. I can’t wait to finish this meeting so I can scoop up Jess and my things and take myself back to the warmth of Emma’s presence.
‘It’s a bit of a run into town,’ Laura continues. ‘Mouse doesn’t cope with corners very well.’
‘Maybe he’ll get used to it after a while,’ I suggest.
She glances down at Jess, sitting by my feet. ‘Do dogs get carsick?’
‘Some. Not Jess.’
‘I used to get carsick all the time when I was small. But I’m over it now.’
I shift restlessly and twiddle the doorknob. Surely she’ll go soon.