Into My Arms (16 page)

Since that time she’d continued to visit the site, daily at first, then at least two or three times each week. The general information displayed was occasionally added to, but what she really found fascinating were the forums, where members chatted, left questions or related their own stories. Recently, she’d become riveted by anything written by J, a woman whose older brother had been put up for adoption years before she herself was born. They had met for the first time just five months ago and fallen in love, then moved in together despite both already being married to other people. It wasn’t as if she
was addicted to
this stuff, Skye told herself now as she scanned the message board. She only read it so she could understand what she’d been through, and thus move forward. It was therapy. She clicked to open J’s latest post.

I still love my husband
, J had written to a member who’d asked if she ever thought about him.
I do love him, and I miss him, but this is different. I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t just love Josh, I feel as if I belong to him, that we were made to be together—there’s just this overwhelming sense of being preordained, fated, destined to be together. I know that sounds corny, but it’s how it is.

Skye found herself nodding. That was it, exactly. She loved Hamish, but it was as if she had chosen to fall in love with him, had recognised his goodness and his other positive qualities and made her decision, not just this time, but originally too. There had been no such decision with Ben. From almost the first moment she had seen him she had known him, somehow; she had had to be with him. It wasn’t a judgement of the mind, or even the heart, but the bones, Skye thought. It must be how a mother felt when she was first handed her baby.

The baby. Hamish’s baby. Skye closed the laptop with a snap, her heart thumping. It was one thing to try and make sense of the fate that had befallen her; it was another to keep dwelling on it, to keep thinking of Ben. She pushed the computer away from her and turned back to the mosaic she was trying to create. When Hamish had bought the house, just before they got married, he’d been thrilled that it came with a studio. A real one, at that, not a shed out the back, which was all Nell had—something that had housed Charlie’s tools and was too hot in summer, too cold the rest of the year. No, Skye thought, Hamish had looked after her. He’d been house-hunting anyway, granted, but he didn’t have to go to the trouble of finding something like this. She remembered his excitement on their way back to Nell’s after the open-for-inspection.

‘The agent told me it was owned by a potter. He built the studio all by himself, so he could get it exactly the way he wanted—lots of natural light, and facing the right direction. I suppose that matters, doesn’t it?’ He’d glanced over, and she’d nodded in confirmation. ‘Plus those beautiful high ceilings and all that glass . . . It’s got a kitchenette and a day bed too, did you see? I guess he must have stayed out there overnight when inspiration struck.’ He’d reached over and taken her hand. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it? Now that you’ve left the gym and won’t be teaching for a while.’

Skye had nodded back, moved by the hope in his eyes. ‘It’s perfect,’ she’d agreed, then was hit by another wave of nausea and started to retch. Used to it by now, Hamish had pulled over and rubbed her back while she threw up her lunch on the side of the road.

The morning sickness had taken months to abate, lasting right through her first two trimesters, almost up till the week they got married and moved into the house. Maybe that was why she hadn’t used the studio as much as she’d expected, Skye thought—she was too exhausted after half a year of vomiting, and the stress of a wedding. But both those things were now over, and still she felt creatively barren, blocked. Despite the lovely studio, despite the hours of quiet with Hamish at work and Jess at her feet, she hadn’t produced a thing. Not a mosaic, which was all she was working in now, not a design that she was happy with, not even a drawing. Nell would be ashamed of her. All her mother had ever wanted to do was paint, the desire so ferocious she’d sat cramped in the kombi, a canvas on her lap, or sketched ideas on envelopes during Skye and Arran’s swimming lessons. There had never been enough time or money or space for her mother, yet here was Skye with a beautiful echoing studio, a husband who loved and supported her, nothing to do but create—and all she had to show for it was coloured tiles scattered across her workbench like confetti.

Skye stood up abruptly and called for Jess to follow her. She needed to get out. The studio made her feel trapped, beholden. It expected too much of her; it was waiting to see if she measured up. Some days she almost wished she was back at the gym, but that was stupid. The morning sickness had forced her to resign almost as soon as she’d fallen pregnant, no longer able to stomach the sight of a cartwheel, never mind perform one. Plus, she thought, looking around the room for Jess’s ball, there was no future in teaching gym. Hamish had always told her that. She had to trust him, didn’t she? He was her future now.

So why, she chastised herself as they reached the park, did she keep thinking of Ben? He was haunting her—there was no other word for it. It was finished, over, all best forgotten, yet he kept showing up in dreams, in her thoughts, in every story she devoured on the GSA forums. Ridiculous, when she was married and pregnant with someone else’s child; when she hadn’t even seen him since the day they’d received the results.

Skye dropped heavily onto a bench. The results. It had been over a year, yet she felt ill every time she thought of them. It was still all so clear: arriving home to find the letter waiting for her, opening the envelope, quickly reading through the sheet of paper inside . . . and then nothing, nothing, until she woke up a day later in hospital with Nell sitting beside her, stroking her hair. A breakdown, the doctor had said it was, and Skye knew immediately what had broken: her heart. Nell had been right, they
were
brother and sister, they couldn’t marry, have children, it was a crime for them to even love each other . . . Jess deposited the ball at her feet and looked up at her expectantly, tail wagging. Skye leaned down to retrieve it, the baby inside her squirming as she did.
That
was what she had to concentrate on now, she told herself, that was what mattered. The baby, who needed her. Ben clearly hadn’t. Hadn’t called, hadn’t said goodbye; he hadn’t even returned to his job, she found out later from the other grade five teacher, had simply phoned in his resignation and disappeared. She picked up Jess’s ball and hurled it as far as she could.

All that summer she’d missed Ben; all summer she’d waited for his voice on the phone, his knock at the door. But there had been nothing. When Skye couldn’t sleep Nell lay next to her and told her that it was better this way, that clean cuts healed quicker. Skye had nodded, but the minute her mother left the room she’d picked up her phone and tried ringing him again. He never answered; he must have changed his number. The school had no forwarding address, and when she drove past his unit there was a different car in the parking space.

And then, just a few weeks later, she’d walked into the gym and bumped into Hamish. It was the first time they’d seen each other in the four months since they’d broken up. Initially, Hamish had altered his shifts so that they didn’t have to be there together; a month on, as he’d always planned, he’d finished his exams and resigned altogether. Skye had been surprised and grateful at how easily she’d been let off. She hadn’t had to face him at work, and there’d been no difficult questions from any of their colleagues.

Jess returned with the ball, panting, and Skye threw it again. It should have been awkward to see Hamish again, but somehow it wasn’t. She’d forgotten how little he demanded from her. They’d talked in the corridor before her class began. Hamish had smiled and told her that she looked good; he’d explained that he was looking after Dan’s clients for a few weeks because Dan had injured his knee. He didn’t mind, no—even though the new job was going well it was kind of nice to be back at the Y again. The sessions were keeping him fit, and the extra money would come in handy. He was looking at buying a house—at finally getting out of his flat.

‘That’s great,’ she’d stuttered.

‘And what about you?’ he’d asked. ‘Are you still doing the grant work? How’s Ben?’

She’d started at that, taken aback. She’d never told him she was with Ben.

‘I called your mother,’ he said, noticing her reaction. ‘Just after you dumped me. I was trying to speak to you, but I got her instead. She told me what had happened—that you’d met someone at the school. I remembered you mentioning Ben and guessed that it was him.’ When Skye didn’t respond he went on, ‘I was a bit of a mess at the time. I think Nell was trying to put me out of my misery.’

‘Ben and I broke up,’ Skye said. ‘I finished the grant, but the school didn’t offer me anything else.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hamish said, and he sounded as if he meant it. Then he’d leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Look after yourself.’

Skye stared after him as he walked away, while the intermediate girls waited impatiently for their class to begin.

Three days later he had rung her on her mobile. Jess missed her, he said. Did she want to meet them for a walk? Skye had hesitated, but then agreed. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything else, and she missed Jess too. They went to a park and threw the ball for Jess, just as she was doing right now. Hamish had talked about the job he’d taken as soon as his results came in, how all the years of study were finally paying off. Skye had listened quietly and then told him about Ben. Just the barest facts, those she could choke out. That ridiculously, shockingly, he was her biological brother. That she’d loved him, that she still wanted to talk to him, but he’d vanished. Then she’d started to cry and Hamish had put his arms around her, and she’d realised with surprise that even in the midst of all her pain, all her anguish, it felt good to be held.

Nothing else felt good, so she’d seen him again. And again and again, until holding turned to kissing, and kissing turned to sex. Skye thought of Ben then, when Hamish was on top of her. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it. She still longed for him, still loved and wanted and missed him terribly. But Ben had gone, and for some brief stretches of time Hamish helped her forget that. He distracted her from her anguish; he stopped her going mad.

By July she was pregnant. It was her fault, of course. She’d been on the pill, but sorrow had left her scatterbrained, sleep-deprived, unable to concentrate on anything more than simply getting through each day, and she’d regularly forgotten to take them. Once it was confirmed, the options were limited. She didn’t think she could go through an abortion, and she certainly wasn’t going to give the baby up, not after what had happened with Ben. Instead, to her surprise and even relief, Hamish proposed, and they were married that November. She was twenty weeks gone, already showing in her dress.

Skye shook her head at Jess, who kept nudging the ball towards her. She was too tired to keep throwing. She needed a rest. Pregnancy, she’d discovered, felt a lot like grief. There was the weight and the heft of it, the way it fatigued you; there was the inability to think clearly or do very much at all. A house opposite the park still had its Christmas decorations up, she noticed, though it was almost the end of January. Skye knew how its owners must feel. She was out of sync too: married and pregnant to one man, but thinking of another. Everything jarred; nothing was the way it was supposed to be.

19

Ben positioned himself on a bench just to the left of the museum’s main entrance. He’d made sure he was there a good half hour earlier than they’d organised, but still he was nervous. Just say he missed her? How terrible if she came through the doors looking for him, and didn’t see him, particularly after all he’d put her through—disappearing like that, with no explanation. Another fear gripped him: maybe she hated him. She’d arranged this meeting, sure, but maybe that was only so she could tell him how much she despised him, to spit the words in his face, then walk out of his life forever. Ben felt sweat prickle beneath his armpits, in his groin. He deserved it, after all.

‘Ben! BEN!’

He looked up in the direction of the cry but for a moment didn’t recognise her. She had grown so tall, and her hair was longer. Then she flung her arms around him and he knew her immediately—the rangy limbs, her earthy scent. Those things hadn’t changed.

‘Kirra,’ he said, hugging her tightly, a lump in his throat. The foyer echoed and surged around them, full of school groups and tourists. How strange to remember that she wasn’t actually his sister. She still felt as if she was.

Kirra was the first to pull back, disentangling herself from his grasp. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ve only got an hour, then I’m due back with my class.’

‘Where do you want to go?’ Ben asked. ‘Are you hungry? We could have something to eat at the cafeteria.’

‘Can’t,’ she said, pulling him past the blue whale skeleton and towards the escalators. ‘This is group study time, remember? I’ve got to watch a film, then fill in a worksheet. Couldn’t tell my teacher I was meeting my long-lost brother instead.’ She flashed him a smile, blue-eyed and delighted, then impulsively reached for his hand as they rode to the second floor. ‘I’m so happy to see you.’

‘I know. Me too,’ said Ben. ‘Listen, Kirra, I’m sorry for what happened. I wasn’t thinking about you when I left Tatong that night. It’s just that—’

‘Shhh,’ she said, pulling him into the Science and Life Gallery. ‘Don’t talk. Don’t talk about that, anyway. Help me get these questions answered, and then we can just sit with each other for a bit.’ She grinned at him again, cheeky in her excitement. ‘All my class will be wondering who the mysterious older man is.’

She was growing up, Ben thought, following her into a darkened theatrette at the rear of the gallery and settling himself in a seat while she fiddled with a notebook and pencils. Heck, she
had
grown up. When did that happen? He sneaked another look at her through the gloom. Kirra must be half a foot taller than when he’d seen her last, fourteen months ago. She was due to grow up, he supposed, but it was still a surprise. She’d had her ears pierced, and was wearing a short skirt and a strappy top rather than her customary shorts and t-shirt. How was his mother dealing with this, her baby erupting into womanhood?