Lisa Heidke (15 page)

Day 43

I
t’s 1.15 am and I’m lying awake in bed. Did I really expect Max to turn up last night and tell me that the nightmare of the past six weeks was over? To beg me to take him back? To tell me he’s sorry for making the worst mistake of his life? Sadly, yes. Part of me - the part that’s been hoping against hope for the sake of the way we used to love each other, for our children - wants him to tell me he can’t live without me, that he’ll say goodbye to Alana forever and spend the rest of his days making it up to me, to us, till death do us part.

But if he did say all those things - and, let’s face it, it’s unlikely - could I really forgive the lies, the betrayal, the humiliation . . . again? Am I really so wretched that I’d accept him back into my life on his terms?

The sudden ring of the telephone shocks me.

It’s not Max, it’s Mum. I nearly fall off the bed in surprise. She’s hysterical; almost incoherent. My first thought is that something’s happened to one of the children, then reason kicks in. My second thought is that Dad’s had a heart attack. My panic escalates when I can’t decipher what she’s saying through her sobs.

My dad comes on the line. ‘Lucy, is that you?’ I want to say, ‘Who else would it be?’ but can tell this isn’t the time. ‘There’s been a terrible accident,’ he goes on. ‘A bomb in Bali.’

‘No, there hasn’t,’ I say, thinking my parents have finally scooted over the edge into madness.

‘You’re safe - you, Bella and Sam?’

‘Of course. We’re fine.’ Except for the fact that my husband and their father is living it up with his nineteen-year-old floozy.

‘That’s a relief. I don’t want to spoil your holiday but it’s not safe there. You have to come home.’

I can hear Mum still sobbing in the background.

‘A bomb? Are you sure?’

‘Happened a few hours ago - Jimbaran Bay, I think -’

‘Jimbaran, did you say?’

‘That’s right,

I -’ I cut him off. ‘Everything’s fine here. But the kids have woken up so I should go,’ I lie. I need to get off the phone. Get my head straight. Find out if what he’s saying is true. ‘I’ll call you first thing in the morning, I promise.’

I hang up. Fingers shaking, I dial Max’s number. My heart’s pounding so loudly it feels like it’s jumping out of my chest. We were at Jimbaran Bay only a few hours ago.

Max’s phone is turned off and fear overwhelms me. I sit rigid, unable to move. I’m sure Max is fine, I tell myself. He has to be. Dad’s just making it sound worse than it actually is. That’s what parents do. It’s their job to terrify you into looking at the world their way.

I turn on the television and flick to CNN. It’s headline news, with video footage of the bomb sites - one at Jimbaran and another at Kuta. It doesn’t seem real. It can’t be real.

The phone rings again. It’s Gloria.

‘Way to go, girl,’ she says. ‘You okay? I was really worried. I mean, I know you’re a survivor and all -’

‘We’re okay. I’m a bit shaken though,’ I say wearily as I focus on the sickening images on TV.

‘Good, good. Now, I might be able to hook you up with
A Current Affair
, set you up with some interviews -’

‘
Gloria!

’

‘What? This is news. Big news. Huge. And news sells.’

‘People are
dying
.’

‘Yes, they are. Thankfully, you’re not one of them, though it would be useful had you been a witness or got shrapnel stuck in your leg.’

‘Thanks very much for your concern - hanging up now.’

‘Okay. Call m -’

Staring at the television, I try to take in the information as words and numbers skip along the bottom of the screen - many dead, more injured and unaccounted for. I feel numb. I’m certain something bad’s happened to Max. Something really bad.

I don’t want to think the worst but it’s impossible not to. Images rush into my mind: hearing that Max is dead, having to tell the children they’re never going to see their father again. It’s too much to bear.

I call his number again even though I know it will yield the same result. His phone is off. I call his hotel but there’s no answer.

I sit in a daze, torturing myself with horrible scenarios about Max’s death, each one more gruesome than the last.

The phone rings again. It’s Nadia.

‘Trish is frantic,’ she tells me, after checking the kids and I are safe. ‘Alana’s phone’s switched off and there’s no answer at her hotel.’

‘Yeah, I’ve tried as well. Tell Trish I’ll ring when I find her.’

‘Lucy, are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I will be once I find Alana and Max.’

Max’s name gets caught in my throat. I say a quick goodbye to Nadia and hang up. I can’t let myself think the worst. It serves no purpose, and I have to be brave and upbeat for the sake of the kids.

‘Who’s calling so early in the morning?’ Bella asks as she stumbles into my room, yawning, her hair over her face. It’s nearly five o’clock.

‘Housekeeping,’ I mumble. I haven’t even noticed the sun come up. I feel frozen with shock.

Bella, sensing that all’s not well, climbs into my bed and gives me a cuddle. I hold her close until she dozes back to sleep.

By seven o’clock Max still hasn’t phoned. I call his hotel and, once more, the receptionist puts me through to his room. As it rings, I think how horrific it would be to have to tell Sam and Bella that their father has gone . . . forever. Having to tell his parents, work, the families at school . . .

‘Sorry, ma’am, no answer,’ the receptionist says after a few minutes, exactly as she has done the other five times I’ve rung.

The mood at breakfast is subdued. The Indonesian staff stand in groups, shaking their heads and looking miserable.

‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ Bella asks. It’s obvious to her that something’s wrong because the Balinese are usually so friendly and relaxed.

‘There’s been an accident,’ I explain, ‘just near where we ate dinner last night. I need to find Daddy -’

‘Was he in the accident?’ Bella says, stricken.

‘No, but I need to make sure, okay?’

Then I lose it and start to cry. Bella does too. Sam joins in. Suddenly the three of us are sitting at the breakfast table holding hands, tears streaming down our cheeks.

‘One of the ladies from the hotel will look after you,’ I say. ‘You can still go swimming but you have to stay together.’

‘Why can’t we come with you?’ Sam asks. ‘Dad said he was coming to the hotel after breakfast.’

‘And he still might. That’s why I need you to stay here and wait for him.’

I explain to Sari, the woman who’ll be looking after them, that the children can swim in the pool but need to wear hats and sunscreen the whole time. ‘No excuses,’ I say, looking at Bella and Sam.

‘I’ll find Dad and the four of us will have a really nice lunch,’ I go on. Bella doesn’t look convinced.

After kissing them goodbye, I head up to reception where lots of people are milling around.

‘Bomb no good for Bali,’ says the Indonesian man standing behind the desk. He looks and sounds sad.

‘I know,’ I say, tears welling in my eyes. ‘It’s just that . . . I think . . .’ I start to cry. ‘My husband is missing. We were at Jimbaran last night.’

Of course, I can’t explain why Max isn’t a registered guest at this hotel.

‘It’s okay, madam, we help.’

‘I need a driver,’ I say, and give him my name and room number.

He nods, then turns to answer the phone. He motions for me to go over to the nearby lobby phone. As I reach it, the phone starts vibrating and I pick up.

It’s Trish. She’s crying. ‘My baby, my baby. Please tell me my baby’s okay!’

‘I saw Alana last night,’ I tell her. ‘And I’m going to her hotel room right now.’

I don’t want to upset Trish further but I can feel my own anxiety levels increasing. Imagine having to tell Trish that Alana has died in the blast. There’s no way Trish could cope. She’d kill herself.

‘But she’s not at her hotel,’ Trish wails.

‘She could be.’

‘No, I’ve rung so many times. She’s not there. She’s dead.’ And she hangs up.

The children and I are fine by the way, I say silently to myself. Wayan appears in the reception area. I am so happy to see a familiar face I could kiss him. Luckily for all concerned, I restrain myself.

‘Loo-see, I take you where you need to go,’ he says brightly.

The drive to Nusa Dua takes forever. There are road closures and traffic diversions. The chaotic atmosphere of the last couple of days has been replaced by a sombre feeling of dread. It’s too early for tourists to be out, but even so it’s eerily quiet, except for the military personnel and police walking the roads and riding motorbikes.

‘This very bad. Not good for Bali,’ says Wayan as we drive past another road closure, this one guarded by several police armed with heavy black machine guns.

‘No, it’s not,’ I answer, a lump rising in my throat.

I’m sure Max and Alana are fine. Why wouldn’t they be? They’ll be at the hotel and everything will be okay. It’s got to be.

Finally, we arrive at the Sheraton. Wayan parks his van and tells me he’ll wait while I search for my friends.

I talk to an official-looking man behind the reception counter and explain the situation.

‘One moment,’ he says, and swipes an access card through a machine. ‘This way, please.’

I follow him along a pathway and up a flight of stairs.

We stop at an ocean-facing suite and he knocks. I hope Max answers, but then what? What if Alana’s draped over him wearing a revealing tiger-print negligee? ‘Sorry, I thought you were dead,’ I’d say, only to have him reply,

‘What’s all the fuss about? Lani and I have been making love all night - in the spa, beside the stone buddha, on the beach . . .’

It’s amazing how I can torment myself with lurid images. It takes practically no effort at all.

‘No answer, I’m afraid, ma’am,’ He slides the card into a box above the door handle and the door swings open.

The first thing I notice is that the bed - a huge king-sized bed - hasn’t been slept in. Nor is there any other sign that Max came back last night. I feel sick with anxiety.

I wipe away tears, trying to keep it together but fearing the worst. We were at Jimbaran Bay a couple of hours before the blast. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that Max and Alana were walking past one of the restaurants when the bomb exploded.

On the way back to the hotel foyer, I rack my brain, trying to work out what to do next. The obliging duty manager rings the Australian Consulate helpline and I’m asked for Max’s passport details, flight numbers and last-known whereabouts. But I don’t have those details. I can only tell the consular official where he’s staying and that he didn’t return last night.

I’m told to go straight to Sanglah General Hospital in Denpasar, where I’ll be met by staff and can continue my search. I give the duty manager my number and ask that when, not if, Max returns, could he please phone me.

As Wayan drives me to Denpasar, I stare out the window thinking of all the things I haven’t said to Max. And all the things I wish I had. And I pray - my first time in years (Trish would be horrified). I pray that I’ll find Max at the hospital with only minor injuries. Then I bargain with God, promising that if Max is alive, I’ll never yell at my children again, blaspheme, or make snap judgements about people I’ve only just met. I’ll take the time to be patient and nurturing, the way a kind mother should be. I’ll be the best mother, best friend, best person I can possibly be. I just need Max to be alive. Slightly bruised is fine, but in one piece . . .

I feel like I’m trapped on some out-of-control emotional roller-coaster . . . one minute I’m thinking, even hoping, that Max is off with his girlfriend so he’ll be safe, the next minute, I’m back to thinking he’s dead.

Fuck Max. (Apologies to God. Promise broken.) If he hadn’t left me, we’d still be at home dealing with Patch and thieving cabinet-makers. Now look where I am, heading to a hospital in a foreign country where scores of injured people lay waiting to be treated. What if he never gets to see Bella and Sam grow up? His grandchildren? The grandchildren we helped create?

For a moment, it’s all about me. I’m the one suffering. I’m the one with a broken heart. I’m the one driving to hospital, searching for him. Me! I’m the one dealing with this shit.

The roads are narrow and there’s too much traffic. I’m desperate to get to the hospital, but desperate not to find out if Max is injured, or worse. My skin’s crawling. I almost can’t breathe. What if Max is in pieces somewhere? Why couldn’t he just have stayed at home? I still love him, I realise. Even while I hate him for leaving us for a teenager.

My phone rings and I’m flooded with relief. It’s short-lived.

‘Lucy, is that you?’ It’s Dad. ‘Your mother wants to know when you’re coming home?’

‘I haven’t really had -’

‘Your mother’s very upset. We both are. You need -’

‘Max is missing,’ I cut in. ‘So’s Alana. I’m sure they’re fine. It’s just that they didn’t make it back to their hotel last night, so I’m checking the hospitals, just in case.’

I try to sound upbeat but my voice falters. Maybe I’m really not that good an actress.

I can hear Mum in the background, whimpering.

‘Don’t tell Mum, but we were all at Jimbaran last night,’ I say. The whimpers turn into a shriek. I guess he told Mum. Big mouth.

Mum comes on the line. ‘They’ve been killed!’ she wails.

‘No, God, of course they haven’t. But I’m going to the hospital just to -’

‘And then you’re coming straight home, aren’t you, Lucy?’ Dad says, taking control of the phone again. ‘Promise me you’ll be on the first available plane out once you’ve found Max.’

At the hospital, the scene is chaotic. Cars, motorbikes and people compete for road space. Wayan stops his van where he can and I get out. I haven’t got a clue what to do or where to go. When I get close to the hospital entrance I see that the area is clogged with dozens of injured men, women and children lying on stretchers, their bodies ripped apart by the bombs. Those who can walk have blood oozing from wounds, metal shrapnel sticking out of their arms, legs and, in one case, both shoulders.