Lisa Heidke (16 page)

The stench and heat are overwhelming, but I’m shivering. I want to run and vomit under the red hibiscus trees nearby. I’m too afraid to push through the crowd and into the hospital. If this is what’s outside, I can’t imagine the carnage beyond the doors. So I hang around out the front, watching, listening, terrified and shaking.

Finally, I force myself to walk towards a woman holding a clipboard. She’s surrounded by scores of people, all clamouring for her attention. She has short dark hair, an olive complexion, and her worried expression is at odds with the pink tropical shirt and aqua shorts she’s wearing. When I get to the front of the queue, she asks me my name. She has an English accent and is my age, maybe younger. It’s hard to tell. As I piece together all the information I can remember about Max and Alana, she takes notes. I’m pleased I can recall what they were both wearing last night. She asks if either of them have distinguishing marks. My mind goes completely blank. She nods sympathetically and tells me to go inside and search for them there. But my legs won’t budge.

‘The sooner you go in . . .’ she says, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘In the meantime, their details will be entered into a register. If we find a match, we’ll let you know. But it will be quicker if you can look yourself.’

‘I know. I know,’ I say. I take a deep breath and walk inside the hospital. The corridors are full of able-bodied people like me, crying and searching for friends and relatives. Others - those who have heard the worst or fear the worst - sit slumped in corners, too shocked to move.

I stare at the bodies on stretchers. Many victims are being treated for cuts caused by broken glass; several have horrific injuries, missing arms, half a face. It’s hell on earth. I’m operating on autopilot, remaining calm, in a trance-like state as I walk past dozens of victims searching . . . searching for Max.

I see an arm poking out from beneath a bloodied sheet on an old, sagging stretcher. The rest of the body is hidden from view. Though blood-spattered, swollen and broken, the arm is familiar because of the bracelet. It’s the one Max was wearing last night.

I hear myself screaming. I cover my mouth with my hand but can’t walk closer to the stretcher. I don’t know how long I stand there, dazed, before a nurse comes to my aid.

‘My husband,’ I say, and collapse in tears.

She sits me down on a crowded bench and retrieves the paperwork stuck to the sheet. ‘It is a woman you are looking for?’ she calmly asks me.

I shake my head. ‘No. My husband.’

She pats my leg and explains that the body under the sheet is female.

I’m relieved, then feel guilty that this person is someone’s dead mother, daughter or sister.

As I fill out pages of forms at an overcrowded nurses’ station, snippets of conversation fill my ears.

‘I was at Jimbaran when the bomb exploded,’ a woman with a British accent says. ‘It sounded like waves crashing. People started running everywhere, screaming and crying.’

I bite my top lip, ignoring the pain and blood, keep my head down and continue writing.

‘We were in the building next door to a restaurant hit in Kuta,’ a man, possibly German, says. ‘There was a massive boom and the shop’s windows blew out. Complete chaos. People were lying in the streets with arms missing. Everyone gathered around trying to help however they could.’

I hang on to the hope that Max was one of those helping the victims rather than being helped himself.

It’s just gone eleven o’clock. Again, I phone Max’s mobile. It’s futile. I can’t help but imagine his phone smouldering in the wreckage alongside him. I text him,
Where are you?
then continue my search through the hospital.

Half an hour later, worn-out and numb, I return to Wayan and the van. There’s no sign of Max at this hospital and no matching descriptions so far. I guess that’s a good thing. But it’s torture not knowing for sure. At least when you have all the facts you can start to deal with them. Until then it’s more searching, and waiting - the endless waiting - and anxious jumping every time the phone rings.

Wayan offers me a cigarette. I don’t smoke. It’s hot, the air is thick and it hurts to breathe, but I accept his offer. He puts his arm around me while I cry and we smoke together in silence as chaos swirls all around us.

Wayan takes me to Graha Asih Hospital, and I repeat the awful process. Nothing.

We head back to the hotel. I’m angry with the gawking crowds growing ever thicker on the streets. Why are they here? Why are there sightseers taking photos of the hospital? They’re blocking the access of those who need to get to the hospital - all those broken bodies still being recovered.

I try to blink away the tears as they form but they’re falling too fast. Glancing out the window, I see my reflection. I look tired and drawn. Millions of thoughts race through my mind: the past, our love, but the most important of all - what am I going to say to Sam and Bella? The thought of telling them their father is dead fills me with dread and despair.

I close my eyes and somehow manage to nod off because the next thing I know we’re back at the hotel and Max is opening the car door.

‘Lucy!’

‘Thank God, Max. Is that really you?’ I fall into his arms, huge sobs escaping my mouth. ‘Thank God, thank God,’ I say, kissing him over and over again. The father of my children is alive. My relief is beyond any emotion I’ve ever experienced. (Including how I felt when Trish blurted out the news about Max and Alana.)

‘Where have you been? Everyone’s been so worried.

You’re okay?’ I say, hugging him tighter, tears rolling down my cheeks. ‘I thought you were dead.’

Max hugs me back. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I can explain.’

‘As soon as I heard about the bomb, I rang your mobile,’ I say. ‘Then your hotel. When you didn’t answer, the kids and I -’ I swallow my tears. I know I have to be strong. I need to focus on Max and our children.

‘It’s okay. We’re all okay,’ Max tries to reassure me, rubbing my back and squeezing me tightly.

‘I guess, but it’s just so awful - all those dead people, and so many others badly wounded. I thought I’d never see you again.’

‘Hey, I’m all right. I’m here. I’m sorry about everything you’ve been through,’ he whispers in my ear.

‘I was worried for the children . . . you’re their father.’

‘And not a very good one,’ he says. ‘I am so sorry, Luce. I really haven’t done the right thing by you or the kids.’

‘You’re okay now, that’s the main thing.’

I’m so exhausted. I don’t want to argue with Max, or ask him why he’s been fucking us around - his children, his family. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to hear the answer, or maybe I’m just too tired and relieved right now.

‘How are Bella and Sam?’ he continues.

‘Missing you. They’ll be pleased you’re here. I’ve left them in the hotel’s care. And Alana?’ I ask, her name catching in my throat.

‘In shock. She’s spoken to Trish . . . it’s not easy for her.’

‘No, I guess it isn’t.’

Of course, it’s been a cakewalk for me, I want to say, but I don’t because I’m trying to become a better person in light of everything I have seen today.

Bella and Sam are beside themselves with happiness at seeing their dad. Max stays with us for the rest of the day, and in the early evening he has dinner with us in the hotel’s seafood restaurant.

‘Enjoying the evening?’ he asks me at one stage, giving me a warm smile.

I look at the kids engrossed in eating their messy mud crabs, relaxed and safe, and I can’t help but nod. This is making me feel nostalgic for a time when Max wanted to be part of our family.

‘Why were you so worried about the bomb, Mum?’

Bella asks. ‘Did you think Dad had been killed?’

‘No, of course not,’ I reassure her.

‘Mum was worried because the whole family wasn’t together, but we are now,’ Max says, stroking Bella’s hair. ‘You’re growing up so quickly, Bell. Soon, you’ll be as tall as your mum.’

‘What about me?’ Sam asks, bouncing up and down in his chair like an overgrown puppy.

‘You too, sport; you’ve shot up in the last few weeks.’ Sam beams with pride.

Max hands me a glass of wine just as the restaurant doors fold back and a dozen or so Legong dancers take to the outdoor stage nearby. We have a perfect view and the children are fascinated.

‘I didn’t expect to be doing this tonight,’ I say, sipping my drink and watching the dancers against the backdrop of the shimmering ocean and full moon.

‘Yeah,’ says Max. ‘It’s been a great night, considering.’

I look over at Bella, who is imitating the hand movements of the female dancers. Sam is mesmerised: first by the musicians, then by the dancers’ colourful bird costumes.

‘Hey you,’ Max says, bending over to kiss me - on the lips. ‘Can I stay tonight?’

‘What about Alana?’

‘I love you, Lucy, I always have,’ he whispers.

‘Max, I’ve been so angry with you. And today, with everything . . . I don’t know what to believe anymore.’

‘You don’t believe I love you?’

‘I don’t know. At the moment, all I can focus on is how happy I am that you’re alive.’

‘I want to come home, Lucy,’ he says, looking sincere. ‘Today, I realised how much you mean to me, how much our family means to me. What a huge mistake I’ve made.’

When Max puts his arms around me, kisses me and tells me everything will be okay, I don’t push him away. I’m confused. I feel distraught over everything I’ve seen today and I want to feel safe, protected, loved. So we snuggle closer and watch the dancers perform a piece about the courtship between a male and female bumblebee. The bees flirt and dance and fly joyously from one flower to another. The music becomes more frenzied, the bumblebees more infatuated with each other, until eventually they are consumed by passionate love.

As we walk back to the suite, Max kisses me again. I feel slightly uncomfortable, but, for God’s sake, Max has been my husband for eleven years. Surely I should be over any embarrassment about him kissing me in front of the children.

Perhaps I’m too easily influenced by the copulating bumblebees, but I want to believe Max. I want to believe that our family can be patched together again. So, for the sake of happy children and happy endings, I let him stay the night . . . in my bed.

Day 44

I
wake up about four in the morning. Max is on his side of the bed, curled up and snoring, just like the old days. For the briefest of moments Alana doesn’t exist. But then I remember . . .

In my heart, I know this can’t possibly work. Not after the heartbreak of another affair, the humiliation, the betrayal. But still, a tiny part of me hopes we
can
work it out because in many ways it would make life easier. Certainly for Bella and Sam.

I try to be positive. Who knows? Yesterday, shocking and horrific as it was, could actually bring Max and me closer together.

I doze again until the children rush in and jump all over Max. They can’t wait to take him to breakfast.

‘There’s so much food!’ Sam squeals.

‘You go ahead,’ I tell them. ‘I’ll be there soon.’

I take my time showering and dressing. The rational, sensible, adult part of me knows it was a mistake to allow Max to stay last night. Bloody bumblebees and their courtship rituals! It was impossible to say no. Not to mention the half a bottle of wine and two cocktails I’d drunk by the night’s end, which may have slightly impaired my judgement.

‘You won’t let me down, will you?’ I say to Max after breakfast, when he tells me he’s leaving to sort things out with Alana.

‘How can you say that after last night? You and the children are the most important people in the world to me,’ Max says and kisses me gently on the eyelids. ‘My family.’

‘So you don’t love Alana anymore?’ I ask. I can hardly bear to hear his response.

Max lets the question hang and kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

Back at our room, the phone’s ringing as I open the door. It’s Mum, distraught we haven’t flown home.

‘If we allow these people to hijack our lives, then they’ll win,’ I tell her.

‘But, Lucy, you have children to think of.’

‘Exactly. And they’re on holiday. I’m looking after them. They’re not in any danger,’ I say, peering out to the grounds that are now patrolled by gun-wearing security guards. I’d be less than truthful if I didn’t admit the sight of them unnerves me somewhat.

I reassure Mum again that we’re okay and say goodbye.

When I return to the pool, Sam’s drinking lemonade. ‘Mum, we’re having the best day,’ he says, spitting soft drink all over me.

‘Where’s Bella?’ I ask, anxiously looking around.

‘You’re supposed to stay together.’ I can’t help the alarm in my voice.

‘Over there,’ he says, before jumping back into the pool. ‘Watch me. I can hold my breath underwater for five minutes.’

Bella’s having her hair braided by three Indonesian teenage girls wearing beige safari suits topped off with beige pink-rimmed caps.

‘Mum, isn’t this cool?’ Bella says when I reach her. ‘Do you like them?’ She twirls one of her new tiny braids. At the end of each plait is a red and green bead. ‘There were so many colours to choose from, it was hard to decide.’

‘You look gorgeous,’ I tell her.

‘Is Daddy all right? Is he coming back? Are we having lunch with him?’

‘Yes, of course he is. Not sure if he’s coming to the pool, though. We’ll have to wait and see.’

Bella becomes engrossed in the many nimble fingers weaving her hair. ‘How will I wash it?’ she asks. ‘You don’t think bugs can get inside the braids, do you?’

I shrug. I’m a million miles away, wondering what’s going to happen with Max and Alana. Will she cry, I wonder. Will she beg him not to leave her? In the distance, I hear the sound of the waves on the beach.

‘Come for a swim,’ Sam urges.

‘I will,’ I answer, distracted. ‘But first I need to change into my swimmers.’

Maybe a swim’s just what I need to take my mind off Max. I blow Sam a kiss and walk back to our suite. Pushed under the door is a letter from the Australian Embassy. The gist of it:
. . . Australians concerned for their safety should consider departing Bali . . . the possibility of further explosions cannot be ruled out . . . exercise extreme caution.

I sit on my bed and can’t help crying for the destruction of this beautiful island, for those poor families I saw yesterday at the hospital, looking for their loved ones and fearing the worst. With so many dead, not everyone can have a happy outcome like mine.

I switch on the television. There’s saturation coverage of the bombings. The latest number of dead is twenty-three.

I hope Max comes back soon. We have to talk to Bella and Sam and tell them we’re leaving. We have no choice: I can’t keep them in danger like this, despite what I’ve been saying to my mother. And I want to make sure that Max comes with us.

I ring the number listed on the embassy printout to book the three of us on one of the additional Qantas flights to Australia. Engaged. No doubt clogged with desperate travellers frantic to leave Bali and return to the familiarity of home where they can put this tragedy behind them.

I try the number again and finally get through to an operator. I book this evening’s midnight flight home for me and the kids, then ring Max. He doesn’t answer so I leave a message.

I walk back down to the pool. Water gushes from sandstone gargoyle fountains. The palm trees sway and the scent of frangipani lingers in the air. People sit on beach towels, reading magazines and shielding themselves from the heat of the sun. I can just see the waves on the beach as they crash onto the sand. But for me, this paradise is lost.

Sam waves me over. He’s joined up with a couple of boys his age and they’re swimming backstroke across the pool, much to the annoyance of the Japanese honeymooners canoodling in front of them.

Nearby, a camera crew is setting up and looking for people to interview, preferably those with first-hand reports of the explosions. All their dreams would come true if they could actually interview the relative of someone seriously maimed or, better still, dead.

Gloria would be in her element here.

As people notice the cameras, the holiday mood shifts. Just near me, a couple whisper to each other, then gather their belongings and leave. A dozen more people quickly do the same.

‘Mum! Mum, are you okay?’ Bella asks. Her hair has thirty-eight tiny plaits, she tells me.

‘Come for a swim,’ Sam calls again.

The sun is scorching. To satisfy Bella and Sam, I jump in the pool and we all hug each other. I’m thankful that we’re all okay.

To take my mind off Max, I settle down with my book, keeping an eye on the kids in the pool. It’s a novel about adultery, which should upset me, but I can’t help smiling because the wife stabs the adulterous husband, who, as a result, becomes impotent and the mistress drops him. I don’t think it’s meant to be a comedy.

I notice a man, probably in his early forties, swimming with two teenage girls, both blonde. One has her hair braided and is wearing a red polka-dot bikini. The other wears a one-piece with dark green and brown Pucci swirls. They’re laughing, hugging him and smiling. A woman joins them. I assume she’s their mother. She sits by the side of the pool, careful not to get her straight, blonde, blow-dried hair wet. She’s wearing a red hibiscus tucked behind her ear. The dad and the red polka-dot girl swim into the centre of the pool leaving Mum and the Pucci teen alone. I hear the girl call the older woman by her first name, Pat. So she’s not the mother! The plot thickens. But she’s wearing a wedding ring, and when the dad swims back she chats animatedly to him.

Then it clicks. Pat is the second wife. I close my eyes, imagining Alana as Max’s second wife.

‘Mum, Mum. Save me!’ It’s the girl with the polka dots calling out to another blonde woman who’s just arrived. The woman shakes her head and laughs as she takes off her sarong to reveal a plain black one-piece. She removes her black bug-eyed glasses, dives in and swims to the man. They hug and kiss. The girls swarm around them both.

I find out later that the other woman is the father’s sister. A good omen for us, I can’t help thinking.

By two o’clock, Max still hasn’t shown and the kids are ‘starving, Mum’. So we head outside the hotel grounds to eat at one of the many food bars nearby. It’s the first time since the bombings that the children have left the resort.

It’s quiet. The sun is burning and the breeze is nonexistent. I closely eyeball passers-by, daring them to mess with me or my children. Quite harsh really, because the only people around are the Balinese with their welcoming smiles and sore hearts. I am the only foreigner walking the streets with children.

The markets and shops are open, and the restaurants and bars still blast upbeat music from tiny, tinny sound systems, but there aren’t any customers, just an air of unease and unrest.

Every couple of metres, a local tries to sell me an Australian newspaper. I shake my head and turn away. I don’t want to read what the papers have to say. But Bella does. She’s mesmerised by headlines shrieking: AUSTRALIANS KILED, DOZENS INJURED IN BALI BLASTS.

Over satay chicken and nasi goreng, I broach the subject of going home.

‘Mum, we can’t leave. We’re on holiday,’ Bella says.

‘I don’t want to go home,’ Sam adds.

I’m torn between wanting to return my children to the quiet safety of their everyday lives and staying so Bella and Sam can continue the holiday they’re enjoying so much.

‘You promised we’d stay a whole week,’ Bella says.

‘That was before -’

‘I know it was before, but everything’s fine now. It’s over, isn’t it?’

I smile at her and continue eating. Every time I see a person in a puffy parka, long dark trousers and a black helmet, I have a mini panic attack. The children are oblivious.

As we walk back to the hotel, several Balinese stop us. One woman hawking silver jewellery tells me, ‘Bali finished’. Another woman rests her hand on my shoulder and apologises for what’s happened. ‘Please be telling your friends, Bali safe. Bali good place,’ she begs.

Bella looks at me. ‘We can’t leave, Mum. Not now.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Gloria, when I phone her for advice. I don’t mention spending the night with Max, or that he’s breaking up with Alana. ‘You’re over there now - nothing more will happen. Besides, it’s freezing here. Stay. Have fun.’

‘You’re up to something,’ I say.

‘No, Paranoid Pam. It’s just that your house and life are a mess back here - you may as well finish your holiday. Though I hope you’re keeping a diary so you can write about it when you get back.’

‘No, Gloria.’

‘But I can get you airtime on radio and TV -’

‘No!’ I say, and hang up.

Knowing that we won’t be coming back to this island any time soon, I relent and promise the kids I’ll cancel our flight home. They’re delighted.

Nevertheless, I’m still being swamped by massive waves of fear and sadness. What if the island is unlucky enough to be hit again? We have a chance to escape tonight and I’m turning it down. Am I the most irresponsible mother in the world? People have accused me of such a crime for much lesser incidents. Imagine what they’ll say about me now, putting my children’s lives at risk?

I think about Max’s dismissal of the incident as ‘one of those things’ rather than an ongoing war of terrorism. I bet he wouldn’t be so blasé if he’d been at the hospital with me and seen the mutilated bodies for himself.

As the afternoon eases into early evening, Max still doesn’t come back or call. Bella and Sam don’t seem worried. They’re happy to keep diving into the pool, yelling, ‘Look at me, Mum, look at me!’

It’s a different story when Max doesn’t show for dinner. ‘I thought Daddy was coming back tonight,’ Sam says. We are all hurt and confused. I call Max’s mobile several times but it goes to his message bank. I have a sinking, gut-wrenching feeling and, as the night drags on, I become increasingly agitated.

At eleven o’clock, about the time we would have been boarding our flight home, I turn out the lights.

From Max there is no message, no phone call, nothing. He’s a total no-show.