The therapist, p.19
The Therapist, page 19
‘Grant.’
‘Grant. But actually, it would be better not to give him a name. Let’s not start another magical mystery tour, searching for the real father …’
‘Quite. Go on with this elaborate fantasy.’
‘Well, that’s it, basically. Tell Samantha that she was the product of an intense, passionate affair, but that you were already married to Simon, and this other man had a wife and kids, so it was just an impossible situation. You parted company with great sadness and you never even told him you were pregnant. That’s an important part of the story.’
‘Which also happens to be true.’
‘So it becomes a classic romantic tragedy, Martha. Which it almost was.’
‘You want me to lie to my own daughter about my feelings towards her biological father?’
‘No, I want you to admit to yourself, and also to Samantha, that you had an affair. Even if that would be stretching the truth a bit—and it might not be—I thought you were already lying to her on a far bigger scale than that.’
Martha’s chin fell to her chest. ‘I don’t think I could do that,’ she said.
‘Martha, listen. Before you write off the idea, put yourself in Samantha’s shoes. Okay? She has hostile feelings towards Simon. She’s saddened by the thought that you might never have had enough passion, enough romance in your life. Not Simon. Not Giles—oh yes, she’s mentioned Giles to me. What would she rather hear: that her mother had a one-night stand at a conference with some random bloke for whom she felt nothing but passing lust? Or—here’s the alternative version—that her mother had a passionate, exhilarating affair that was doomed from the start because of the complications in the lives of both parties? It’s not Romeo and Juliet, but it’s not bad. And it’s not completely untrue. It’s an … embellishment. An embroidery of the truth, to borrow my late mother’s turn of phrase. To protect your daughter’s feelings, Martha. This is for Samantha’s sake, not yours.’
‘Certainly not mine.’
‘Think of it as a sacrifice you can make in the interests of Samantha’s happiness. Her mental wellbeing, if you like. You haven’t invented a father. This is the real father. Grant. Okay, it’s a slightly romanticised version of the story. But how romanticised? How do I know—how do you know, after all these years? Forty years. Do you remember exactly how you were feeling? There was passion there, surely, no matter how fleeting. You don’t have to tell Samantha how fleeting. You felt something for this guy. How can you be sure you haven’t diminished the significance of it in your own mind, just so you can excuse it as nothing more than a reckless one-night stand? Forty years ago? I wouldn’t like to swear how I really felt—at the time—about some of the people I slept with even twenty years ago.’
‘He was an ageing roué.’
‘Martha, I would strongly urge you not to say that to his biological daughter. And, anyway, there you go again. I think you might be trying to let yourself off the hook by pretending you felt nothing for this guy. Maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t. But I sure as hell wouldn’t be so certain, if I were you. It’s become a convenient narrative in your mind, Martha. A cliché, to be blunt. A neat way of framing what happened. So reframe it! Rewrite the narrative!’
Rob jumped out of his chair and began pacing the room. ‘Forty years ago? The guy is probably dead by now, or propped up in a nursing home. Maybe consoling himself with the memory of those idyllic few days he spent in Adelaide with the young and reckless Martha Elliott. Maybe he’s carried a torch for forty years. Your face says you don’t think so. How would you know? Give your daughter a break, Martha. Let this man be someone she can think of fondly. The man who really loved her mother, even if only briefly.’
‘It’s a lie, Rob. All your fancy embroidery can’t disguise the fact that it’s a lie.’
‘Is it, Martha? Is it? Tell me how Grant treated you the morning after.’
Long pause. ‘Actually, we went to bed three nights in a row. I was too embarrassed to tell you that before. I was mad. Not madly in love, Rob. Just mad. Reckless, yes. Desperate, maybe. Grant certainly treated me with a tenderness Simon never displayed.’
Rob shrugged and held out his hands, palms up.
‘At least give this some thought, Martha. At least consider it from Samantha’s point of view.’ Rob began to pace again. ‘There is an alternative,’ he said. ‘You could wait for the evil axis to contact Samantha and tell her the story in the most sordid terms possible. Then she could come to you for confirmation, and you could deny the whole thing.’
‘That would be an even worse lie. A far worse lie. I think I prefer your version.’
‘Or you could say: Yeah, it’s all true. Guilty as charged. You’re the child of an illicit, dirty, meaningless humiliation.’
‘Oh, Rob. You remind me of Sam sometimes. You really do. So over-the-top. Yet so … I hate to say it … so persuasive … so plausible.’
‘I know it’s tricky. I know it goes against the grain. But you’re doing your daughter a favour. Think of it that way. You’ll be minimising the inevitable shock. It will still be a shock. I’m not saying it won’t. But do you want to go on feeling as miserable as you are now? Do you want Giles Dubois and the Ugly Sisters to have this power over you indefinitely?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You know your daughter better than I do. You decide which version you’d like her to live with. And don’t tell me only one of them is true. It’s never that simple, Martha. You know that. Three nights, eh?’
‘Don’t rub it in, you smug little bastard. There is a hint of smugness about you since you shed the dreaded Inconstancia. You’re looking far too pleased with yourself, Rob. Anyway, I’m grateful you’ve given this so much thought.’
‘And I’ll just say one other thing. Aren’t you grateful to Grant for giving you Samantha? Doesn’t that count in his favour?’
Martha stood and they embraced briefly.
‘I’m on your side,’ Rob said. ‘And Samantha’s.’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘Sam? It's me.’
‘Hi, Mum. What’s up?’
‘How does your diary look this week? Any days that could be free?’
‘Let me check. What’s this about?’
‘Don’t laugh, but I have a sudden urge to take a ride on a Manly ferry. Haven’t done it for about twenty years, I’d say. I watch them sail past Balmoral all the time and I want to be on one again.’
‘You want me to come on a ferry ride with you?’
‘Not just any ferry ride. A Manly ferry. And no, not just that. I thought we could drive to Manly, park the car and take the ferry to Circular Quay. Have lunch in town, do a bit of shopping, maybe, then catch the ferry back to Manly before peak hour. What do you think?’
‘Shopping?’
‘I know. Doesn’t sound like me. Well, we could just have a walk in the Botanic Gardens. Haven’t done that for yonks, either.’
‘What is this, Mum? A girls’ day out, all of a sudden?’
‘Kind of. Yes. I’ve been busy. You’ve been busy. Why not spend a day together?’
‘I’ll look at the calendar. Can I call you back?’
They had settled on Wednesday for the ferry ride. Sam had an appointment in the city that morning, so she arranged to meet Martha at Circular Quay, have lunch together and perhaps a walk in the gardens, then join her on the ferry back to Manly. It sounded to Sam a bit like a school excursion, minus the visit to an art gallery or museum.
She sat at an outside table at City Extra, with the Manly ferry wharf nearby. When she saw Martha’s ferry approaching, she paid her bill and walked to the exit barriers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stood like this, waiting to catch sight of her mother in a public place.
The spring sales were on in the city stores, and a gaggle of shoppers were mingling with assorted daytrippers and people heading for appointments in the city with medical specialists, financial advisers, travel agents, divorce lawyers. The faces ranged from playful to grim, some hidden behind the face masks that, post-Covid, many people had taken to wearing routinely.
When Sam caught sight of Martha, she experienced a moment of heartbreak. Her mother had tried to dress for a day out. A hopelessly unfashionable floral skirt Sam hadn’t seen for years. A far-from-pristine green linen jacket. A straw hat that looked more suitable for weeding gardens than strolling in them. A slash of lipstick that was both uncharacteristic and unsuitable. My poor mother, Sam thought. Why is she trying so hard? I’m only her daughter, for God’s sake. A surge of the deepest affection swept her towards her mother, but it was mingled with mild concern. Was Martha starting to lose her grip?
They hugged briefly and Martha smiled. ‘Just as lovely as I’d hoped it would be. Quite rough crossing the heads, but that’s part of the experience, isn’t it? The harbour trips are so boring by comparison. And there were such interesting people on board. Just listening to all the different accents. A lot of tourists, I think.’
Again, Sam felt that little twinge of concern. Why is she trying so hard? It struck her that her mother seemed nervous. Was there more to this girls’ day out than Martha had implied? Was there bad news? A health issue? Not dementia, surely.
Sam took her mother’s arm and they walked past the Opera House and on towards the Queen Elizabeth gate to the Botanic Gardens. Martha spotted a bench and suggested they sit for a moment.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking about, suggesting a walk in the gardens. My knees aren’t up to it. Do you mind if we just sit here for a while? Maybe have lunch somewhere down here at sea level?’
‘Let’s go to the restaurant on the roof of the Customs House. We can take the lift. How’s that?’
‘Perfect. Thanks, Sam. I feel a bit feeble, though. I had such grand plans.’
They sat for some minutes in silence, surveying the Wednesday sailors competing on the harbour and the people strolling along the pathway where they were sitting. It was a sparkling day to be out. Sam’s anxiety eased a little. Perhaps Martha had simply wanted the nostalgic thrill of a ferry ride on such a day.
Eventually, Martha announced that she was hungry and they should head for the restaurant. Again, Sam took her arm and could feel Martha’s need of it.
Martha had wondered whether it might be best to raise the subject with Sam over lunch, so the ferry trip back to Manly could be a kind of denouement. But even though the tables at Cafe Sydney were well spaced, Martha felt it was not the place for such a private conversation.
Over lunch, Sam brought Martha up to date with the progress of her business, and sounded enthusiastic. Martha’s pride in her daughter had grown with the years. She hadn’t approved of some of her choices of boyfriend—none of them, actually—but, in all other ways, Sam had been a continuing source of wonderment to her mother. Martha was determined not to mention the sperm-donor question unless Sam raised it. The brief reference over the phone suggested there might be a pause. Or even some rethinking. Martha hoped so.
Sam paid the bill and they walked slowly back to the wharf to wait for the next ferry.
Martha still seemed tense, and Sam wondered again if there was bad news coming.
When the Narrabeen pulled into the wharf and they watched the passengers disembarking, Martha’s spirits seemed to rise, and Sam’s concern eased.
‘Upper or lower deck, Mum?’ she asked, when it was their turn to board the ferry.
‘I can’t do the stairs, Sam. But let’s sit outside.’
When they were settled, Martha said: ‘This ferry’s past its use-by date, you know. Bit like me.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Sam said. Perhaps retirement was the subject of whatever serious discussion was looming. She was now quite sure there was one.
Martha had always felt a particular sense of anticipation as the crew prepared the old Manly ferries for departure. A sense of adventure. Perhaps it was the impressive bulk of the vessels themselves. Perhaps it was knowing they would be crossing the heads. A taste of the open sea. A greater vulnerability to wild coastal weather than was the case for the inner-harbour ferries that never had to deal with more than a bit of chop or occasional fog.
Today was sunny with a stiff breeze, enough to keep the Wednesday yachties busy. Martha was hoping for the same kind of swell that had added some excitement to her morning journey.
The engine throbbed, the gangways clanked, ropes were whipped off bollards and the journey began. Initially held in check by the speed limit in Circular Quay, they rounded Bennelong Point and the soaring concrete sails of the Opera House, then gathered speed as they passed Fort Denison and headed into the main channel for the run to the heads.
Martha wondered when would be the best moment. She noticed Sam was dozing beside her, her head tipped forward.
As they passed Bradleys Head, Martha nudged Sam awake and said: ‘I have something to tell you. I don’t know whether you’ll think it’s good or bad. But I need to tell you anyway.’
Here it comes, thought Sam, conscious that she was a little fuzzy from her nap. She wasn’t getting as much sleep as usual. The nights were too exciting for sleep. She looked into her mother’s face for a clue but couldn’t find one.
Martha took her hand, which slightly alarmed Sam.
‘I’ve become a bit of a lame old duck, Sam. I know that about myself. Not in years, necessarily. But look at me. You wouldn’t think I was once … well, would you?’
‘Oh, Mum, what are you on about? You’re not even seventy. Don’t go all pathetic on me. Have your knees fixed. Lose a few kilos. Buy a new wardrobe. Get a spunky haircut. You’ll be back in business before you know it.’ Sam smiled tentatively at her mother, hoping this was just an uncharacteristic bout of self-pity. ‘I know you were young and gorgeous,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen the photos.’
There was a pause.
‘I don’t know about gorgeous,’ Martha said, glad of the opening, ‘but when I was young—much younger than you are now, Sam; mid-twenties … Well, this is what I wanted to tell you. Back then, when I was that age, I met a man—a man who loved me like I’d never been loved before.’ Martha had thought carefully about those words, and decided they were literally true.
‘Mid-twenties? You were already married to Dad?’
‘I was.’
‘Do I need to know this?’ Sam asked, now fully awake. Alert. Bolt upright in her seat. Checking no one else was within earshot. ‘Are you saying you were both unfaithful? Why the hell are you telling me this? Please don’t fill my head with extraneous information about your love-life.’
‘It’s just that your father …’
‘And don’t talk to me about Dad, either. I know your marriage was a sham. Obviously. Cairns is welcome to him and his little love nest. Change the subject.’
‘Just, well, see, I was loved in a way Simon could never love me.’ Another careful choice of words.
‘Okay, Mum. I get it. The love of your life was not the man you were married to. It happens. But you stuck to your marriage. Not sure why.’
‘Sam, to be more precise, this happened forty years ago. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Sam stared at Martha for a moment, then jumped out of her seat and ran up the stairs to the upper deck and found a spot at the very front, away from other passengers in the open area overlooking the bow, where she could stand with the wind streaming through her hair. They were starting to cross the heads now, and the strong swell was causing the ferry to pitch and roll, sending spray flying as the bow thudded into each trough. Sam wanted spray on her face. Wanted it to sting.
She was breathing heavily, almost panting. This was not like anything she had ever experienced. She wasn’t shocked, exactly. She was surprised, certainly, to learn this about her mother. But not shocked. One of her own lovers—the only one she had ever wanted to have children with—had been a married man. To learn that Simon, a person she had come to despise, was not her biological father, came as a … relief? No, not exactly. A very dramatic twirl of the kaleidoscope, though. A radical rearrangement of the facts of her life. Neither welcome nor unwelcome. Radical.
But why had her mother waited until now to tell her this? And, having waited so long, why tell her at all? It was as though she’d lived her life under a veil that her own mother had suddenly torn off. Oh, so this is who I am.
Part of her—a very small part—admired her mother for finding the courage to say the words, except she hadn’t really said them at all. It was more like, draw your own conclusions, Sam. Part of her wanted to hate her mother for those forty years of deception. Part of her wanted to wail. Part of her wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to pretend it wasn’t true.
All of her wanted to share this with Rob.
She was not who he thought she was. Not who she thought she was. Yet here she was. Herself, still. Unchanged. She had always been the daughter of an unknown father. Her mother had always been a woman disappointed in love. Nothing had changed. Except that now she knew. That had changed. That had changed everything, it suddenly seemed, while changing nothing. Paradox was one of Rob’s favourite words. He’ll love this one, she thought. She hoped.
Robin Nielsen. She said his name aloud. He seemed the only fixed point in her life at this moment. The only stable, unchanged, unchanging thing. The only solid thing. In the face of all this, Rob was still reliably, solidly Rob. Her father was not her father. Her mother was an adulterous deceiver … and … the mother who had borne her, raised her, loved her, supported her through everything she’d done. The good, the bad, the downright stupid.
Okay.
You’re forty, Sam said to herself. Not twenty. And he was a real live lover, after all. Not an anonymous sperm donor.
