“Why?” Olivia asked sleepily.
“Because they’re very good at it.”
“No more dad jokes!” Olivia pleaded.
“I thought it was funny,” Heather whispered.
Tom chuckled, took Heather’s hand, and kissed it.
“But I wouldn’t quit doctoring to go into stand-up,” Heather added.
“Look at you, crushing my dreams,” Tom said, slapping his hand to his forehead.
“Are you enjoying Australia, Heather?” Jenny asked.
“It’s my first time ever outside of America! So, yes, it’s all very exciting,” Heather replied.
“Jet lag over?”
“Nearly, I think. We had two days in Sydney and two days in Uluru. So it’s a little easier each morning.”
“And what is it you do?” Jenny asked.
“I’m a massage therapist,” Heather said. “I mostly look after the kids now, but I still have a couple of ornery clients who refuse to go to anyone else.”
“Me mate Kath is a physiotherapist,” Jenny said. “Kath’s a riot. The stories she has. Strict, she is. Makes the old folks do their exercises. Kath says the difference between a physiotherapist and a terrorist is that you might have a chance of negotiating with a terrorist.”
“I’m not quite a licensed physical therapist just yet,” Heather said, although she knew Tom hated it when she mentioned that.
“Well, here’s the bay,” Jenny continued. “We’re right on it. Weather will be perfect for the beach. You like the beach, eh, kids?”
Neither of the kids said anything. They turned down a quiet suburban road called Wordsworth Street and stopped at a large rectangular modernist house.
“There’s a pool—you and the kids can swim while I work,” Tom said with a big grin. He was very handsome when he smiled, Heather reflected. It made him look younger. Actually, he looked terrific for his age. Late thirties, you would have said, though he was forty-four. There was almost no gray in his hair, and his diet kept him lean. His hair was longer now than he normally let it grow and this morning it fell across his forehead like the wing of a young crow. According to the lengthy profile in the article on “Seattle’s Best Doctors,” his eyes were a “severe, chilly azure.” But not to her. To her they were intelligent, playful blue eyes. Loving.
Jenny helped them carry their bags to the porch. “Anyone need the toilet? Fab toilets in here. Heather? Looks like you gambled a little on a fart and lost, no?”
“Er, I’m fine.”
“Great house. Nothing but the best for one of our keynote speakers. Guy who owns it is a wanker, but his place is a beaut.”
They went inside a large open-plan living room furnished with leather sofas and cushions and expensive-looking rugs.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Jenny said. “All with sea views.”
“I have to do the meet and greet,” Tom told Heather. “But I’ll be back tonight. You just relax and have fun.”
Heather kissed Tom on the cheek and wished him luck. “Take care, honey,” she added, sitting down.
Jenny smiled. “I’ll look after him. It’s my job. Any questions?”
“Um, what’s a wanker?” Heather asked.
“A compulsive masturbator,” Jenny replied.
Heather sprang up from the sofa.
“It’s not meant literally, sweetie,” Tom said. “It’s merely an expression.”
And then, just like that, the rep and Tom were gone.
“Damn, look what Cardi B just posted!” Olivia said, showing Owen her phone.
“Oh my God. Why does she even bother? She’s just a Walmart Nicki,” Owen said.
Olivia laughed. “That thing about Drake? Drake wouldn’t work with her.”
“Are you guys talking about Drake…the rapper?” Heather attempted.
“Seriously, Heather. Don’t even,” Olivia said. “You don’t know what we’re talking about.”
Owen was going to pile on but another big yawn took him and then Olivia yawned too. Heather got them upstairs and ushered them each into a bedroom, which, mercifully, they did not fight over.
She picked out a room for herself and Tom. It overlooked the street and the lighthouse and was decorated in a kind of Aztec style. When she checked to see if the kids wanted anything to eat, she found both of them dozing on top of their beds.
Heather took off Owen’s shoes and tucked him under the duvet. She did the same with Olivia and pulled the curtains closed and went back to the master bedroom. The conference organizers had provided them with what was presumably an expensive bottle of red wine. She opened it and poured herself a glass, kicked off her slip-ons, and stripped out of her T-shirt and jeans. She put on a robe and was about to slip into a shower when she noticed the door that led outside to a small but perfectly serviceable rooftop swimming pool.
Her bikini was packed away in one of the suitcases, but the rooftop was protected by a privacy wall. Heather carried the wineglass to the pool’s edge, slipped out of the robe, and dropped into the cold blue water. She allowed herself to sink to the bottom of the pool and let the driving and the dust and her aches and pains ease slowly away.
This had all been so much more stressful than she’d been expecting, the kids 24/7 with no school or friends to play with. She opened her eyes and looked at the big indigo Australian sky through the lens of pool water. So like a Puget Sound sky but so strangely alien too.
She’d been holding her breath for thirty seconds.
She had known this was going to be a tough trip but she hadn’t realized quite how tough. These past five days she’d barely had a moment to herself.
Children were fishing lines entangling you in their cruelties and wants and sticky fingers and dramas and disappointments. The mommy industrial complex made you think it was all going to be hugs and campfires and peewee soccer practices, and that was all bullshit.
She burst to the top of the water at thirty-five seconds. She gasped for air and found that she was on the verge of tears. She fought it and the tears went away. She shook her head and climbed out of the water.
Back inside, she went through the wrong door and found herself in a massive closet that was empty but for hundreds of coat hangers. The closet had a huge mirror at its rear. Heather hadn’t seen a mirror in a few days. It sucked her in. Her mother, the painter, claimed that sadness always leaked through the eyes. Heather’s green eyes looked more tired than sad. Her face had picked up a tan and her hair had bleached a little in the sun. She’d lost weight, which was not a good thing because it was all muscle mass. She hadn’t been doing her exercises or yoga. She looked frail, like one of those Manson chicks, and when Tom told people she’d grown up on a sort of commune you could tell that they were thinking NXIVM sex cult or worse. Of course it was nothing like that.
She grabbed her phone, sat cross-legged on the floor, and dialed a number.
“Hello?” a female voice said.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Whoa, girlfriend! I was wondering if I was ever going to hear from you again. Pretty sure the hitchhiker killers or the spiders were going to get you.”
“Not yet. What time is it there, Carolyn?”