Mother Undone — Part One
A Psychological Thriller That Explores the Dark Side of Motherhood
PROLOGUE
I’ve never seen a real, live death by arsenic poisoning. I’ve read about it though.
Do you remember the death scene in Madame Bovary? When Emma gobbles down a handful of arsenic and dies an excruciating, drawn-out death watched by her stricken husband?
Poor Emma. But I knew she was a dead woman running by page ten. By the way, I always meant to ask: did you really love Madam Bovary as much as you claimed, or were you just mirroring me, like the horrid, conniving little narcissist you were — oops, slip of the finger… are?
I’m assuming you’re still alive. You know, it can take anything from a few hours to four days to die from acute arsenic poisoning. Four days. Four days of unbearable nausea and agonising stomach pains. Four days of incessant vomiting and continuous diarrhoea. Four days of unquenchable thirst and violent convulsions followed by acute respiratory failure and cardiac arrest.
Pity I’m not there to witness your last, tortured breath. Then again, I’m squeamish about suppurating body fluids and my ears are enormously sensitive to high-pitched screams so, unlike Emma Bovary, you’ll be on your own when you finally expire.
My flight’s been delayed for six hours so I’m tapping out this email in the airport lounge. I’m flying to Cambodia. Not sure what I’ll do when I get there. Some volunteer work maybe. Ironic, I know, after everything I’ve done. But selfless acts are good for the soul… or so I’m told.
Just like vengeance is supposed to be bad for it. Funny, I’d never thought of myself as a vengeful person but, since meeting you, I’ve discovered a whole, new me.
I’ve also learned that revenge turns us into savages. It makes normal people do abnormal things.
By the way: I lied to you earlier. Twice.
Did you really think I’d forgiven you after everything that happened? And how could you believe I wanted to finish writing our book with you? It was my baby. I knew from the start it was gold. I can already see the glowing reviews when I get it published: “An Abnormal Woman is an historical thriller with a psychological twist… Gone Girl meets Madame Bovary meets Alias Grace… a triumph… a must-read!”
That’s why I took the journals before I left you to die.
I was in such a hurry, I grabbed them all, not realising your personal diary was amongst them. I thumbed through it on the way to the airport. It came as quite a shock seeing your innermost thoughts exposed in all their glory. It just goes to prove we never really know what’s going on inside another person’s head, do we?
You’ll probably never get to read this but, just for fun, I left your laptop open on the kitchen table and turned up the volume on your email alerts so, if you’re still conscious, you’ll be able to read it.
Farewell, adieu and all that… Friend.
See you in Hell.
***************************************************************************
ONE
Before
Truth be told, I’m a bit afraid of her. Kate, I mean.
No, that sounds bad. Kate’s warm, vivacious, bright… beautiful. I’m lucky to have her. Good friends are hard to make after your twenties. Post thirty-five, your destiny’s already been cast; the hopes, dreams and expectations of youth have either faded or been abandoned. It’s nice to have a second chance at something.
I met Kate at a therapy group. A Survivors’ therapy group, to be exact. “I think you might benefit from joining a support group,” the hospital therapist had said. “It’s a safe, non-judgmental group where members can talk about their feelings.”
At the time, I’d said nothing, staring instead at my hands folded in my lap. What possible benefit could there be raking over the past with a bunch of strangers? All I wanted to do was wipe it clean and start again.
He’d persisted. “Johanna… listening to others tell their stories puts your own into perspective. They might show you a fresh way of looking at things. At the very least, you’ll realise you’re not alone in how you feel.”
He was wrong though. I was alone. Sure, I’d read about other women who had been through a similar situation to mine. But they were different. They were innocent. They didn’t have Guilt with a capital G burrowing under their skin like a jigger flea and eating them alive.
Despite that — or maybe because of it — when I arrived in Melbourne, I made a few telephone calls and requested the group send me some information.
That’s how I found myself on the seventh floor of an ugly beige-brick, nineteen-seventies building in the middle of the CBD. An A3 photocopied notice Survivors 4 Life taped to the glass door assured me I was in the right place so I pushed it open. The room smelt musty and stale and the carpet, one of those brown nylon jobs that never wore out, was sticky under my feet. About twelve people sat behind desks arranged in a U-shape in the middle of the room. An urn bubbled and hissed in the corner on a table already strewn with empty paper cups, wooden stirrers and limp teabags.
Kate sat at the back of the room, legs outstretched, her hands crossed behind her head, an exotic beauty with coffee-coloured skin and shiny black hair. I hurried towards the empty seat beside her. She stared at me with the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen: round as a Japanese kewpie doll’s, golden, flecked with brown and green and surrounded by long, spiky black eyelashes. “You’re new,” she said, sounding surprised.
“I know. I missed the first two sessions.” I pulled out the moulded red plastic chair and sat down. “I’m Johanna.”
“Kate. Kate Lovering.” She returned my smile then looked away and tapped the desk with long fingernails painted black. “Why can’t they start these bloody sessions on time?” she demanded. “It was supposed to start five minutes ago! Jesus, if it was up to me, I’d be handing out demerit points to latecomers.”
“I’m a couple of minutes late. Do I get one?”
She gave a short bark of laughter. “Not this time.”
“You’re not enjoying the sessions then?”
Kate sighed. “They’re all right. Ros — the counsellor — she’s nice… even when she repeats herself all the time. But the rest of them? They drive me bloody mad… especially Wilma sitting over there.” Kate rolled her incredible eyes and nodded towards a plump, middle-aged woman with glasses sitting across the room writing feverishly in a journal.
A tall woman with wispy blonde hair, glasses and thin red lips stood and cleared her throat. “Who are you?” she asked loudly.
“Here we go,” Kate muttered under her breath.
“Survivors,” everybody chanted in unison.
“That’s right,” the woman continued. “You’re survivors. And remember: you’re not criminals.” Fractured clapping erupted then ceased.
“I just wish she’d give it to us straight,” Kate said from the side of her mouth. “You’re all a bunch of losers. There’s nothing more I can do for you, so fuck off and try not to get hit by a car on the way home.”
“So, who would like to start today?” asked Ros. Wilma’s hand shot up.
“Oh Christ… hand me a knife so I can slit my wrists,” Kate groaned, pouring herself a glass of water and banging the jug back on the desk. The counsellor threw her a look and frowned.
I’ve always envied people like Kate: people who say what they think, take what they want and believe it’s their God-given right. I’m the sort who fumes when somebody takes too long at the automatic teller machine or pushes in front of me in a queue, but I never say anything. I harbour grudges and obsess over insults — real and imagined — but disguise my rage with a smile.
Was that why I made an unconscious bee-line for Kate that day? I gave the hapless Wilma what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
By the end of the session, I’d made my decision. Even Kate wasn’t enough to make me stay. Under the pretext of making myself a coffee, I slipped from my seat, determined to make a quick, quiet exit.
“Johanna? You’re not leaving, are you?”
I turned. Kate made her way towards me, a look of concern on her perfect face. “Sorry about my carry-on back there. Tongue before brain. My ex is always telling me to think before I open my mouth.” She pointed to the plastic cup in my hand. “That’s such shit coffee, I can’t let you drink it. What say we cut out and get a decent one at Ginger’s down the road?”
Ginger’s was the place to be for hip coffee drinkers: all cement, stainless steel, exposed brick and skinny young men and women wearing black. I lagged behind as Kate sailed through the door into a fug of roasted coffee beans and steamed milk, greeting the young, bearded barista by his first name.
A bored waitress took our order. Kate stared at me with sparkling black eyes. “So, Ms Johanna. How long have you lived in Melbourne?” She sipped her long black and beamed at me.
“I moved here about five months ago. You?”
“Me too!” She raised her palm and I responded with a feeble high-five. “My husband threw me out and I tried to top myself, so I thought I’d leave town and start again somewhere new.”
Was that the moment our friendship began? When I thought I’d met a fellow pilgrim in search of refuge? “I’m sorry… that must have been painful,” I said.
“It was… at the time. That’s why I took the pills. But I’ve since realised I didn’t want to kill myself. I just wanted to give Ramon the shock of his life so he’d feel guilty and come back to me.”
“Why did he leave?”
Kate sipped her coffee. “I cheated on him.”
My coffee suddenly tasted bitter. Kate’s careless cruelty, her indifference to the feelings of others… what was I doing here with someone like her? I’d failed to heed the red flags in my marriage and look where it landed me. But the chained-up, inhibited part of me was intrigued… even attracted. At least Kate was honest. Too many people hid their truth and paid the price later.
“You’re shocked.”
I shrugged. “None of my business.”
“Ramon’s older than me,” Kate explained, holding up one hand to examine her fingernails. She smiled, evidently satisfied, then crossed her arms. “We met at university. He was my psychology tutor. We had a flaming affair. He was married at the time.”
Why was I surprised?
She must have read my mind. “They weren’t happy,” Kate insisted. “Ramon wanted children and his wife couldn’t have them. They were about to separate when we met. I guess I was the catalyst. Anyway, we moved in together and got married about a year later. At first it was great but then Ramon started getting possessive and kept asking when I wanted to have children. I was only twenty-six, for God’s sake. Having kids was the last thing I wanted to do. He kept on and on at me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I never wanted them at all.”
I stared at Kate, hating her and admiring her at the same time. What if I’d followed my instincts? How different my life would have been!
“Johanna? You look pained. Have you got a problem with the fact I don’t want children?”
“Not at all. I’m envious, I guess. Not many people can stand up to the kind of pressure put on women once they reach a certain age. Everybody always assumes the reason a woman gets married is to have kids. And, if they don’t — ”
“People think there’s something wrong with them… like they’re abnormal,” Kate finished, shaking her head and giving a short laugh. “I’m very familiar with that one.”
Over a second cup of coffee, we talked about safer things. I told Kate about my early career as a journalist. Kate told me she was once employed as an English and History Senior at a well-known private girls’ school but, following her separation and move to Melbourne, was forced to take temporary work at the local high school.
“I hate being a teacher,” she confided. “If I’m not pandering to entitled, indulged little princesses, I’m donning combat gear and risking life and limb in a public school. And the end result is always the same: Zero. However much I delude myself I’m making a difference, I know, deep down, I have no impact whatsoever on their lives. I can’t imagine why I ever thought I’d enjoy teaching.”
“Why do you stay in it then?”
Kate grimaced. “Laziness probably. It pays quite well and sometimes I get a kick out of having a bunch of adolescents hanging on to my every word. It doesn’t happen often but, when it does, it feels good.”
“What would you like to do?”
“That’s easy. I want to be a writer. Whenever anybody asks me what I do, I tell them I’m an author…it’s not a lie. I write whenever I can.”
“Have you had anything published?”
“A few short stories in some anthologies… I thought that was the beginning… that I was one step away from getting an actual novel published… but it’s been so damn hard! I’ve sent manuscripts to hundreds of agents and I always get the same response: Thanks, but no thank you very much.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I’ve heard it’s tough… it’s also hard to make a decent living, even if you win a major literary prize. I know because a couple of my colleagues tried it.”
Kate stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Johanna… you’re a journalist. You know writing. Can you take a look at one of my drafts? Maybe you’ll be able to tell what’s holding me back.”
“I don’t know Kate. Journalism’s a lot different from writing fiction.”
“I promise, after you’ve read it, I’ll never bother you again.” Kate gazed at me earnestly. “Just tell me if it’s worth pursuing… please?”
How had I got myself into this? But how could I say No? Besides, I was flattered a relative stranger valued my opinion enough to ask. I smiled. “Okay then. Send me one of your drafts and I’ll take a look.”
“Thank you! I’ll pick out my best one.” Kate looked out the window like she was weighing up what to say next. “Look… Johanna… I don’t know you… but you obviously came to that sad little group back there for a reason. If you ever need somebody to talk to… about anything, please call.” She scribbled her number onto a white napkin.
“Thanks Kate but I’m not sure if I’m ready — ”
Kate folded the napkin into a tight wedge and pressed it into my hand. “Take it,” she urged. “You look like you need a friend… and I’m here if you do.”
To be continued…
Find all episodes here:
