Page 33 of The Therapist
‘The part where the children run away,’ says Felix and then he is quiet. He taps his finger on the book. ‘Did Mum run away?’ he asks.
‘No, no, mate, she didn’t,’ Mike replies firmly.
Maybe Felix is right. Maybe Sandy did run away. He hasn’t checked their closets. He’ll do that next, when the kids are asleep.
After two requests for water and one more story for Lila, it’s after 9 p.m. but the house is finally silent and Mike is exhausted. He has to drop the kids at school early tomorrow morning so he can get to work on time and it takes them ages to get ready. He’s forgotten to pack lunches and do whatever else needs to be done. The laundry pile seems to have grown in the few hours they’ve been home and the house is a mess but he doesn’t have the energy for any of it.
The temptation to stay home from work tomorrow is overwhelming but Mike needs his last pay cheque. Everyone does. And it feels like that may not come to him if he’s not there.
In their bedroom, he goes to Sandy’s closet and pushes aside her clothes, trying to figure out if stuff is missing, but it’s still jammed full. He has no real idea if she has taken anything or not. He feels a surge of fury when he comes across a black jumpsuit with the price tag still on: four hundred dollars. No wonder he always feels like he can’t get ahead. He’s talked to her more than once about her spending habits but it seems to make no difference to her at all.
Exhaustion creeps up from his toes. He needs to shower and sleep.
He stands in the shower for a long time, trying to work out a way forward. Until Sandy returns, he can do nothing. Will she return? Does he want her to come back? Despite how hard it is to deal with the kids, the house is, at least, peaceful without her here.
When he’s in bed he switches off the light and stares into the dark until he understands that sleep is far away. He’s too wired.
He climbs out of bed and lifts the mattress, taking the phone out from underneath, the phone he found there this afternoon when he walked into the bedroom, calling his wife. It was charging so it has a full battery.
As he found it, the doorbell rang and Lana was there so he didn’t have time to look at it properly. All he could do was turn it to silent to make sure it couldn’t be heard. But he studies it now. There are lots of missed calls listed on the screen, from him, from the therapist, from the school, from Sandy’s friend Emma. He tries a few lock patterns, knowing that he will probably never guess what Sandy has used, but he keeps going until the phone locks him out of trying again, so he throws it back under the mattress and gets back into bed.
If the therapist tells the police, the first thing they will do is trace Sandy’s phone. How long does that take to do? Why did she leave it? She’s glued to the thing all day long. Should he have taken it to the police or given it to the therapist? No way.
‘Has Mum run away?’ his son asked him and what Mike is hoping is that she realises that she shouldn’t have left, that her conscience pricks at her and she comes home and then he’ll tell her they need to get divorced because he’s not staying in this marriage for one moment longer, but in order to start the process of divorce, his wife needs to turn up.
And she will turn up if she has chosen to leave, if she hasn’t been forced to go, but by who? And if she’s not hurt, but also, by who? And if she wants to come back.
That’s a lot of ifs, Mike,he tells himself.A lot of ifs.
FOURTEEN
TUESDAY
Lana
I wake with an already pounding headache after a restless night filled with horrific dreams of Sandy’s body, bloodied and bruised, floating in a dam somewhere.
Was that blood I saw on the wall? Why was the screenshot of Sandy asking him to let her go on Mike’s phone, and were the pictures of him hurt real? More or less real than Sandy’s black eye?
Grabbing my phone, I check to see if, somehow, Sandy has messaged me but there’s nothing from her.
‘I don’t want Vegemite sandwiches for school,’ Iggy shouts from his bedroom.
‘What do you want?’ I call back, wincing as the headache intensifies.
‘Cheese and jam. I’m getting my breakfast now.’
I hear him jumping down the steps one at a time to the first floor of our small terrace house and then the clatter of dishes as he gets himself a bowl of cereal.
Sandy’s son is the same age Iggy is, and I can’t help touching my chest over my heart as I think about a little boy who hasno idea where his mother is. Children rely on their parents, especially their primary carers, to make the world a safe place filled with routine and predictability. Sandy was the one who took care of the children, staying home and dedicating her time to them. Her parents live hours away and I know that she has mentioned that Mike doesn’t speak to his family much at all. It’s such a mess.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I opt for a long hot shower to shake off the terrible night. I run late as a consequence and then have to hustle Iggy out of the house with a piece of toast in my mouth.
Iggy’s chatter along the way to school keeps me distracted until I’ve dropped him off and he’s waving enthusiastically from the gate. And then I am alone with my thoughts.
There’s no question about what I’m going to do. I keep letting the thoughts go around in my head but, ultimately, I think I’ve already made a decision.
I drive to the nearest police station and park. Before I go inside, I call Sandy’s mobile again, hoping that she will pick up and ask me what I want. But as I have done since yesterday morning, I only get her voicemail. I could call Mike and ask if she’s home, if she’s returned, but I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to have to speak to him again. I don’t have his number in my phone anyway, although it is on Sandy’s records at the clinic.
