Danika
Danika goes through the motions. Takes Cami to soccer, agrees to get her new boots as her old ones are getting tight, says she’s sure Cami will score, because she’s so fast and has a hell of a right foot to put the boot in. Yes, Gran will be there today, so Cami can play her best for Gran. But even as she’s saying all the right things, the deeper part of her mind is screaming.
If only they’d left earlier for soccer this morning.
If only Cami had found her bloody boots sooner, then when Kim knocked there’d have been no answer.
If only Danika had said sorry, they had to leave and closed the door.
If only she’d slammed the door before Kim had said what she’d driven across the city to say. The address on her licence was St Kilda—a trendy bayside suburb about forty-five minutes away.
If only.
If only.
She sits on one side of the stand pretending to be engrossed in her phone, her bag taking up space next to her. Usually, she sits with the other mums, and they chat together with one eye on the game. But this time, she doesn’t want to talk to anyone. It’sas if she’s in a cone of static, alien radio waves scrambling her thoughts and frying her mind.
Danika stares out at the pitch where small kids run in seemingly random patterns, occasionally kicking the ball. She spots Cami jigging up and down, then sprinting for the ball. She gets it, shoots, and scores.
Lucky she was paying attention during that part. Danika jumps up, waves her arms, and cheers so Cami will see her when she looks to see if she’s watching. Then she sits again and dives back into her thoughts.
Fact: Kim believes what she told Danika.
Fact: Kim is wrong.
So that makes Kim a liar, or delusional, or a scammer. Or all three. Danika is no psychologist, but, to her, Kim obviously believes what she said. Either that, or she’s a damn fine actor. And what scammer shows a driver licence? Unless it’s fake.
She racks her brain trying to remember the last name on the licence, but all she can remember is that it began with V. Victor? Vickers? Vasquez? Already those details are grey and hazy.
But what she can’t forget is Kim’s claim that Chris was…not her boyfriend, not someone she had an affair with, but her de factopartner. They were together for nineyears. And they have a daughter together, who is five months older than Cami.
That knowledge thunders in her mind. If it’s true, then much of the time she and Chris were trying to conceive a child, he had already impregnated someone else. She closes her eyes as the hurt burns and the ache starts anew in her chest. And what were the circumstances? How long had Chris been with Kim when that happened? The answer drops into her mind: Almost six months, give or take. At least, that’s what Kim said.
That’s simply not possible. She was married to Chris for twelve years and dated him for eleven months before that. Noone could carry on an affair—a relationship—for nine years. It beggars belief. There would have been clues. She’d have known.
Danika’s mind circles back to Kim. She’d been almost apologetic as she told Danika what would surely break her. Sorry, as if she wished she didn’t have to do this.
Danika presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. This is incomprehensible, something she just can’t get her head around—like quantum theory, butthatshe can shrug, close the book, and walk away. She’s not surethiswill ever leave her.
“Dani, what are you doing by yourself?” Her mother sidles along the gap between the benches, picks up Danika’s bag and plops into the space next to her. “I was going to leave when I couldn’t find you, but then I saw Cami on the pitch. She just scored.”
“Sorry, Mum.” Danika leans across to kiss Shirley’s smooth cheek. “I just wanted some quiet time.”
Her mum looks at her watch. “I’m not here for long, but I’ve got an hour between inspections. If these games were on any other day but Saturday, it would be easier. Saturdays are?—”
“A real estate agent’s busiest day,” Danika finishes. “I know, Mum.” She squeezes her mum’s arm in apology for her snippy tone.
Her mum looks at her, a frown between her perfectly sculpted brows. “Are you okay? You look on edge. Is Cami all right?”
Danika hesitates. The warmth and caring in her mum’s voice bring a thickness to her throat, as if she might cry. For a second, she thinks of telling her about Kim’s visit. Her mum would be outraged, dismiss Kim as a crackpot or a fraudster, and tell Danika there is no way Kim is right. She’d sympathise, empathise, hold Danika—again—while she cried—again—and tell her to put Kim out of her mind. Danika opens her mouth to tell her, but closes it again. What can she say that makessense? There’s nothing. And she already heard her mum’s likely response in her mind, so what’s the point?
“I’m fine,” she says instead. “Didn’t sleep too well.”
Her mother’s face softens, and she wraps an arm around Danika’s shoulders and pulls her close. “I wish you’d see your GP about this. Or at least a naturopath. There are sleeping pills, herbal teas, supplements that might help.”
“I know. I will. Soon.”
Her mum opens her mouth again, no doubt to suggest relaxation massage—as if Danika has time for that—but there’s shouting from the pitch and apparently the other team has scored. When her mum picks up the conversation again, it’s a funny story about one of her clients who refuses to leave her house when it’s open for inspection and follows people around pointing out the water feature, the Italian marble tiles in the bathroom, and the children’s treehouse. “The tiles aren’t Italian or even marble—they’re from Bunnings.” Her mum snorts.
