Free Too Close to Home by Georgia Blain Page B

for a moment. And then a mosquito whines near his ear.
    â€˜I don’t know how to say this.’
    She moves away, turning on her side so that he can see the dark shape of her, an outline of her smooth cheek and the softness of her eyes. He turns on his back, staring at the ceiling. He cannot look at her as he speaks.
    â€˜I think I have a child.’
    For a moment, he wonders whether he is just completely out of it and engaging in some absurdist joke. Of course you have a child, she will respond. Her name is Ella and she is lying asleep in the next room. Really? he will answer. And who am I? You are Matt and I am Freya, and this is your beautiful house, this is your beautiful wife.
    â€˜There was someone,’ he continues and he shifts slightly, reaching for her, wanting to draw her close. ‘In Brisbane, in the house with Shane.’
    She does not speak.
    â€˜Her name is Lisa. I might have mentioned her before.’
    Freya remains silent.
    â€˜It wasn’t a big deal. We just slept together a couple of times.’
    They had told each other about the others; the women he had sex with when he went north, the men she was with while she was overseas. There had been no promise of fidelity in all those months.
    â€˜I left. We didn’t stay in touch.’
    His body is too hot, and Freya moves away.
    â€˜Don’t,’ he says, trying to pull her back to him.
    â€˜You’re too warm,’ she complains, and he hears the catch in her voice, like the snag of a zipper on nylon.
    â€˜Shane told me tonight. She has a kid. A boy. He’s about seventeen.’
    He wonders whether she, too, is trying to count back the years. He had initially been unable. They are all a jumble, a mess of time, impossible to lay out neatly. ‘I asked him who the father was.’
    â€˜What did he say?’
    â€˜I don’t know. It’s kind of hard sometimes to get a straight answer. He was evasive, I suppose.’
    Matt sits up now and lifts the edge of the curtain; he is staring out into the darkness of the street.
    â€˜It fits,’ he finally says. ‘The time. But I don’t know. Maybe there was someone else.’ He lies back down, drawing the sheet over his body.
    â€˜What should I do?’ he asks her.
    She doesn’t respond.
    â€˜Should I get in touch with her?’
    She is sitting up, knees drawn to her chest, arms clasped around her legs. ‘You’re asking me?’ she eventually says and her voice is angry. ‘It’s late, you’re out of it, you’ve just hit me with this, and you’re asking me?’
    He sits up too and puts his arm around her. She doesn’t relax.
    â€˜What do you expect?’ she says. She shakes her head. ‘You can come home whenever, dump this on me, and – I don’t know – I’ll be excited?’
    â€˜Well, it doesn’t have to be something you’re angry about.’
    She shifts slightly, letting herself breathe again. ‘You’re completely ripped. You couldn’t even sort out the days of last week, let alone the last seventeen years.’
    He rests his head on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells her. ‘You’re right. We should try to sleep. We can talk about this in the morning.’
    There is a small space between them and they lie, side by side, aware of this, both wanting to cross it, neither of them able, until Matt reaches out for her.
    â€˜I love you,’ he says, and he means it.
    â€˜I know,’ she tells him, and she, too, seems to be speaking the truth.
    But, in the oppressiveness of the heat, neither of them sleep. They turn and they toss, slipping in and out of dreams that float too near the surface of consciousness for comfort.

 
    THE NEXT MORNING THERE is no chance to talk.
    They are woken before seven by the short, sharp sounds of small fists knocking on the front door. Freya sits bolt upright, startled from a sleep that had