the trauma of Sean’s birth, when they’d finally laid his perfect, downy head on her chest, she’d told herself she was done. One was enough. But like most modern women who thought themselves above the subservience of love, she hadn’t made any allowance for how powerful would be her need to please her husband. Ian was absolutely besotted with Sean. In that sentiment she’d agreed with her husband wholeheartedly, as they joined in showering their eldest with the adulation he deserved.
She’d given him the first name of Heinrich, after her own beloved father, but as was usual had become resigned to having her authority undermined as he came to be called Sean, his second “less stuffy” name. Regardless of what he was called, no child was as deserving of being spoiled and overwhelmed with love and gifts as their firstborn. Sean was as good and sweet-tempered in the flesh as he’d been in utero, which was not at all what she’d expected. Carina had looked on in quiet terror at the monstrous blue-veined stomachs, pimpled faces and oedemic legs of would-be mothers and the frightful carryings-on and tantrums of other people’s offspring in public. How had she, a seasoned paediatrician, not noticed these things before? What blinkers had shielded her eyes from the truth that these little balls of human, her primary clients, were hell-raisers? Without a second thought, she simply delivered the routine lines on child care that needed to be doled out to parents who needed more sleep or time to themselves. Until it was her turn, but she’d gotten lucky.
At least with Sean she’d gotten lucky. As her belly had swollen distastefully another three times, her attachment to her firstborn had grown disproportionately more intense. None of her children, Sean included, looked much like her. One of her girls even had the audacity to look like a reincarnation of one of Ian’s overbearing, bearded great-aunts. But Sean had had enough of her in him to satisfy, she reflected with a smile, something in the general way his features arranged themselves while he battled his emotions and fears. He’d got his strength and resolve from her, and combined with uncommon cheerfulness and maturity his personality served him well throughout the course of his illness.
Carina blinked against a hot welling of tears. Ironically, that very thing had driven her crazy. Throughout her medical career she’d seen many myths regarding both science and human nature debunked. The one about the glowing angelic child that soldiered on bravely through chronic illness, managing to uplift others despite the pain and hopelessness of their own situation, was in reality as rare as unicorns. Sick children were like sick adults: cranky, headstrong and downright impossible. Like all children, they picked up on the adult vibes around them and acted out, and the terminally ill ones had the most reason to do so.
Her Sean had been different, and she’d waited desperately for the moment when he would become pathetic with need and fear, allowing her to be the pillar of maternal strength she needed to be. Until the bitter end, he was more a comfort to his family than they’d been to him, more so because every single one of them had failed to step up and provide the genetic salvation they should have been equipped to provide. Hitting her lowest and most bitter stride, Carina mused that it was almost like Sean had been born to die nobly and show others how to do it. For heaven’s sake, even that bastard of Ian’s –
She shrieked in pain as the knife sliced through her finger once more, deeper than before. Blood spurted across the kitchen counter and arced over the vegetables. Hissing and swearing under her breath, she wrapped the nearest piece of cloth, which happened to be one of her favourite scarves, around the cut. On the tabletop her Samsung cellphone began to buzz and vibrate like an irritating electronic animal, lifting and clattering back against the marble in miniature convulsions. With one hand she picked it up, pressed a button and balanced it against an ear with a shoulder.
* * *
In the front garden, Serena Fourie looked through the kitchen window and watched her mother on a call. A cascade of blonde hair shrouded the cellphone, and both hands were busy with something unseen. Serena didn’t need to be within earshot to know who was calling and what the call was about. It was almost the middle of the day, and her mother, the workaholic, was at home. She watched her posture change almost immediately; her fine-boned, slender frame, which none of them had inherited, stiffened and her face reddened as her head snapped up, nearly causing her to drop the phone. She uttered what looked like sharp words into it and turned her back to the window.
“Boo.” Serena jumped as two fingers poked her in the sides.
“Cut it out,” she said to her sister, without turning around. Her voice came sharper than intended, but she couldn’t help it. Every word and every movement would be as barbed and dangerous today as it had been for over a month. By the look of things, the two likeliest contenders for an unnecessary brawl were already squaring off. They’d held off longer than last year, not bashing antlers until the actual day. She wondered if that was good or bad.
“That means you’re jealous, if you jump when people poke you,” Rosie giggled, unperturbed, as she put her arms around her from the back. “Or having sex.”
Rosie leaned into her neck, and Serena caught the smell of something sweet with peanuts in it on her breath as she said the illicit words. Quietly they both watched their mother, breathing almost in unison. In the kitchen, Carina angrily cut the call and tossed the phone away from her, then began pointlessly shifting items around on the counter.
“What’s she doing?”
“Making stew for supper.” It was eleven-thirty in the morning.
“Was that Dad?” Rosie whispered.
Serena nodded.
Another pause. Then: “What’s the date today?”
Sighing, Serena disentangled herself and spun around. The exasperated look she shot said, You know what day it is today. The day Sean had begun what would prove to be the final bout of treatment for leukaemia. They all knew, had been raised to know and remember every landmark of their brother’s short life.
Rosie looked blank for a few seconds, and then the look that dawned on her said, Oh. Serena shook her head. Trust Rosie.
“I won’t be here for it, though. Supper, I mean.” Serena hefted a gym bag of clean laundry. “Got cell group tonight. Going back to campus.”
“Lemme come with you.”
The sound of a car pulling up interrupted them. It parked outside the gate, and a young man rose tentatively out of the driver’s seat and craned his neck over the gate. His hopeful eyes met those of his sisters. Serena sadly shook her head in response, and Lucas slumped back behind the wheel and drove off. She walked through the gate to her own car, fighting the urge to look back at Rosie standing lonely on the lawn, biting her nails and looking lost.
Chapter Three
Vee hung her legs out of the Toyota Corolla and polished off a Top Red apple. As lunches went, fatty steak rolls and unwashed fruit weren’t the best she could do, but it worked on the move.
“On the move” sounded great, considering how stagnant her career had become. The shocking part was she hadn’t really cared. Her recent blackouts told of a subconscious dissatisfaction, but her subconscious wasn’t really her problem if it didn’t speak up. True, making its presence felt by sending her into rapturous torture with no provocation at the oddest times was not ideal, but that simply meant there’d have to be some new ground rules.
Reminded of one, Vee popped a foil tab of Cipralex and swallowed the pill. Since the plan of keeping specialist appointments was canned – “psychiatrist” sounded so wrong and “therapist” far worse – it came down to medication for a so-called anxiety disorder. It was either a professional
