This is where she feels calm: pouring a cup of water over Winnie's hair, holding her head back in her hand to avoid getting soap in her daughter's eyes. The smell of the coconut shampoo has permeated the bathroom. In these moments, she resents Robert's presence in her life, not just now, but ever. Life is simple, just her and Winnie.
Water sloshes against the side of the tub as she lifts her out and helps her into her pajamas. She brushes Winnie's hair, straight and slick.
"You want braids?"
"Yes."
"Hold still, then."
It's the one "mother" thing in which Bowen is confident of her abilities. She parts Winnie's hair straight down the centre, and deftly forms two perfect braids.
"All done." she kisses the top of her head. "D'you want to read tonight Win?"
"Yes!"
"All right, Mummy's gonna take a shower then we can read. Go choose a book."
She's mad at Robert, and she takes the anger out on her scalp, scrubbing her hair until it almost hurts. There's no particular reason she's mad, she doesn't really even have a reason to be mad. It's completely unfounded, she tells herself. She told him she didn't want him to feel pressured to be involved with Winnie, but now she's not quite sure if he meant it. After the first couple of days it's almost as if he avoided the kid: didn't look at her, only came over once she was in bed. It made her want to punch him.
But instead she turns off the shower and climbs out, drying her hair with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. It's gotten darker since June, as soon as she began living with her aunt and not on the beach. Her tan lines have started to fade as well: she's forgotten how pale olive toned her skin actually is. Her hair isn't nice like Winnie's either, but wild, somewhere between mane and cloud, that's part of the reason it stays in braids all the time.
"You ready Win?"
The girl nods earnestly, hopping onto the bed Bowen's already folded out. They climb in, cuddling together. Winnie rests her head on her mum's shoulder, looking at the pictures as she opens the book.
"Once upon a time," Bowen read, her voice soft. "there was a funny dog named Crispin's Crispian. He was named Crispin's Crispian because-" she flipped the page, smiling down at the head on her shoulder. A damp spot was spreading out on the shirt, left by Winnie's hair. "- he belonged to himself."
By the time she's finished the second story, Winnie is fast asleep, small mouth fallen open. Bowen stares at her through half-closed eyes, sleepy smile on her face.
Threads of anxiety start forming in her stomach, she can feel them, twining their way up, pushing through her veins. They twine around her heart, forcing it into a faster rhythm. She tries to breathe steadily, but there's nothing stopping the feeling.
It's like not being able to breathe. She stares down at the stick in her hand, willing it to be wrong. After a moment, her heart restarts, and she tries to combat the rising anxiety.
"Holy mother-fucking shit cunt fuck shit bastard-" she tosses the pregnancy test into the bin with two others and stands, walking out into the living room. "-Christ-almighty, buggering, ass-sucking-"
After two years together the living room is littered with them both. Pictures in frames on the shelf - Robert and Wally at the beach, in Cape Town for one of her competitions, camping in the outback -, her board leaning by the front door, his forgotten stethoscope laying on the coffee table.
"-cock-sucking fuck twat bloody-"
She stares at everything, looks around at what they've built, then bursts into tears.
Just a slut from Lake Heights.
It's still early, not even ten. Wally grabs her phone, flipping it open, then snapping it shut again. Jillie is gone, Bastille, Gage, Grant, her mother. She has no one. There's no one to call. She hasn't cried like this in a while, not since the first funeral: the painful, clawing sobs that rack your body. She thinks about Robert, in his second hour of a twelve-hour shift, how tired he'll be when he gets back. Do you like it? she asks sometimes. I will one day, he always says. I'm working my way up, Wally. Paying my dues. That's all she thinks of. She doesn't think of how they'll eat supper, watch some telly, then collapse into bed. She forgets how every night he kisses her cheek and whispers that he loves her. It's as if the pictures of them together cease to exist. All she can think of is him. I will one day.
She doesn't sleep that night. Instead she lies with Winnie curled next to her, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Ridiculous things, absurd things. At one point, around three am, she bursts into tears as she glances at her daughter only to realize that one day Winnie's going to grow old and die, and there's nothing she can do about it. Closer to morning she thinks about Robert, and cries afresh at the anxiety and regret of having left. Then she begins worrying about Winnie again.
Morning finally comes, and she walks into the office bleary eyed. Her splotchy face immediately gives her away.
"You right?" Chase asks, shoving a mug into her hands. His fingers find her wrist, searching for signs of one of her attacks. "Your heart's mad. You ever go get your prescription changed?"
She jerks her wrist away. "I'm fine. Just…bad night."
"I'd say; you look terrible."
With a great huff, she collapses into a chair, rubbing at her eyes and trying to muster a smile. "Oh fuck off." But her stomach is yet to untie itself.