After The Fall Part 3

"Why him?" Sarah asked me once, after Cary and I had been together for almost two years. For a moment I was offended, thinking she was doubting my choice. But her face, when I turned to confront her, was as guileless as porcelain, her voice tinged with interest, not judgment.

I sighed. It was a valid question, so why was it so hard to answer?

"Because I love him?" I ventured, the words sounding insipid even to my ears.

"Zzzt," Sarah replied, imitating a buzzer. "Not enough information. Why do you love him?" Sarah replied, imitating a buzzer. "Not enough information. Why do you love him?"

We were having lunch in Grattan Street, opposite the museum where I worked, sipping our coffees at an outdoor cafe in the March suns.h.i.+ne. I know it was March, because after four blissfully quiet months the surrounding tables were filled with students from the nearby university, and it had taken forever for our meals to arrive.

"Look at them," I said to Sarah. "That was us three years ago. Do they realize how good they've got it?"

"Good?" she asked, glancing around. "We had to write a thesis, remember? And study for exams and not earn money and take a compulsory statistics course."

She was right, and I'd been as keen to finish with school as the rest of our group for just those reasons. But, perversely, I wanted to argue with her.

"Don't be so negative," I said. "Remember how we'd go to the pub after lectures, and copy each other's notes so we could sleep in, and sunbathe on the South Lawn in the summer?"

"It had its moments," Sarah replied, setting her cup down. "But you still go to the pub, as far as I can tell. And now you can afford to without worrying about the rent. Besides, from what I remember you spent at least half those nights having screaming matches with Jake, or flirting with someone else to make him jealous."

"Not half of them."

"Near enough." She shrugged. "That's not what we were talking about anyway. Tell me about Cary."

What could I say? Sarah knew him pretty well by this time, but that wasn't what she was asking. Was it serious, she wanted to know, and what about him in particular made me stay, kept me interested? It was the same thing I had asked her when it had dawned on me that she and Rick were going to last, just as Jake and I were not.

"He's sweet," I ventured. "And kind, and thoughtful."

"So's your father. Not good enough. What else?"

I thought for a while.

"He cooks me dinner and picks me up from work if it's raining."

Sarah looked unimpressed, and I was uncharacteristically stuck for words. Instead of enumerating Cary's many good points, I suddenly felt depressed. The sight of all the university students had made me feel old, had reminded me of Jake and that things fall apart no matter how much you wish they wouldn't. Ridiculously, I felt tears bite at the corners of my eyes.

"Come on," Sarah said softly, catching my mood. "What does he do that you love him for? Something your father wouldn't."

"He runs a bath for me when I'm tired." I sniffed. "And he cleans it up afterward, and he has the sense not to bother me while I'm in there."

"Good," said Sarah, nodding her head. "And ...?"

"He doesn't go to sleep straight after s.e.x. He buys me lingerie, but not the s.l.u.tty sort with bits cut out. He takes my side when his mother gets to be too much."

"That's important."

"He lets me keep tampons in his bathroom cupboard without getting all squeamish about it. Remember how uptight Jake was about that sort of stuff?"

"Sure do," she said, smiling. "Any more?"

I was warming to the task now. "He buys me popcorn at the movies even though he doesn't eat it himself. He apologizes when we have a fight. And if I read a book and adore it, he'll read it to find out why, even though I know he prefers those journals."

After a moment I added, "He holds my head when I drink too much and throw up. I even threw up in his birdbath once and he didn't get upset."

Sarah laughed, and I suddenly noticed that the students around us had disappeared.

"He makes me feel beautiful," I said quietly. "And kind of dazzling, as if he can't believe he has me." Then I took a deep breath for the biggest confession, one I was only just admitting to myself. "He looks after me. He strokes my hair when he thinks I'm asleep. He worries about me."

"They all sound like perfect reasons to me," Sarah said, proffering a tissue in case I was going to burst into tears again. But I didn't need it. I felt light-headed, elated, justified. Cary was different from my previous boyfriends: a lot quieter, more introspective and reserved. Though they knew he was nice enough, every so often I sensed that my friends and family wondered exactly what it was I saw in him, how his smiling steadiness could interest me after the cras.h.i.+ng highs and lows of my relations.h.i.+p with Jake. Sarah hadn't asked to be convinced, but I saw that she was nonetheless, and the validation warmed me.

"He picks up after himself," I continued. "He remembers our anniversary without my nagging about it for a week in advance."

"Okay, that will do. I have to get back to work," Sarah said, pulling on her jacket.

"He rings his parents regularly. He knows that foreplay doesn't just mean undoing my bra."

"Enough!" Sarah laughed, pretending to hurry away.

"I'll e-mail you the rest," I called after her. "He's been a best man three times! He's kind to small animals!" The waitress was staring at me, but I didn't care. Her boyfriend probably expected her to wear crotchless panties.

CRESSIDA.

I love hospitals. I'm sure that's my father's influence-how could it not be, when I remember accompanying him on ward rounds when I was only four? Still, I suppose I could have rebelled, the way children of alcoholics often turn into teetotalers, or vice versa. I didn't. I love the buzz and hum of hospitals, their pulse and throb. I suppose stock markets or large manufacturing plants have a similar level of activity and purpose, but somehow it's different when actual lives are at stake. A major teaching hospital has more energy than a theme park, and I've always found that exciting.

I realize this isn't normal. The only other person I've ever met who truly understands this is Cary. We got to talking about it once when we were meant to be discussing my research. He told me that he'd fallen off a tractor when he was eight, then been taken to the local base hospital for X-rays.

"The minute I was wheeled through the sliding gla.s.s doors, I was hooked," he told me, smiling bashfully and fiddling with his cuffs rather than meeting my eyes. "Everyone was rus.h.i.+ng around, but they all knew exactly what they were doing and where they were going. It was so busy. Not like the farm, where you might sit on the harvester all day, or spend hours fixing the fence in the front paddock." He finally looked up. "It was kind of thrilling, you know?"

I did know, and for a moment I felt a sharp pull toward this self-effacing man. He wasn't dazzling, like Luke, but he was kind and patient, an involved and encouraging supervisor. He was gentle too. If my ideas were off track, or I hadn't thought something through properly, he'd never scold, or even correct. "Maybe," he'd say, where other supervisors might have stifled laughter or sighed to themselves, "but have you thought about it like this?" He'd guide, not push; suggest rather than tell. I knew he was married. I'd never met his wife, but I often thought she was a lucky woman.

Yet when I did finally see them together, it was Cary who acted as if he were the lucky one. Oh, Kate clearly cared for him; she was always touching him or teasing him, rumpling his hair or placing a hand on his thigh. But then she'd be off again, jumping up to call out to someone across the bar, or bent laughing with a girlfriend in a corner, never noticing the way his eyes followed her around the room. I mentioned it to Luke once.

"Did you see Kate tonight? She was everywhere." We were lying in bed, dissecting an evening out, as couples often do.

"She's certainly sociable," he mumbled against my shoulder, arms warm across my abdomen. "Particularly when she's had a few drinks."

"When hasn't she had a few drinks? But she's like that regardless. Sometimes I wonder if I should talk to Cary about putting her on Ritalin."

Luke laughed, though more in surprise at my criticism than anything else. "That's not like you, Cress," he said.

"Well, she is kind of ... flighty, isn't she?" I tried to explain myself. "You wouldn't want her as your heart surgeon, for example. I'd be worried that if something more interesting came up she'd be straight out the door, the retractors still in your chest."

Luke laughed again. "True. She'd look good in a nurse's uniform, though."

I stiffened and he stopped. I'd seen him flirt with her and I was used to that, but there was no reason to be doing so mentally in our bed.

Yet, I did like Kate. Those days we had at Cary's house on the lake I actually got to know her a bit, we were left together so often when skiing, or while the boys fished. I'd never had the whole focus of her company before, and I enjoyed it more than I expected. She was genuinely funny, genuinely interested and interesting. I found myself opening up to her, knowing she wasn't going to suddenly abandon me midsentence; to be honest, I think she paid more attention to me, knowing I wasn't going to get paged away.

One day, while we lay on the beach, Kate asked if she could do my hair. I never usually bothered with it much-it was either down over my shoulders or up in a bun, with few variations. Not seeming to notice my hesitation, Kate rolled over and began stroking it, remarking on its color and texture. I think I flinched, but Kate can be persuasive. She went and got her brush and some gear, and for the next half hour I surprised myself by luxuriating in the experience. Her small hands were cool and sure, as deft and careful with my hair as with any artifact. While she weaved my locks into a complicated French braid she hummed and talked ... gossip, something about the book she was reading, a few bars of a popular song: chatter that demanded nothing other than my being there. I felt totally relaxed for the first time in months. Later that day, when Luke saw my hair, he loved it, and I almost loved her for it. For an hour that afternoon she'd been the big sister I might have had if mine hadn't always been studying.

We saw even more of them after that Easter. Kate was incurably sociable, always marshaling us into catching up at the movies or a bar, or ringing to invite herself over when Cary was away and the silence of their house got too much. I missed Cary on those nights. He balanced our foursome, and I always felt easier when we were all together. Without him there the talk grew more personal, more daring, Kate and Luke trading jibes at lightning speed or leaning across me to banter with each other. I could barely get a word in, though they seemed to enjoy having me there as an audience.

Similarly, I know Luke met up with Kate and Cary when I was at work. Why not? I should have been pleased he wasn't waiting at home, watching the clock, maybe sulking a little if my s.h.i.+ft went overtime. I bet Kate loved those nights. She craved attention; two men hanging on her every word would have been her idea of paradise.

When I found myself thinking that way I'd feel bad. I did like Kate, and it wasn't as if I didn't trust her. I was just a bit wary. She was never malicious, but she was careless. Kate is the sort of person who is always forgetting where they put their drink down at a party and wandering off to get another, so that by the end of the night they've left a trail of half-empty gla.s.ses in their wake, and don't even notice the wastage. I wondered if she misplaced friends as easily.

KATE.

And then we got married. Actually, first we moved in together and, when this still hadn't ruined things, a year later I nagged him into marrying me. To tell you the truth I was surprised I had to ask, and a bit put out that my romantic fantasies of bended knee, sparkling gems and declarations of undying love never came true. But delayed gratification is not my thing-once I make up my mind I hate mucking around. Cary, on the other hand, prefers every possible outcome to be explored and quantified, like the genetic profiles he constructs for the expectant parents who consult him in his job. And I still got my sparkling gems and his undying love, so I can hardly complain.

We were married in October under a pewter sky, which opened as soon as we had said our vows. I'd been worrying about the weather all week, but on that day there could have been a cyclone and I wouldn't have noticed. Cary cried when I came down the aisle, and again as he made his speech. Otherwise he smiled from start to finish, seeming to forget his insistence that he couldn't possibly enjoy such a large wedding. That's the main part I remember, and that it was still pouring when we consummated the thing hours later. The wind picked up, and I think there was hail. But inside, wrapped in our marriage bed and Cary's arms, I felt warm and protected and safe.

LUKE.

I had been married ten minutes when I first saw Kate. At the time I didn't even know her name, and wouldn't find it out till the photos came back. Still, I don't suppose I'm the first groom to encounter a surfeit of strangers at his nuptials. Weddings are for women, and I'd happily abdicated responsibility to Cress and her mother pretty much from the moment I'd proposed. Of course, Cress was too busy at work to do much more than look at a few magazines, so I suppose I should be grateful that someone was available to talk to caterers and fold napkins.

Anyway, we'd said our vows and paraded back down the aisle. I remember feeling as you do after anesthesia-everything was exceedingly bright and excessively loud and happening in slow motion and double speed at the same time. It was April, a beautiful autumn day, and as they threw open the doors at the back of the church so we could stand on the steps and greet our guests, I couldn't believe the colors outside. The blue of the late-afternoon sky, the russet of the leaves just starting to turn, the gold of Cress's hair and the unfamiliar ring on her left hand. I'd put that ring there, but I had no memory of doing so. The photographer called instructions, Tim jerked at my tie, and nothing seemed real. I was elated, triumphant, but everything unfolded as if I were an observer, not there at the center.

Cary came over to offer his congratulations, kissing Cressida and complimenting her on her dress. At the time Cress was doing her fellows.h.i.+p project under his supervision, and we'd met a few times when I'd come to meet her after work. He'd never said much, but seemed nice enough. Cress, anyhow, was grateful for his a.s.sistance and had insisted we invite him to the wedding.

"Really?" I'd asked when she told me. "But I don't even know him."

"That doesn't matter. He's been such a help that I just want to thank him."

"Are you sure this is the best way? Most guys would prefer a case of beer," I said-astutely, as it turned out. "Besides, after you've finished your research you'll probably never see him again, and he's hardly going to want to get all dressed up to spend the night with strangers."

"I'll see him again," said Cress, adding his name to the list we were arguing over. "I've known him since I was a student, on and off. That's longer than I've known you." She looked up and smiled, a happy smile full of excitement and plans and confetti. "And there will be plenty of people there from the hospital he knows. Plus his wife, of course."

Now the man in question was shaking my hand. We hardly knew each other, so it was a brief exchange, just time enough for me to glance at a dark-haired girl behind him and mentally process that it must be the wife Cress had mentioned. Then someone else was pus.h.i.+ng forward to congratulate me and the church bells were ringing, notes splas.h.i.+ng over one another like children playing in puddles. Cary and his wife had moved on, and I couldn't hear what anyone was saying.

Fortunately, as the night went on my numbness wore off, and after a few beers I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Cressida looked astounding, ethereal yet regal, the tiara that held her veil resembling a crown. If such a thing is possible she looked almost too beautiful, and I was afraid to touch her until after the photos were over for fear of disturbing the picture perfection of it all. Tim gave a mercifully bland speech, proposed the toast and then the dancing began. Five or so numbers in I was steering a bridesmaid around the floor when I spotted Cary's wife dancing with a colleague of Cressida's. She was wearing cream, which was perhaps why I noticed her. Women hardly ever wear white to a wedding-perhaps they think it's reserved for the wedding party, or they're afraid of being compared with the bride. Cary's wife obviously had no such reservations. Her dress had a slit in the back, and the colleague, quite drunk, was trying to slip his hand into it. She was laughing and shaking her head, but not removing herself from his grasp, or even wriggling away from that hand. I don't know where Cary was; I didn't see him dance with her once that night.

After the requisite five hours our reception was over, and the guests formed a circle to say their good-byes. I'd strenuously objected to this bit, but for once Cress had been adamant. She wanted to speak to everyone who had come to the wedding, she told me, and this might be her only chance to do so. I ended up doing the same thing, kissing all those maiden aunts on p.r.i.c.kly cheeks, exchanging pleasantries with relatives and partners I would no doubt never see again. When I got around to the hospital side of the circle Cary did the right thing and thanked me for the invitation. His wife was a little less formal, regarding me quizzically when I went to shake her hand.

"So," she said, laughing, as if this were all some great big joke. "Have a nice life, I guess."

Her candor was so disarming that I had to laugh too. Then Cary joined in, and just for a second the three of us stood there, laughing together, understanding but still enjoying the artifice of it all.

Six weeks and a honeymoon later the photos came back. Cress and I had had a great time vacationing in Malaysia on a tea plantation, and already the wedding seemed to have taken place years ago. It was almost a shock to recognize Cary's wife, still laughing, in a group photo of Cressida's medical friends.

"Who's that?" I asked, sliding the photo over to Cress, who was agonizing over what should go in the alb.u.m.

"Umm ... Cary's wife. You know, my supervisor," she replied distractedly. "Kate, I think her name is."

"She seemed like fun," I ventured.

"Mmm, he's lovely too. Maybe when my project is finished I'll ask them over to dinner as a thank-you."

"I thought the wedding invitation was his thank-you?"

"That's not very personal, is it?" Cress asked. She had clearly forgotten our conversation before the big day. "And I've still got another six months or so to go, so I'll want to do something then."

I rolled my eyes, but not so Cress could see. My short experience of marriage had already taught me that sometimes it's just easier to hold your tongue.

CARY.

As a student, Cressida was a bit of a disappointment. Not to Steve, of course, who practically started panting when I told him she'd be working with us for a while. I'd also been pleased when she'd approached me for supervision on her fellows.h.i.+p project, though for different reasons. I remembered Cressida as a conscientious and careful medical student, and looked forward to her bringing those qualities to our research.

It wasn't that she was no good: far from it. Her lab work was thoughtfully designed and carried out, her reports turned in on time. In the years since I'd first attended meetings with her Cressida had developed a textbook clinical manner: concerned without being overinvolved, able to mix inquiry and empathy in equal parts. She certainly had the skills for the work; it was just that her mind was elsewhere. The timing was to blame, I guess. When I agreed to her doing her project in the department she was going out with Luke. By the time she actually started at the beginning of the new academic year they were engaged. Then came the wedding and the honeymoon and weekends spent house-hunting rather than writing. In the end, what should have taken six months dragged on for over twelve, till we were both sick to death of it. I think we published the results, though I can't remember. Funny how important that seemed at the time.

Actually, it bothered Steve more than it bothered me. "What is is she doing?" he'd moan whenever Cressida's weekly lit review was a day late on his desk, or a meeting had to be canceled so she could attend a dress fitting. "You're too soft on that girl," he told me more than once, with an irritation that I suspected was owed to pique that she was so transparently crazy about someone else than any concern for our tenure. I don't think I even replied. For one, I enjoyed having Cressida around the place. She was smart and pretty and a welcome change after years spent hunched over microscopes with only Steve for company. And she was so darn happy that it made you smile just to see her. When we weren't discussing genetics it was Luke, Luke, Luke. "I'll leave you two to pick out your china patterns," Steve would mutter in disgust, stalking out whenever conversation veered toward the conjugal. Cressida would look momentarily abashed, then carry on with an apologetic smile. she doing?" he'd moan whenever Cressida's weekly lit review was a day late on his desk, or a meeting had to be canceled so she could attend a dress fitting. "You're too soft on that girl," he told me more than once, with an irritation that I suspected was owed to pique that she was so transparently crazy about someone else than any concern for our tenure. I don't think I even replied. For one, I enjoyed having Cressida around the place. She was smart and pretty and a welcome change after years spent hunched over microscopes with only Steve for company. And she was so darn happy that it made you smile just to see her. When we weren't discussing genetics it was Luke, Luke, Luke. "I'll leave you two to pick out your china patterns," Steve would mutter in disgust, stalking out whenever conversation veered toward the conjugal. Cressida would look momentarily abashed, then carry on with an apologetic smile.

I knew how she felt. Kate and I had been together for about six years at that stage, married for two, and listening to Cressida's chatter took me back to the early days of our own relations.h.i.+p. I'd remember those first few months of living together, the excitement I'd feel as my headlights picked out our house at the end of the day. How I'd find myself accelerating into the driveway in my eagerness to get inside. How I'd hurry up the path beside the lemon tree, driven by a desire that was part s.e.xual, but mostly just a need to see Kate again. My key would fumble in the lock and then like a child playing tag I'd be home, safe, with the world shut out behind me. Inside Kate would be humming as she prepared dinner or flicked through a magazine, and she'd look up laughing at my abrupt entrance, then kiss me with lips that tasted of the apple she'd been eating or the basil she'd just added to our dinner. Cressida was now caught up in the same manic delirium, but having been such a willing victim of it myself, how could I complain? In fact, I think I enjoyed the reminder. Half a decade later I was still very much in love, but I no longer sprinted up our garden path at the end of the day. That's no failing: I defy you to show me anyone who does. In my book, familiarity breeds content; love plateaus but is none the less for that. It has to, or no one would ever get any work done.

CRESSIDA.

My part should have ended there, at the hospital in my wedding gown. Maybe there could have been a postscript: two healthy children, respected in her profession, a long and happy marriage. But no more, and certainly not this. What could I possibly have done to deserve it?

LUKE.

It just happened, I swear. That's what I told Cress and the counselor, and I mean it. I admit there were a lot of lies, but that wasn't one of them. How else can you explain such a thing? Sure, I was attracted to Kate, but I've been attracted to plenty of other women before without feeling obliged to kiss them in the middle of a dance floor in full view of their husbands. Or my wife, for that matter. Of course, there was alcohol involved, and I tried to blame it on that: a stupid, drunken gaffe. I think Cress believed me-what choice did she have? I almost believed it myself. That is, until I saw Kate again and realized that there'd been no mistake.

CARY.

Kate sparkles; I don't. She flirts; I don't. She dances; I don't. She's an extrovert, and I'm not. But I wouldn't say I was introverted, just that I'm neutral, naturally quieter, Belgium to her Brazil. Apart from that, I've always thought we were pretty well matched. Water finds its own level, my father used to say, and I believe that. I mean, we knew what we were getting into-we were together for four years before marrying, and she was the one who forced the issue then. On some basic level we must have been suited. Up until that night I thought we were perfectly happy. Maybe not perfectly, but more than most. Then suddenly she's kissing someone who isn't me. Is sparkling and flirting and dancing worth risking a marriage over?

KATE.

What can I possibly say in my defense? That it was dark, that I was drunk or confused or premenstrual? That I was swept away by the music and the night and had no idea how it happened? No, I have no defense, but at least I can be honest. Of course it didn't "just happen." That's not to say I expected it, but I can't say I was surprised either. I knew Luke was attracted to me, though that was no big deal; in my experience, men like Luke are always attracted to someone. I was attracted to him too. Why wouldn't I be? He was beautiful, and our both being married didn't change that. Still, I could have pulled away. The signs were there. I could have stopped dancing, gone outside for some air or to find Cary. Could have, should have, but didn't. Didn't stop, didn't think, didn't want to.

TIM.