“She can repeat things that Teresa says—”

“Who?”

“Her speech therapist.” I feel a whisper of irritation. “You would know if you’d visited her.”

Rose blinks. For a moment I think she’s going to argue with me but instead she says, “So she’s repeating things?”

“Yes and she can ask for a drink, say she’s hot, that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” Rose turns her back to me, slicing the top of a zucchini.

“Teresa also said she mentioned Billy, Rose. And murder.”

Rose keeps her back to me, but she becomes still.

“I’m worried, Rose. What if someone suspects something?”

Now Rose turns. “Well, what did Teresa say? Did she seem concerned?”

I shrug. “She says confabulation is common among patients with acquired brain injuries.”

“Confabulation?” Rose’s bracelet falls off her wrist and clatters against the floor. She swears under her breath.

“She thinks Mum’s brain created a story. She says it’s common for people with acquired brain injuries.”

“And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Rose exhales. “Of all the things Mum could talk about with her newfound speech. She really does have a gift for ruining our lives.” Rose bends over and picks up the bracelet.

I hesitate. “Rose?”

“Mmm?”

“Was she really a bad mum?”

Rose looks at me. “You know she was.”

When I don’t respond, she looks aghast.

“Fern, she neglected us terribly. She dragged awful boyfriends in and out of our lives. For god’s sake, she overdosed on pills, leaving us without even one parent who could care for us!”

“You’re right.”

“Hallelujah.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Rose groans. “I get the sense that she’s sorry for what she did. I think she loves us, Rose.”

Rose throws up her hands. “Agree to disagree, then. I know that you want to have a relationship with her, Fern, but trust me, she’s not a good person. There are things you don’t understand.”

Rose waits for a response from me, so after a few seconds, I nod. After all, there must be things I don’t understand. Because as I look back over my memories of Mum, at least 90 percent of them are good.

JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE

Fern didn’t talk to me the day after she saw Billy and me kissing.… She made basic conversation (“Pass the tomato sauce,” “No thanks, I don’t want to go to the river”), but things were frosty enough that even Mum and Daniel noticed something was up.

“What’s going on with you kids?” Daniel asked over lunch.

“Nothing,” the three of us said in unison.

“Are you sure?” Mum asked.

“Yep.”

That was our line and we were sticking to it, at least where Mum was concerned. But even in private, Fern wasn’t talking. It was strange. I was starting to get the feeling that I was right when I suspected Fern liked Billy. And now she was mad at us.

“Come on, kids, snap out of it,” Daniel said finally. “It’s your last night. Go swim. Go on. Off with you.”

We tried to protest, saying we were tired, but Mum and Daniel were adamant. I think they wanted some privacy.

We walked to the river in single file. Billy got straight into the water, keen to get away from the obvious tension. I sat on the riverbank beside Fern and waited. One thing I knew about Fern was that she wouldn’t talk until she was ready.

After an hour had passed and she still hadn’t talked, I felt nature call. Billy was showing no signs of getting out of the water—splashing and swimming and swinging from the rope—so I headed deep into the trees. After everything that had happened, I didn’t want Billy seeing me pee. It was slow going; it was dark and I was barefoot—I had to watch every step I took.

When I returned to the river, Fern was gone.

“Fern,” I called. “Fern! Where are you?”

It was strange for her not to be in the spot I left her. It might have been that, combined with the fact that I was a worrier, that put me instantly on guard. “Fern?”

“Here,” came a small voice.

And then I saw her, illuminated by a patch of moonlight in the shallows of the river. She was standing eerily still.

“What are you doing?” I asked. There was something about her facial expression … it gave me a bad feeling even before I saw what she’d done.

I took a step toward her and she lifted her hands. Something rose to the surface of the water beside her. A sliver of pale, unmoving flesh.

“Fern,” I whispered. “What have you done?”

FERN

Time passes. It’s one of the few things in life that I can rely on. The library is my solace. Once my colleagues recover from their initial shock at my pregnancy, their questions about the paternity of my baby cease and they are extremely supportive. Gayle knits me a pair of baby booties and Linda gifts me a bunny rug. Carmel purchases me a book of 10,001 baby names. I haven’t told anyone yet that I’m not going to be the one naming the baby, or putting booties on it or wrapping it in a bunny rug. It feels like the sort of thing that I’d be better off waiting to tell them. If I tell them at all.

At home, Rose vacillates between pestering me—about what I am eating, how much I am working, whether I am exercising—and pampering me. Last night, for example, I came home and found Rose on her knees setting up a foot spa for me—“to relax, after being on your feet all day.”

Owen, Rose tells me, is finishing up his contract and will be back in time for the baby’s birth. I’m looking forward to having him back, and it’s clear Rose is too. She thanks me, profusely and often, for giving her her life back. It occurs to me that this is exactly what I wanted to do for her in the first place—give her a baby and restore her relationship with Owen. I don’t understand why it doesn’t feel as good as I expected.

Every day, I think about Wally. I don’t pause to think about him or “allow” myself to think about him, he’s merely in the periphery of my every thought, like the smoky edges of an old photo. He’s there every time I stare at someone, every time I arrive somewhere fifteen minutes early, every time I put in my earplugs or put on my goggles. Every time I feel a movement in my belly. He’s part of everything.