Chapter 6
Mila
My jaw is so tense on my drive home, I give myself a headache.
I’ve never known my husband to visit my mother. He’s never done it before as far as I’m aware, and I can’t help but be suspicious as to why he’s chosen to do it this weekend.
I’ve lived under the scrutinous gaze of Logan and his family for our entire marriage, and until now, I’ve never put a foot wrong. So, I find it hard to believe it’s just a coincidence that this just happens to be the weekend he chose to randomly turn up at my mother’s facility. Is he suspicious—it would be nothing new. He questions my movements and the reason I’m making them every single day—or does he know exactly where I’ve been, with whom, and I’ve been caught?
Will he throw me out, I wonder? Tonight? Or will he let me stay until daylight?
Panicking, I pull over onto the hard shoulder, pull the bank card belonging to my secret account from where I keep it hidden inside a packet of hand sanitising wipes I carry in my bag, and I slide it into my UGGs. If I’m caught and he’s only going to allow me to leave with the clothes on my back like he’s always threatened to, at least I’ll have that.
Pulling back out onto the Hume Highway, I check my rear-view mirror, as it wouldn’t shock me to see him following me, but I can’t really determine the make of any of the cars behind me in the dimming light.
An hour and a half later,I pull off the highway at the Yirabang exit and turn onto the long, unlit country road that leads to our property. Five minutes later, I put the plan I’ve hatched on my long drive home into action. Swerving off the road, I brace as my car hurtles through the bush. Slamming on my brakes, I only avoid hitting the tree in front of me because I don’t want my airbags to deploy and cause any actual injuries. I come to a stop with the front of my Cruiser in the storm water channel that runs parallel with the road.
If Logan knows where I’ve been this weekend, even me driving off the road to avoid a roo won’t prevent a confrontation, but at least if I call him in a hysterical state, I’ll be able to gauge his mood without walking into the possible ambush waiting for me at home.
I sit for a minute, with the engine still running, and psych myself up for the call I need to make.
Using the controls on my steering wheel, I call my husband.
“Mila,” he answers on just the second ring.
I let out a sob before speaking. “I’m okay…”
“Mila? What’s wrong?” He actually sounds panicked.
“I’ve had an accident, but I’m okay. Can you come get me and bring someone with you to drive my car?”
“I’m coming. Keep talking. Tell me what happened. Are you hurt?”
“I’m on the Yira Road. I just turned off the highway when a roo came out of nowhere. I was driving slow because of the time of day, so was able to miss it…”
“Fuck’s sake, Mila, I’ve told you a million times, your car’s built like a tank. You have roo bars. Just hit the cunts if they come at you. Is the car damaged?”
“What? No. I don’t know…” I lay on more tears.
“Dad, can you come with me? Mila’s run off the road dodging a roo,” I hear him say.
“Why didn’t she just hit the cunt? Plenty more where that come from,” I hear Scott reply.
“It’s dark. I can’t see if there’s any damage. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I was concentrating so hard on not hitting one, I jumped when he appeared and just swerved off the road.”
“No point crying over it now. It’s done. I’m on my way.”
I don’t know if he meant to hang up then, if he thought he had, or if his dad just didn’t realise I could hear, but I heard it, and that’s when I knew I wasn’t being paranoid and had absolutely done the right thing when I left my car and phone in our apartment’s parking garage all weekend.
“Did you pull up her location?” Scott asks.
“Yeah, she’s only five K from the highway exit.”
I end the call.
Should I be angry? Appalled? Devasted? I’m all of those things. The one thing I’m not is shocked. Around eight years ago, not long after we married, Logan slipped up by mentioning a purchase I’d made that day from a store over the border in New South Wales.
I hadn’t told him I’d been out; I hadn’t told him I’d bought anything.
He quickly covered himself by saying he’d been doing some online banking and had noticed the transaction. I acted like the entire conversation had gone right over my head—it hadn’t—but it got me thinking, was he having me followed, tracking my car, my phone?
A few days later, I searched my car for a tracking device, but had no idea what I was looking for. After a quick Google search, I discovered tracking a phone is easy. There are apps and sites where you just type the number in, pay a fee, and the phone the number belongs to can be geolocated.
As part of my planning and preparation for this weekend, I assumed my car was being tracked, which was why I parked it at our apartment and not at Frankie’s. I also purchased a second phone, had all my calls and messages redirected to it, and took that with me, leaving my ‘real’ phone in the car parked at the apartment.
By the timeheadlights appear at the side of the road behind me, I’ve calmed myself down somewhat. I mean, do I really have the right to be pissed off my husband has a tracker on my car when I’ve spent the weekend doing what I’ve been doing? Have I not just proved him right and done exactly what he’s suspected me of doing all these years? Or is it his constant mistrust that’s driven me to be unfaithful to this extreme?
Letting out something between a huff and a sigh, I move towards the truck Logan and his dad are climbing out of. A second vehicle pulls up behind it.
It started raining earlier, so I deliberately waited next to my car, not in it. With rain pouring down my face, at least I don’t have to worry about faking my tears.
After throwing myself against my husband’s chest, I let out a loud sob.
“You’re soaked. Why didn’t you wait in the car?” Logan asks as he sets me aside.
“I was scared it might slide into the ditch. I tried to reverse, but the wheels just spun. I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry. . .” I trail off as I watch his retreating back heading towards my car.
He and his dad are both carrying torches, and I watch on as they shine them all around my Cruiser looking for damage. Not once do they look at me or ask me if I’m okay.
“Here, Mrs Walsh. Put this on.” I jump when Shane, one of our truck drivers, appears beside me, handing me a North Face jacket. “You doing okay?”
“Thanks, Shane. I’m okay, just a little shook up.”
“I bet. Why don’t you go wait in Logan’s truck while we get the Cruiser hooked up and towed out of here?”
With a nod and a small smile, I do as he suggests and make my way to the truck. The engine’s still running, so I turn the heat up and get myself warm.
It takes lessthan ten minutes for the men to tow my car out and onto the road. Logan joins me in the truck, Scott drives my car, and Shane returns to the tow truck and drives ahead.
Lauryn Hill quietly sings about being killed softly in the background. Logan doesn’t listen to music, not ever—something I’ve always found odd. How? How does anyone live their life not listening to music? Even when we had nothing as kids, we had the radio, the music.
Even knowing what Logan would do, I put the radio on as soon as I’d got myself comfortable in the passenger seat. I watched as my husband pulled his seatbelt into place and was already counting backwards from three when he used the controls on his steering wheel to silence something that might bring me joy.
“How’d it happen?” he asks while staring ahead at the road that’s only illuminated by our headlights.
“I turned off the highway. I knew because of the time, the roos would be about, so I was watching my speed. I was focusing on the road ahead, but a big buck just appeared on the passenger side and started to come across. I thought if I kept going, he might hit the wing and bounce up on the bonnet, so I swerved right but…” I pause for dramatic effect and shake my head. “I don’t know what happened—surface water or if the road was just slippery—but I lost control on the turn, then didn’t react quickly enough to brake because I was trying not to hit a tree.”
I swipe at the invisible tears on my face and draw in a few shaky breaths.
“You okay, though? You didn’t hurt yourself?” he finally asks. “There’s nothing… No chance you’re pregnant is there?” And there it is. He’s not worried about me. His only concern is for the precious child he’s hoping I’ll be incubating sometime soon.
Well, tough luck, motherfucker, because I’m still taking my contraceptive pill and have no plans on stopping just yet.
“No, I just had my period last week. You know that.”
“But we fucked right after it finished.”
“That’s not how it works, Logan. Straight after is my least fertile time.”
“Any time has gotta be better than never. Maybe you should get one of those trackers on your phone, so we know exactly when the time’s right.”
For a split second, my heart drops into my stomach at the mention of phones and trackers.
The shock that my husband is even aware of fertility tracker apps hides my confusion.
“Have you been doing some research, Mr Walsh?” I say with a smile while reaching out and squeezing my husband’s thigh.
“We need to do something, Mila. It’s not normal that after all this time we’ve been trying, you still can’t get pregnant. Get the tracker. We’ll do what it says, but if you’re not pregnant soon, then you’re gonna have to go and see a doctor.”
And here we go again. Him insisting I see a doctor, me knowing exactly how to get out of doing that.
“I told you before, if I get a referral from Doctor Spencer, the specialist will want to see both of us.”
“And I’ve told you before, I’m not the one with the problem. It’s you who needs to go and get checked out!” He slams his hand on the steering wheel as he shouts out the words.
I knew this outburst was coming—it happens every time we broach the subject—but I pretend to flinch and shrink back into my seat anyway.
We silently turn onto the driveway leading to the house we live in. This might be Logan’s home, but it’s not mine. The original parts were built in the late eighteen hundreds by Scott’s—however many—great grandfather, and has remained in the family since, always passed down to the eldest son, with every member of the family expected to remain living here.
We have our own wing, which includes a bedroom, ensuite, a retreat, a kitchenette/wet bar, a private section of balcony with outdoor furniture, and a multitude of plants in pots that I’ve personally added.
Ella lives in her own wing, Scott and Nora in theirs, and two others sit practically empty, while one serves as a guest wing with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms.
If it wasn’t for the fact we’re all expected to dine together each evening, I could easily manage to go days without bumping into any of Logan’s family in the house.
After pulling into one of the multiple garages, Logan parks the truck and exits without a word. I follow, but instead of heading into the house, I ask Scott for my keys as he passes. He tosses them in my direction, and I snatch them mid-flight.
“Well, there ya go. You do have another talent apart from leading my son around by his dick. We know it’s not making babies, and it’s definitely not driving, but the girl can catch. Good on ya.”
I ignore him and keep walking towards my car. After pulling my bags from the back, I head inside the house and straight up to our bedroom. I quickly unpack and put everything away before stripping out of my damp clothes and jumping in the shower.
There’s no sign of Logan once I get out, and as hungry as I am, I put on a pair of pyjamas, and climb into bed.
My brain’s quiet for all of a millisecond.
I didn’t think it was going to be this hard. I’ve had to lie most of my life, but this—this whole other life I’ve spent the weekend living—is so much harder to return from than I could’ve ever anticipated. It’s given me confidence, empowered me, and I’m finding it a struggle to maintain the mousey little housewife persona and not tell my husband and his father to go fuck themselves.