The Husband’s Secret

a red velvet ribbon tied around the middle.
    Polly smiled. ‘The Easter Bunny?’
    ‘Even better. Mr Whitby.’
    Polly went to hold out her hand for the egg and an expression of mild bemusement crossed her beautiful face.She frowned at her mother and waited for her to fix things.
    Cecilia cleared her throat, smiled and took Polly’s left hand firmly in her own.
    ‘Darling,’ she said.
    So it began.

epilogue
    There are so many secrets about our lives we’ll never know.
    Rachel Crowley will never know that her husband wasn’t, as he said, seeing clients in Adelaide the day that Janie was killed. He was on a tennis court, taking part in an intensive tennis workshop he hoped would teach him how to break bloody Toby Murphy’s serve. Ed hadn’t told Rachel beforehand because he was embarrassed by his motivations (he’d seen the way Toby looked at his wife, and the way Rachel looked back) and he never told her afterwards, because he was deeply ashamed, and blamed himself, however illogically, for not being there for Janie. He never picked up his racquet again, and took his silly secret to his death.
    Speaking of tennis, Polly Fitzpatrick will never know that if she hadn’t ridden her bike in front of Rachel Crowley’s car that day, she would have received a tennis racquet for her seventh birthday from her Auntie Bridget. Two weeks later she would have turned up for her first tennis lesson, where after twenty minutes her coach would have gone over to his boss on the next court and said quietly, ‘Come and see this kid’s forehand,’ and the swing of her racquet would havechanged her future as swiftly as it changed when she swung the handlebars of her bike to follow Mr Whitby.
    Polly will also never know that Mr Whitby did hear her call out to him that terrible Good Friday, but pretended not to, because he was desperate to get home and put his ludicrous fish kite back in the cupboard, along with his equally ludicrous hopes about another chance at a relationship with his goddamned ex-girlfriend, Tess O’Leary. Connor’s crippling guilt over Polly’s accident will help put his therapist’s daughter through Year 9 of private school and will only begin to ease the day he finally raises his eyes to meet those of the beautiful woman who owns the Indian restaurant where he has his post-therapy curry.
    Tess O’Leary will never know for sure whether her husband Will is the biological father of their second child, the result of an accidental pregnancy conceived one strange April week in Sydney. The pill only works when you take it, and she’d left the packet behind in Melbourne when she flew to Sydney. Not a word will ever be spoken of the possibility, although when Tess’s adored teenage daughter mentions one year at Christmas lunch that she’s decided to be a PE teacher, her grandmother will choke on a mouthful of turkey, and her mother’s cousin will spill champagne all over her handsome French husband’s lap.
    John-Paul Fitzpatrick will never know that if Janie had remembered the doctor’s appointment that day in 1984, her doctor would have listened to her describe her symptoms and, after observing her unusually tall, long skinny body, would have tentatively diagnosed her with a condition called Marfan Syndrome; a incurable, genetic disorder of the connective tissues, thought to have been suffered by Abraham Lincoln, involving elongated limbs, long thin fingers and cardiovascular complications. Symptoms include fatigue, shortness of breath, a racing heartbeat and cold hands andfeet due to poor circulation, all of which Janie experienced on the day she died. It’s a hereditary condition, probably also suffered by Rachel’s aunt Petra who dropped dead when she was twenty. The GP, who thanks to an overbearing mother, was a high achiever and an excellent doctor, would have got on the phone and arranged an urgent appointment at the hospital for Janie, where an ultrasound would have confirmed her concerns and saved Janie’s life.
    John-Paul will never know that it was an aortic aneurysm that killed Janie, not traumatic asphyxiation, and that if the forensic pathologist who’d done Janie’s autopsy hadn’t been suffering from a debilitating flu that day, he would not have been so willing to acquiesce to the Crowley family’s request for a limited autopsy if possible. Another pathologist would have done the full autopsy and seen the evidence, clear as day, of an aortic dissection, the indisputable cause of