Apples Never Fall

That GP was dead now. So was at least one of those specialists, as far as she knew.

Useless rage directed at long since dead men propelled her out of bed and into the shower. She gathered and stoked the rage as she showered. There was only her shampoo and body wash in the shower stall now. No evidence of a husband. Stan was using the other bathroom.

Perhaps it was time to finally accept defeat on this marriage: to meet at the net, shake hands, clap each other respectfully on the shoulders, wave to the fans, and walk away.

She scrubbed her head hard. Her broken fingernails gouged her scalp.

She thought of all the truisms she and Stan had passed on to their children and their students.

You can still fight back from match point down.

If you want to overcome a losing streak, you reevaluate your game.

She was a fighter. She was a winner. She was Joy Delaney. She would not give up on this marriage. She would take decisive, aggressive action today.

She would make an apple crumble, that’s what she’d do. Stan might at times be obtuse but he would understand the symbolism of Joy making his mother’s signature dish. She would try out Savannah’s suggestion. There was a bottle of whiskey in the back of the pantry.

She took two Panadol for her headache. She brushed her teeth for twice as long as usual. She blow-dried her hair using the big round brush Narelle said she should use but that she avoided because it made her wrist ache. She put on a flattering dress, one that Stan had once lavishly described as “very nice.” Lipstick.

She walked out of the bedroom feeling peculiarly self-conscious. The house was silent. Was he even here?

“Stan?” she called out. Her voice cracked. Surely he would answer her. “Stan?”

No answer. She walked to the front room, pulled back the curtain. The car was gone. He was out early. She wondered where. Well. It was stupid to feel hurt that he had not told her he was going out, because this was the way they were living right now, but still her heart felt newly hurt, as tender and soft as bruised fruit.

She went to the kitchen, put the jug on for a cup of tea, and opened the refrigerator to get out the apples for the crumble.

She’d bought five plump green Granny Smith apples when she was in the shops on Thursday, but now there was only one left, rolling about sadly in the crisper.

Stan had managed to eat four apples in two days.

She considered going back to bed and aborting the mission.

No. She rallied. She would pop down to the mini-mart by the railway station and pick up some more. They always opened early.

Except Stan had the car and it would take forever to walk there.

She made a low growling sound of frustration.

Steffi, who was lying in her favorite cool spot by the back door, lifted her head inquiringly, her tail thumping against the floor.

“I’m trying, Steffi,” said Joy. “It’s just that he’s eaten all the apples and taken the car.”

Inspiration struck. She would change into shorts and ride her brand-new bike to the mini-mart! So far she had only been for one little spin around the cul-de-sac. She loved the idea of the bike, but she was actually a bit nervous about traffic. She would face her fears! It was exhilarating to face your fears. Or so everyone said.

Half an hour later she stood on trembling legs in the mini-mart, plunking down the money for four overpriced Granny Smith apples. She was friendly as usual to the mini-mart man even though he scowled at her as usual (why did he hate her so?). She placed the apples in her wicker basket and began the ride home. She had to really work the pedals to get up the hill. In all the years she’d lived here she had never noticed the Mount Everest–like incline of this particular street.

Someone beeped their horn, making her heart leap. The bike swerved and the front wheel banged violently against the gutter. She straightened the handles, turned the corner, looked down, and saw that the front tire was completely flat.

“For goodness’ sake, what next?”

She threw the bike to the ground, hard, like a child. She stood, hands on hips, breathing heavily, looking at the bike and the apples. She kicked one of the apples like a ball. It rolled a listless short distance. She was not going to make an apple crumble today. Or ever again.

So that was the end of that.

You can choose the right shot, you can have a good swing and good technique, you can do everything right, and it can still go wrong. No player, no matter how good, makes one hundred percent of their shots.

Some days you lose. They’d drummed that into the children too. You can be number one in the world, you can win and win and win, but it’s inevitable: eventually you will lose.