1
PIPPA
(NOW)
“Someone is out there.”
I’m standing at the kitchen sink, my hands plunged in warm soapy water. Gabe is beside me, supposedly drying dishes but mostly drinking red wine and singing to Edith Piaf. He made coq au vin for dinner using every pot in the house, but if there is one thing to be said for my husband it’s that he knows how to create a mood. He’s dimmed the lights, lit some candles, even trotted out his best French accent. If not for the kids and my older sister, Kat—who is perched at my kitchen counter—it might have been romantic.
“Where?” Gabe asks.
I lift my gloved hand and point through the window. It is a woman, I think, though it’s hard to be sure with the sun setting behind her. In any case, I have a clear view of a figure, twenty-odd meters away, beyond the edge of our property where the lawn gives way to a sandy walking path. Millionaires’ walk, the neighbors call it, for both its million-dollar views and the multimillion-dollar homes that line this part of the cliff. On the other side of the walking path is a sheer drop down to the jagged rocks and the beach thirty meters below. It’s not uncommon for people to stop here and admire the view, particularly at sunset, but when they linger it always gives me pause.
“There.”
I keep my voice quiet, steady. I don’t have the privilege of hysteria given the proximity of our curious four-year-olds.
“Call the police,” he says to me as he heads toward the back door.
Gabe is entirely unflappable. He’s your classic run toward a burning building kind of guy. He might emerge a hero. He might not emerge at all.
“Where are you going, Daddy?” Freya asks as Gabe reaches for his coat.
“Going to catch frogs, poppet,” he says without breaking stride.
I remove my gloves and drape them over the tap. Sometimes I wonder if I should be a little more like Gabe. More of a hero. Instead, I am a helper. In times of crisis, I am a creator of meal rosters, a collector of donations, dispenser of information. Last year, when news of the pandemic started to filter through, my entire family—parents, sister, sister-in-law, sister-in-law’s parents—all called me with their questions on social distancing, masks, and vaccinations, hanging on my every word and taking notes as if I were an epidemiologist rather than a wills and estates lawyer. I rose to the challenge, dishing out advice gleaned from reputable verified sources and subduing family panic. But the kind of emergency happening outside right now? That is Gabe’s domain.
I call the police from the next room—they don’t need much in the way of an explanation from me anymore. I’ve made seven phone calls like this since we moved to the cliff house, a year ago. Now, I merely say, “It’s Pippa Gerard—there’s someone on the cliff,” and it’s sufficient.
It’s hard to believe that we’d bought this house because of the cliff.
“Imagine sitting outside on warm nights and watching the sun sink into the sea,” Gabe had said the first time we saw it. “What a dream.”
It did indeed seem like a dream. A cliffside home in Portsea, a sleepy coastal town a couple of hours outside of Melbourne, the last in a procession of increasingly exclusive beach towns at the very tip of the Mornington Peninsula? It seemed unfathomable that we’d be able to afford such a place, even if it was a ramshackle cottage rather than one of the sandstone mansions that flanked it. We were shocked to discover we could afford it. Being from the city, we weren’t aware of the notoriety of The Drop, where the tall cliffs had become popular among those wishing to end their lives. By the time we realized, Gabe was too in love with the place to let it go.
“Do we really want the girls to be around this, Gabe?” I’d asked him. “How are we supposed to explain it to them? And what if they wander too close to the edge themselves?”
“We’ll put a fence up. And if they have questions about the people who come to The Drop, we just answer them in an age-appropriate way.”
Gabe had been so calm, so pragmatic, that it was hard to argue. And to his credit, he practiced what he preached. The day we moved in, he had a fence erected around the perimeter of our land and warned the girls they couldn’t go beyond it unless they had a grown-up with them. And in the year we’ve been here, they’ve never gone beyond the fence, and they’ve certainly never seen anyone jump. They couldn’t have, because out of the seven souls who have come to the cliff since we moved in, seven have walked away. Gabe has saved them all.
“What does he say to them?” Kat asks, joining me at the window. She’s been working today, and her tracksuit pants and fluffy slippers are oddly incongruent with her fully made-up face. This is the first time Kat has been present when someone has visited The Drop, and she is clearly exhilarated by the drama, while trying to remain appropriately somber.
“He asks if he can help them with anything. Or he might ask if they like the view. Anything to force them out of their thoughts and back into the world. Then he tries to get them chatting.”
We watch as Gabe approaches the woman, and she turns to face him. She is farther back from the edge than they usually are, which I hope is a good sign.
“The view?” Kat says. “That really works?”
“Apparently.”
But we both know it wouldn’t matter what Gabe said. People don’t come down from the cliff because of something he says. They come down because of who he is. When people meet Gabe, they feel safe. Seen. I’ve always thought he would make an excellent cult leader. Or used-car salesman. Last week there’d been an article about Gabe in the local rag—NEW RESIDENT SAVES LIVES AT THE DROP. The article had referred to him as an “angel.” Gabe had posed for a photo at The Drop, smiling broadly. With his golden tan, blue eyes, and sandy windswept hair, he looked half surfer, half mountain man.
I’ve often wondered if his good looks play a part in his ability to convince people to live. I’m reminded of his good looks daily—not by Gabe but by everyone else.
“How’d you land him?”
“Is that your husband?”
“He is gorgeous.”
It’s not that I’m unattractive. In high school, a group of boys ranked me 7/10 for looks (which got them ranked 10/10 for assholery), but I think the 7 was accurate. I have a nice smile, wavy blond hair, a well-proportioned figure … and I also have a larger than average forehead and smaller than average eyes. I do my best with what I’ve got, and with makeup and heels I could probably get as high as an 8.5. Still, the fact is, most mornings I wake up looking like Shrek while Gabe wakes up looking like Chris Hemsworth, and there is no use denying facts.
Gabe and the woman appear to be talking animatedly. Gabe is using a lot of hand gestures. Admittedly, he’s partial to a hand gesture, but there are even more than usual today.
“What happens if they don’t want to look at the view?” Kat asks.
I shrug. “Thankfully we haven’t had to face that problem yet.”
The first time we saw someone on the cliff, it was midafternoon on a Sunday and the girls were on the grass playing in the blow-up paddling pool because Gabe and I couldn’t be bothered walking down the zillion steps to the beach. We’d just moved into the cliff house. It was a sunny day, with a gentle breeze off the water. Gabe and I had gin and tonics and were in the midst of congratulating ourselves on our clever sea change.
“Mummy,” Asha said, “that man is very close to the edge. He might fall.”
I looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The man was indeed very close to the edge. His toes were over the edge, and he held the flimsy branch of a moonah tree in his right hand. It wouldn’t save him. If he stepped off the edge, he’d take the tree out by the roots.
“Girls, I think I saw some ice cream in the freezer,” Gabe said, understanding before I did. “Maybe you and Mummy should go and get some?”
The quiet that came over Gabe made me feel safe and panicked all at once. I took the girls inside and sat them in front of the television (one of the benefits of minimal screen time is that when you do turn it on, no natural or unnatural disaster can tear their attention away) and stole glances at the scene through the kitchen window. Gabe sat way back on the grass, I noticed, at least ten meters away. After a few moments, the man turned around. Gabe’s body language was relaxed, as if he had nowhere to be. Five hours later, Gabe was in the same spot. So was the man, except his back was to the cliff now and he was talking, sometimes passionately, sometimes despondently. Around hour six, he was crying. When it got to hour seven, Gabe stood up and opened his arms. The man walked right into them. Later, Gabe told me the man had got so far into debt with his gambling problem that he couldn’t face his wife and kids.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“Not much. Mostly I just listened. When he finished, I told him I was sorry.”
When the police arrived, we’d been reprimanded for not calling earlier. They’d also praised Gabe’s efforts. It was nothing short of miraculous, they said, for a layman with no experience to talk someone down. A couple of the cops even asked Gabe for tips. Now we always call the police immediately, but it’s still Gabe who coaxes them away from the cliff, while I watch anxiously from the kitchen, my stomach plaited, wishing we’d never bought this damn house—just like I’m doing now.
The sun has set in the short time they’ve been out there. It happens quickly at this time of year. Under the lamplight, I can see that the woman has a dark ponytail and is wearing a black knee-length puffer jacket. She throws her arms up, the way Gabe does when his footy team loses.
“Has Daddy catched the frogs yet?”
Kat and I both startle, look down. Asha is standing at our feet holding, randomly, a fork. Freya stands worriedly beside her.
“Oh,” I say. “Not yet, poppet.”
“Does he need a fork?” she says, aggressively stabbing the air with it.
I wonder sometimes if I should be concerned about Asha’s mental health. I remember doing an online survey “Is Your Partner a Sociopath?” and answering the question “Have they ever caused harm to animals?” I felt smug as I reported that Gabe adores animals. (Well, most animals. He has a strange set against llamas—something to do with an incident at the zoo—but he wouldn’t cause harm to them, and that was the point.) As for Asha, I’m choosing to believe that even if she would harm a frog now, she will grow out of it. Surely! According to Mum, “All little kids are psychos. It’s a necessary, important phase of growth.” Except for those who don’t grow out of it, I suppose.
I look back through the window. Gabe is standing much closer to the woman than he usually would. Closer to the edge, too. This is against the rules—his own, and the police’s. The cliff is precarious enough for one person. Chunks of it fall into the ocean all the time. And on a day like this, the wind alone could force an unsuspecting person over the edge. Gabe has always been diligent about following the rules, despite his run toward the burning building mentality. I wonder if this is a sign of how it’s going. If so, it’s unlikely to be a good sign.
I glance briefly toward the street to see if the police are near. They won’t have sirens or lights on. Like Gabe, they prefer a more subtle approach, not wanting to surprise or crowd anyone.
“Mummy,” Freya says, “Asha is looking at me.”
“Asha, stop looking at your sister,” I say, my eyes still on the window.
Gabe takes a step toward the woman, which is also against the rules. “Don’t advance on them,” he always says. “Persuade them to come toward you, toward safety.”
When Freya screams, I think I might faint. “For heaven’s sake,” I say quietly, as I see the prongs of the fork pressing into Freya’s thigh and Asha’s huge brown unworried eyes. I grab the fork. “Asha!”
“Come on, girls,” Kat says. “I’ll read you a book. Let’s go pick one out.”
I turn back to the window. In the dark it takes me a moment to locate them. When I do, I don’t understand what I’m seeing. The space where the woman had been standing is now vacant. Gabe is alone at the cliff’s edge now. His arms are outstretched, palms facing the empty air.
Copyright © 2023 by Sally Hepworth
Copyright © 2024 by Sally Hepworth
