Falling Off Air Read Online Free

changed the babies in turn, lifted them one by one into their high chairs, then toasted bread and
     cut up apples and bananas. I poured milk into two cups and twisted lids onto them. With food and drink in front of them they
     stopped complaining. I turned on the radio, but before I got to hear so much as a headline the doorbell rang. I sighed, abandoned
     the children again and went to open the door. It was Jane. I had hardly seen her since she realized that I had a problem making
     child-free lunches—in fact I had a problem with child-free anything—and she had a problem with children. I let her in, along
     with another squall of rain. The whole house felt damp, as though the rain were leaking into its joints.
    Jane shook herself like a dog, spraying a mist of water all over me, then took off her raincoat, handed it to me, and raised
     her eyebrows.
    “What a thing to happen, eh?” she said.
    Jane is of Chinese descent, with a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and black hair that hangs almost to her hips. She looks
     positively imperial. It's all undermined though when she arches an eyebrow, opens her mouth, and a strong Perth accent emerges.
     Her parents settled in Scotland in the late fifties, fleeing Mao and getting farther than most. Her mother and father, both
     physicists who spoke no English, opened what must have been one of the first Chinese restaurants north of the border. They
     retired after a couple of decades, but Jane's sister now ran the business, which had diversified into fish and chips years
     ago and was about to go up market and launch a Thai menu. Her parents, fearing her Scottish accent would hold her back, sent
     her to elocution lessons, but Jane refused to cooperate. Instead, defiantly, she became more Scottish than ever.
    Jane looked tired, the early morning light illuminating the dusting of feathery lines around her eyes and across her forehead.
    “You're up early,” I said.
    She gestured over her shoulder toward the Carmichael house.
    “I was working into the wee hours. I put two and two together. It was you who found her, was it not?”
    I nodded.
    “The address was on the agency copy,” she explained, heading into the sitting room. “I—” She stopped dead, staring at the
     window.
    “Come into the kitchen,” I turned to lead the way, “and I'll get you a towel for your hair.”
    I boiled the kettle while Jane arranged herself on an upright chair, rubbing the towel I gave her over her head and watching
     Hannah and William, not touching, not talking to them, clearly at a loss as to what to say. Well it's hard to coo over a baby
     when you've suggested to its mother that she have it aborted. Without someone to share the load they would ruin my life, she'd
     told me, and of course they had, in the nicest possible way.
    “Well,” she said at last with rare diplomacy, “they're thriving.” Then, with less diplomacy, “Hannah's the spitting image
     of Adam.”
    I scowled.
    “What? Do you not think so?” Jane protested.
    “I prefer to think they were an early experiment in cloning.”
    “William's got his mouth as well, so no one will believe you.”
    There was silence as I poured boiling water into the coffeepot, and I became very aware of my baggy sweater with a hole at
     one elbow and the remains of Hannah's regurgitated apple on the other. Under Jane's cool and elegant scrutiny I could feel
     the bags under my eyes swell to balloonlike proportions. I felt resentment prickle at my neck. I had not invited her here
     to observe me.
    I turned to face her, leaning my hips back against the counter, allowing the coffee to steep.
    “Why are you here?” I asked, although I had already as good as guessed.
    Jane held my gaze.
    “The police aren't ruling out foul play.” It was her work voice, confident, persuasive. “Did you see what happened? Was there
     anyone there but her?”
    Only the few of us who knew Jane very well could hear the slight increase in pace, the increased