by Brandy Scott
Melinda sat back in her chair. The chances were zero, less than. Single woman, working fifteen-hour days, six days a week, across three time zones. No family support. An impractical glass-filled, sharp-edged apartment, not even safety locks on the windows. There was no way in hell anyone would give her a baby. But it would look good to try. And she really had to now. She didn’t need anyone accusing her of lying, any clever journalists wondering why there was no paperwork. Melinda leaned forward and started to type.
CHAPTER 18
Pete sat next to his son, his miracle child, awake from the dead, and felt nothing. All around him, people were quietly celebrating. Doctors, nurses — even Cameron had grabbed his arm, the first time they’d touched in years. The air was fizzing with barely contained excitement, a grand final goal scored in intensive care. ‘Awake,’ people kept whispering to each other, marvelling. ‘Awake.’ But this wasn’t awake. This was bullshit.
They’d come and fetched him from physio, two nurses bursting through the door like a firecracker, and he’d lumbered blindly back down the hallway with them. Pete had almost run those last few steps, his stick sliding across the hospital floor, had to be told to slow down. But when they’d reached Lincoln’s room, everything was the same as it had been at breakfast. His son wasn’t sitting up, asking confused questions about where he was. His son wasn’t doing anything. The machines were still doing it all. It took Pete a few moments to realise, to hear the devices beeping and humming and feeding and emptying his child. And then he’d collapsed, his shocked breath setting his chest on fire.
‘You can’t expect him to be right as rain straightaway,’ said the neurologist. ‘It’s not like flicking on a light switch.’ Lincoln’s eyes were open, apparently; he could focus, had turned his head. But still, Pete felt cruelly tricked. The five-minute stumble down the corridor, the word twinkling in his ear — awake! — had been the only bright moment since the accident. And now he sat with a limp hand in his, faking a smile the doctors could clearly see through.
‘He’s not so much awake as aware,’ one said quietly, pulling a chair up alongside. ‘Completely normal with head injuries. It’s a gradual process, coming round. It’s not like the movies. You need to be patient. He’ll come back to us, in his own time.’
I’m not impatient, Pete wanted to say. I’m fucking guilty. With that one word — awake! — Pete had begun to feel the impossible: absolution. Now he just felt as though the universe was playing a trick on him. Teaching him a lesson, letting his hopes fly high, before bringing them crashing and burning to the ground.
‘Give me a moment,’ he said. ‘I want a bit of time alone with him, if that’s okay.’ The room murmured understanding, amid a flurry of scraping furniture and padding feet. Pete pulled his chair up right next to the bed, so close he could feel Lincoln’s breath.
‘Mate,’ he said when they were gone, his hand on top of Lincoln’s head, cupping it like he had when he was little. ‘I’m so sorry.’
People spoke about what they’d do for their children, if they had to. If they could. Offering to die in their place, to take the pain on themselves. Hang around a hospital like this and you heard it all the time. I wish I could have the chemo for him. If only I was the one who was sick. There was a woman who got a new tattoo every time her daughter was brought in for treatment, so she could feel the needles and burning as well. That was love, that was. But what Pete was feeling was more complicated. He let the tears come, not bothering to wipe them from his useless eyes. Because he’d done this, he’d put his son here, and for just a few bloody minutes it had seemed like the world was going to forgive him.
There was a trolley rattling down the hallway. Pete waited until it passed, then laid his head carefully on his son’s chest. ‘This is all my fault,’ he said, feeling the determined heartbeat beneath his cheek. ‘I should’ve known better. I stuffed up, mate. I really stuffed up.’
The crying felt strangely cathartic. Pete wasn’t religious, but his confession took on the cadence of a prayer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he choked. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.’
A curtain whispered behind them. ‘Who’s there?’ Pete called, but no one answered. He waited, making sure, then went back to his pleas. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued, voice low. ‘Please, I’m sorry.’
And maybe someone did hear, maybe there really was someone up there who answered the prayers of the desperate, because in the middle of Pete’s chant, an arm knocked gently against the side of his head. There was a grunt, not even particularly human, but still. Pete sat up so fast he sent an IV pole reeling.
‘Mum,’ said a hoarse voice in the bed.
‘He’s awake,’ Pete called. ‘Someone, anyone, he’s really awake.’
He didn’t remember until later, didn’t even think about the noise he’d heard until the nurse came in to turn Lincoln. ‘Miracle or no miracle, we don’t want him developing bedsores,’ she said, bustling around the room. Lincoln was asleep again but that was fine; he could take his own sweet time now that Pete knew he was going to be okay.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ the nurse continued. ‘Out at reception. Why don’t you go chat with her, maybe get some fresh air.’ Her tone was light, but forceful. ‘Leave us to do his exercises in peace. We don’t need an audience, do we, Lincoln?’
An audience. ‘Was there someone here earlier?’ Pete asked casually. ‘About half an hour ago? I thought I heard someone in the room.’
‘Must have been Cameron,’ the nurse said. ‘He’s been in and out all day. Like a cat, that one — you just turn and he’s there.’ There was a whirr as the bed was lowered. ‘Lovely for him, isn’t it, his brother coming round? You two have really got something to celebrate.’
Cameron stood in the doorway, taking stock of the woman perched beside his stepfather. She looked vaguely familiar, but then so did all the women in this town. Dark curly hair. Plump. Sexy, if you liked older women. Which he didn’t, particularly. He could see why Pete would fancy her, though. They were speaking quietly, heads close together. Intimate.
She must have felt his eyes on her, because she looked up with a start.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he said easily. She wore a lot of jewellery, as the better-off women in Hensley tended to. Quite a bit of makeup too. She was clearly making an effort. For a blind man?
‘You two carry on,’ he said, leaning against the doorframe.
She stumbled to her feet, flushing pink. ‘I was just leaving.’ She bent down to kiss his stepfather — on the cheek, Cameron noted, but with a lingering hand on his arm. ‘I don’t want to take up your time. Today of all days.’
Cameron didn’t move aside as she passed, forcing her to brush against him, reeking of sweat and an overly sweet perfume. Nervous. That was interesting. And bolting like a horse. He followed her slowly out into the hallway, stood and watched as she jabbed at the button for the lift.
‘Who was that?’ he asked the duty nurse, as the elevator began its descent.
‘That? Oh, that’s Aimee Verratti.’ The nurse held up a basket. ‘She brought muffins, look.’
‘The two of them are friends?’
‘Dunno. Assume so.’ The nurse rootled beneath the tea towel. ‘Everyone’s friends with everyone out here. Ooh, look, carrot. Lovely.’
He held out his hand. ‘Has she been before?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said the nurse. ‘Although I’m not always the one on duty. I could check with the others.’ She looked up from the basket. ‘But why don’t you just ask your dad?’
‘Stepdad.’ Cameron tore his muffin in half, straight down the middle. The inside was sticky-soft and still slightly warm. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, sinking his teeth in. ‘I will.’
CHAPTER 19
Most of the children had chosen to paint the gold rush. Aimee wandered around the post office, hmming appreciatively at endless misshapen figures holding outsize pans and the sort of nuggets that would have given Hensley a GDP on a par with that o
f Switzerland.
‘Aren’t they darling?’ called Sharna, from behind the counter.
‘Darling,’ agreed Aimee, raising an eyebrow at a blue ribbon attached to a particularly average painting by the mayor’s favourite grandson. ‘What was the theme?’ she asked, placing her handbag on the counter.
‘Town slogan, of course,’ said Sharna, jerking her head at the banner on the far wall. HENSLEY: THE LUCKY TOWN, it read, in clashing footy-team colours of maroon and gold. ‘Same as last year.’
‘Creative,’ murmured Aimee, although she personally loved the slogan, agreed with it completely. ‘So what’s been going on?’ she asked, pulling a couple of fifties from her purse. ‘Can you break some notes for me?’
‘Well, we’ve all been talking about you,’ said Sharna, taking the money.
Aimee’s breath caught at the bottom of her throat.
‘Whole town’s looking forward to hearing this poem of yours. Maxine’s even recording it for the radio. But no pressure!’
‘Oh God,’ said Aimee, reaching for her water bottle. ‘Don’t tell me that.’ She screwed the lid back on, tight. ‘Surely there are more interesting things to talk about than my poetry though.’
‘Well, you know the Reillys are leaving, moving to the city. Hensley’s not enough for them any more.’ Sharna sniffed her disapproval.
‘Is that so.’
Sharna bit her lip as she counted Aimee’s notes. ‘The cupcake shop’s closing down. No great surprise. I said there wasn’t enough business to keep it going, but when did Deidre ever listen to me?’
For God’s sake. ‘Have you heard about Lincoln?’
Sharna paused, keys dangling. ‘About him waking up? Sure did.’ She dropped her voice, even though they were the only people in the building. ‘Course, there are a lot of unanswered questions. Let me get this sorted, and I’ll bring you up to speed.’
Aimee leaned against cool plaster while Sharna bustled out back to the safe. Nick never understood why she didn’t just use the ANZ, but Sharna’s wooden post office was the beating heart of Hensley. If there was a job going or a car for sale, it was on the noticeboard, internet be damned. If you needed to make a phone call without your number popping up on someone’s mobile, her tin roof sheltered the only payphone left in town. And if there was a rumour doing the rounds, Sharna would’ve heard it. The trick was to get what you needed without divulging your own family secrets, which would be halfway to Melbourne before you were out the door.
‘Here you go, couple of twenties and the rest in tens and fives.’ Sharna tucked the little plastic bag of notes inside Aimee’s handbag herself. ‘Oooh, this is pretty,’ she said, opening an eyeshadow compact. ‘Dior, fancy. Melinda give you this?’
‘Birthday present to myself,’ said Aimee, taking the compact back and zipping it firmly away. ‘So, what were you saying about the Kasprowiczes?’
‘Well.’ Sharna settled her elbows into a pair of grooves worn into the post office counter by decades of gossip and judgement. ‘You know the boy’s woken up, obviously. Which is great news.’
‘Yes,’ said Aimee, who wavered almost hourly when it came to whether the news was great or not. Obviously, she was glad Pete’s son was doing well. But the idea that Lincoln might have seen something had thrown her. She’d sat outside the hospital for nearly an hour, convincing herself that she didn’t need to go in, that she’d be intruding on a family she barely knew, but in the end she couldn’t stand not knowing whether he’d said anything incriminating, if she’d be met with frosty stares from the nurses and naked hatred from Pete and a police officer saying, ‘Aimee Verratti? What a coincidence. Can we have a moment?’
‘He’s floating in and out of consciousness, apparently. Was able to say a few words to his dad last night, but not, you know, sentences. People reckon he’s going to be fine, but I dunno. He was out for almost a week. You can’t tell me that’s good for things upstairs.’ Sharna tapped her own head knowingly.
Aimee nodded back. She’d been horribly relieved to find Lincoln was sleeping, that he’d only been awake for a few minutes. And then instantly disgusted with herself. How could she be pleased that a teenage boy, the same age as Byron, was lying unresponsive in a hospital bed? What kind of terrible person would hope this child stayed alive — of course she wanted him to stay alive — but that he also might conveniently have his father’s memory loss?
Although if he was going to have brain damage, and that’s what she was hoping for, wasn’t she, really, then maybe he’d be better off — No, Aimee. Don’t even go there. She took a swig from her water bottle.
‘So they did some tests.’ Sharna leaned over the counter. ‘Little bird at the hospital told me. And there was alcohol in Pete’s system. He’d been drinking before he went up.’ Sharna’s chest gave a self-important quiver.
‘Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Pete.’
Peter Kasprowicz was the type of man who’d been forty-five since he was seventeen. Earnest. Community-minded. The kind of man who volunteered for the Clean Up Our Riverbank drive, then actually stayed to pick up rubbish, rather than duck off to the pub with the rest of them. ‘I’ve never even seen him drunk.’
‘Arthur’s been asking around. No one saw him at the pub, and he wasn’t at the river barbecue. But he’d certainly had a few. Maybe at home alone.’ Sharna nodded to herself. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. He hasn’t been the same since Julia died. Maybe he turned to alcohol to blot it out.’
‘Maybe,’ said Aimee, taking another sip from her water bottle. ‘I can see why you would.’
‘Well, he’s certainly medicating.’ Sharna tilted Aimee’s bag, admired it. ‘And there’s more. I don’t want to gossip, but I once ran into him over in Meadowcroft picking up a prescription. I was just close enough to see the form on the counter, you know, when they go off to fill it. And it was for antidepressants. And everyone knows you’re not supposed to mix the two.’
‘You can, actually,’ said Aimee.
‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that.’ Sharna didn’t like being corrected. ‘I just know it’s a lot to have in your system.’ The little bell on the veranda tinkled as someone walked up the post office steps. ‘And I know that if you’re flying you’re not supposed to drink at all. It’s not like driving.’ Sharna closed Aimee’s bag with a decisive little click. ‘Say what you like, that man’s going to have some explaining to do.’
Melinda had just begun stuffing the thick A4 envelopes through the infuriatingly small postbox opening when Aimee came barrelling into her. ‘Hey,’ she said, quickly turning the envelopes over. ‘Watch it.’
Aimee looked confused to see her. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘And what are you posting?’
‘Nothing important.’ Melinda willed more envelopes into the gap, but the forms were thick and plentiful. ‘God, you’d think they’d widen this. What’s Sharna going to do when Hensley discovers eBay?’
Aimee reached over and took the last couple of envelopes off her. ‘Adoption agencies?’ she said. ‘In Bulgaria? Really?’
Melinda shrugged. It seemed incredible that these places couldn’t be dealt with online, but more than half a dozen still insisted on a physical inquiry, with photos and photocopies. The more forms Melinda had filled out, the more strangely excited she’d become about the whole project, and the more important it seemed that she didn’t let a single foreign possibility go unexplored. By 3 am she had an empty bottle of wine, a stack of envelopes, and a possibly unwise photograph of her labour on Instagram: Taking my first baby steps towards growing our LoveLocked family.
‘You’re really going to do it. You’re really going to adopt.’
‘Oi!’ said Melinda, glancing through the open post office door, where Sharna was tacking a large banner, HENSLEY: THE LUCKY TOWN. Well, let’s hope so. She pulled Aimee off the veranda steps and onto the footpath. ‘Keep it down. I’m not ready to take out a front-page ad in the Hensley Echo just yet.’
‘
Sorry,’ said Aimee, but she didn’t lower her voice. ‘But why didn’t you just get your PA to post them? You don’t do mail.’
Because Melinda had wanted five minutes picking Sharna’s brain, although now there was no chance. ‘Because I’m on my way to watch you speak. Two birds, one stone.’ She gave Aimee’s arm a squeeze. ‘Are you excited?’
Aimee didn’t seem to hear. ‘Guess what,’ she said. ‘Lincoln’s awake.’
Melinda checked over her shoulder. ‘That’s nice,’ she said cautiously. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’
‘Even better, he doesn’t remember anything!’
‘There’s nothing to remember.’ Melinda squinted at her suspiciously animated friend. ‘Have you been drinking coffee? You know you’re not supposed to.’
‘No,’ said Aimee, indignantly. ‘Have you been shagging Clint?’ She pulled out a copy of The Age and waved it in the air accusingly.
Blimey, that was quick. ‘We’re seeing each other, actually,’ said Melinda, reaching for the moral high ground, and the newspaper.
‘But you don’t even like him,’ said Aimee, holding both out of reach. ‘You said he was boring and money-driven and up himself.’
‘Well, maybe I was wrong.’
Aimee held the paper higher. ‘He talks about himself in the third person.’
‘He’s stopped doing that, actually.’ Melinda swiped again.
‘He eats with his mouth open,’ Aimee reminded her. ‘He makes quote marks in the air with his fingers.’
‘Well, sometimes you have to compromise.’
‘But you don’t compromise.’
‘Well, maybe that’s the problem,’ said Melinda, exhausted. Aimee was hyper, which meant she’d crash later, the town crier was in earshot, Melinda was riding on four hours’ sleep and they still had this bloody concert to get through. ‘Maybe I need to.’ She held her hand out. ‘You’re being really fucking annoying, Aimee. Just give it to me.’ The paper was lowered; Melinda grabbed it. ‘Thank you.’