Like I Can Love

by Kim Lock

‘He’ll be without a parent!’ Fairlie cries, panicked. ‘He can’t go into foster care. Oh how awful –’

  Dallas says, ‘Ark wants you to take care of Henry.’

  *

  ‘So Ark was selling wine illegally? Like, on the side?’ Fairlie sets her coffee down and pictures Ark with shady-looking characters, clandestine meetings in dimly lit car parks on rainy evenings, handing over duffle bags of alcohol and grabbing briefcases of cash in return. Leather jackets and black SUVs and gruff, grunty conversation. Inexplicably, she bursts out a kind of hysterical, disbelieving laugh.

  From inside her handbag her phone beeps, and Fairlie excuses herself to check. A photo message from Brian, a close-up of his face, brown eyes squinted, grinning, holding a tiny grey kitten to his cheek. My new friend, Brian has written. Would Yodel like a play date? Fairlie’s immediate reaction is to stall, but then she pictures Henry. Henry. He would love to play with a kitten! Already she can see herself tidying up the spare room, throwing out her junk to make space for Henry’s things. In the lounge room she’ll put a row of baskets beneath the window for his toys and storybooks, like he has at home. Just around the corner from her flat is a family day-care centre with a leafy backyard and a sandpit shaped like a turtle where she can leave Henry while she goes to work. Mrs Soblieski will help, and her parents, and Evelyn. And Dallas.

  Her entire family. Henry’s family.

  Fairlie writes back to Brian, Yodel says yes.

  The waiter returns with two steaming bowls of soup and the conversation softens. Dallas asks about work at the hospital; Fairlie regales him with tales of her neighbour’s epic doorstep feasts. But, emboldened by peas and ham, Fairlie says, ‘How come you never contacted me?’

  He sets down his spoon. ‘I wanted to.’

  ‘So why didn’t you?’

  The waiter sweeps in with more water, and Dallas offers him a brief smile. But Fairlie’s gaze remains trained on the man across from her: the scattered curve of tiny moles below his right eye, the salty flecks in the stubble across his jaw, the laughter and the old, old sorrow in the lines tracking his eyes, lips and throat.

  Dallas clenches a loose fist, runs the heel of his hand over a scratch in the tabletop. ‘I didn’t want to interfere,’ he says finally. ‘I didn’t want to upset or confuse you in any way.’ He smiles sadly. ‘Your parents are wonderful people. I know you had a great childhood.’

  ‘I did,’ she breaks in, ‘but I always waited for one of my real parents to come. Every time the phone rang I wondered if it would be my birth mum, calling to make sure I was being looked after. Like a real mum should.’ Fairlie knows Pattie would wince to hear it, but no matter how devoted and loving Pattie was as her adoptive mother, Fairlie never stopped wondering. Waiting.

  ‘Evelyn was scared,’ Dallas says. ‘She was terrified of this town and how it might hurt you. She made me promise to wait until she was ready. But that day never really came.’

  ‘But we did get hurt,’ Fairlie says. ‘Jenna died.’

  Anguish creases his face. ‘Evelyn never stopped talking about either of you. She loved you both. Equally. That this has happened is . . .’ He pushes his bowl away and wearily rubs his face.

  Fairlie twirls her spoon in her fingers. Across the room a woman exclaims something about a new car. A basket of bread is delivered to the table alongside them and a young boy politely asks for more butter.

  ‘The day Jenna died,’ Fairlie begins cautiously. ‘When I came to the house. You knew who I was.’

  He looks at her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bittersweet.’

  ‘That doesn’t even come close.’

  ‘I vomited on the floor.’

  ‘A very understandable reaction.’

  Fairlie looks up at him. Her biological father. ‘I miss her,’ she says. ‘I don’t know if I can stand it.’

  Dallas reaches across the table, turning his hand so his palm faces up. He’s offering it to her. Asking for her consent. Though his skin is marginally darker than hers, his eyes are the russet of her own and he has the same barely discernible dust of spots over the bridge of his nose.

  ‘Can you curl your tongue?’ she asks.

  Dallas pokes out his tongue. Curled.

  Fairlie hesitates, then puts her hand in his.

  iii

  Yodel finds the idea of a play date with Brian’s new kitten less than ideal.

  While the kitten gambols around on Fairlie’s lounge room floor, chasing after a hair-tie, Yodel has flattened himself beneath the television cabinet and emits a high-pitched whine from the back of his throat, hissing any time the fluffy grey kitten comes within reach. The kitten, in its naivety, is unperturbed by such a frosty reception.

  Brian Masters is lying on his side on the carpet, propped up on one elbow, head resting in his hand. Tendons line bare feet, knobbly ankles. Dark blue jeans and a loose t-shirt. Bands of frayed leather around tanned wrists. A blondish three-week beard that scuffs her lips but is silky beneath her fingers. Jenna’s coffee stain ends beneath his arm.

  ‘What was it like?’ Brian asks, tugging a long strip of paper for the kitten to pounce upon. ‘Ouch,’ he adds, as the kitten digs tiny claws into his fingers.

  ‘Weird,’ Fairlie answers honestly. Although amongst finding out she is Jenna’s twin sister, Ark swindling the government out of 1.5 million dollars, and watching Brian Masters go from drunken sex to sober play with a kitten on the same spot on her carpet, ‘weird’ seems to have become a normal concept. Fairlie shifts her weight and wraps her arms around her knees. ‘But also kind of easy. Like I’ve always known him.’ What is she doing? Why is she relaxing on her lounge room floor, playing with a kitten and a guy from high school? Brian’s ponytail drapes forwards over his shoulder and the kitten pounces at it.

  ‘He told me my great-grandmother was born beneath a rocky outcrop at the base of Mount Shank,’ Fairlie blurts out.

  Brian extracts the kitten from his hair and looks at her, listening.

  ‘I’m Buandig mob. Local,’ she tells him, picking up the kitten and holding the squirming, fuzzy bundle up to her face. ‘Lots of my ancestors are from around here. It’s incredible to know I have roots here. I didn’t know how many pieces of the jigsaw were missing until now that I can see them. Where I’m from. Where my family is from.’

  Her phone starts to ring and she reaches to grab it from the couch. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she says at the caller ID. She lifts the phone to her ear and says, ‘Yo.’

  Dallas says, ‘Ark’s just been raided by the AFP.’

  24

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  Butterflies flit about in Fairlie’s belly as she stands on the kerb. A cooling breeze lifts the hair from her neck and she tucks stray curls behind her ears, then smooths her palms over her jeans.

  They are five minutes late. Craning her neck she looks down the street, but it is still empty. A car appears at the end of the street and her heart jumps, but it doesn’t turn, it slides on past.

  Behind her, Yodel meows plaintively through the screen door and she turns and calls to the cat, ‘I’ll be right there.’ Through the flyscreen she can see the tidy living room carpet – with a brush and a foaming carpet cleaner she’s even managed to remove the coffee stain – and the clean expanse of the kitchen benchtop. The fragrance of fresh bread reaches her even out here.

  Turning back to the street, she watches a white sedan turn the corner and glide up her street. Marguile Rudolph’s car. For the past week Ark’s mother has been staying out at ArkAcres, helping to take care of Henry while Ark’s case has been in front of the judge. Fairlie imagines how arduous the week must have been for them all. Does Marguile know that Ark had chosen Fairlie to take care of Henry instead of her because he believed his own mother too weak, too pitiable?

  It has been eight long months since Jenna’s death.

 
The car pulls into the driveway and Fairlie sees his little face peering out the back window. She grins and waves.

  Ark’s mother steps from the car. Smoothing her silvery hair down, she looks as though she could blow away in the breeze. She busies herself opening the boot and lifting out bags and boxes, placing them onto the driveway.

  Ark unfolds his bulky frame from the passenger seat. He looks awful. Worse than when Jenna died. His skin is grey, like the underside of a dead fish and his hands are shaking. A small pang of sympathy flickers through her, until she remembers the contents of Jenna’s diary. Ark watches his mother remove Henry’s things from the car, like he’s watching her on TV.

  They stand in an awkward triangle: Ark, his mother, and Fairlie.

  Fairlie speaks first. ‘Last day tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ark runs an agitated hand through his hair, nails bitten and scabbed. He’s lost weight so rapidly that the flesh on the underside of his arm hangs from the bone.

  ‘Any idea how long . . .?’

  Marguile’s cheeks suck in angrily. Fairlie wonders if she’s angry at the judicial system, or at her son for being such a law-breaking arsehole.

  ‘Not sure exactly. Lawyer says it could be years. If I’m lucky, I might be out in seven.’

  Holy shit. Seven years in jail.

  ‘Listen, I . . .’ Ark’s voice shatters. He looks at her desperately. ‘You can think what you want of me, but I know you’ll look after him.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Fairlie answers. ‘He’s my nephew.’

  Ark lifts the boy from the car and sets him down. He wears brand-new sneakers and his red tracksuit pants are rolled up at the ankles.

  Crouching to her knees, Fairlie opens her arms and Henry toddles towards her. In front of her he comes to a halt, suddenly shy.

  ‘I not two,’ he says, in his charmingly inelegant toddler voice.

  ‘You’re not?’ she asks animatedly. ‘How old are you then? Forty-seven?’

  ‘Two-a-half,’ he says, laughing at his own joke. Then he launches himself abruptly, his weight thumps into her body and she rocks back, kissing his cheeks and his hair.

  He smells like Jenna.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am grateful to my wonderful publisher Haylee Nash for her enthusiasm and dedication to this story right from the beginning. Warmest thanks to Alex Lloyd for his exceptionally clever and patient editorial expertise, to Deonie Fiford and Kylie Mason, and to all the staff at Pan Macmillan Australia.

  My deepest gratitude to Pippa Masson for being utterly brilliant in every way, to Dana Slaven and everyone at Curtis Brown Australia, and to Kate Cooper at Curtis Brown UK.

  To Meg Vann and the Queensland Writers Centre I am grateful for the opportunities. Thank you to Paul Lucas and J.M. Peace for answering difficult questions about police work; to Monica Murfett for offering legal information; to Jill Buck for schooling me on bookkeeping; and to Gypsy Whitford for sharing personal experiences. Black Chicks Talking by Leah Purcell and Lundy Bancroft’s Why Does He Do That? The Secrets of Angry and Controlling Men were useful to me in the writing of this novel. At times I heeded advice and at times I favoured creative license – errors are mine.

  Many thanks to Hayley Prentice and Kevin Massey for hours of creative childcare. Thank you to Anna Solding and Lynette Washington for the writerly companionship, chocolate, and midnight political discourse at Meningie.

  As always I am grateful to those who read drafts: Julie Lock, Stacey Lock, Renee Lock and Amber Mount. My adoration to Leisa Masters and Kelly Morgan who always go above and beyond in areas of advice, friendship, and high-pitched encouragement. Thank you to my talented writing group buddies of ‘The Eight’: Laura Elvery, Kathy George, Mhairead McLeod, J.M. Peace, Sarah Ridout, and extra thanks to the magnificent Les Zigomanis. You are my people and you are superb.

  Thanks to my parents Peter and Julie, my family and friends – you know who you are. Your cheering keeps me going. And love to Ben, Addison and Leo – for getting it.

  About Kim Lock

  Kim Lock was born in 1981. She has worked around Australia as a graphic designer and volunteered as a breastfeeding ­counsellor. Her non-fiction has appeared in The Guardian, Daily Life, and The Sydney Morning Herald online. Her fiction explores the stories that shape people’s lives, but which they hide from society. Like I Can Love is her second novel.

  Kim lives in the Barossa Valley, South Australia, with her partner and their children, a dog and a couple of cats.

  First published 2016 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

  Copyright © Kim Lock 2016

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available

  from the National Library of Australia

  http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

  EPUB format: 9781743549575

  Typeset by Post Pre-press Group

  Cover images: Ursula Alter/iStock; Irina Fischer, Spisit Sorin and Africa Studio/Shutterstock

  Cover design: Debra Billson

  The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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