by Kylie Kaden
Molly slid the meal on the glass table. ‘Still. Pretty sure it’s my name.’
The woman swallowed hard. ‘Yes. I know, dear. I’m old enough to remember when you were born.’
Small towns: everyone thought they knew who you were. It was a fallacy. Molly didn’t even know that herself. But she was sure she wasn’t one of those ‘spoilt millennials’ grown–ups liked to complain about, as if they weren’t the people who had raised that generation.
‘Didn’t expect Angela to have another one, after so long,’ Gwen continued, ‘Hannah must be twice your age, surely?’
‘You knew Mum?’
Nodding, Mrs Andrews explained, ‘Your parents had just come back from their trip – you were their second-honeymoon surprise. That’s what your mum called you. She was so besotted, carrying you in that hippie-sling thing modern mothers use. Your mum was so lovely, so tall and elegant, she barely showed at all.’ The woman’s lip twisted. ‘Smells like butter chicken again. I told Mabel I don’t have the stomach for Indian. Not with the IBS.’
Molly had no idea what that was but she didn’t want to find out. ‘Sorry.’ Molly frowned. ‘I can see what else I have in the box – do a swap with someone. They’ll never know.’
‘No, no. Don’t want someone else being lumped with my rejects.’
Molly shrugged. ‘Evs.’
Gwen grimaced. ‘Evs? What is Evs?’
‘Short for whatevs.’
Gwen looked confused. ‘I worked in a school for twenty years. I thought I was fluent in teen speak.’
‘Everything is shortened, now. Sorry becomes soz, jealous becomes jelly, get it?’
Gwen shook her head. ‘The hurried generation.’
The woman had asked her to refill the water jug and fetch cutlery from the kitchen, which Molly did. It felt wrong but she’d discovered she liked snooping, seeing how people lived, and usually found the inside was never as impressive as the outside suggested.
Molly had looked around, sliding her finger across the edge of an ornate glass-doored cabinet, wondering why there were no photos resting on it. Catching an inside glimpse of the person’s life was her favourite part. She did the same when she worked at Jay’s Patisserie, sneaking peeks at people’s wallet-photos, making up stories to go with them. ‘Nice place,’ she offered.
‘It’s small.’
Molly shrugged. ‘Easy to clean.’
‘And draughty.’
‘Good in summer.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you always this chipper?’
I have to be. Molly hovered in the hall, pulled at her socks. The lady seemed be to avoiding eye contact, refusing to turn towards Molly, darting her eyes about and parting her lips like she was desperate to spit something out. Molly hoped it wasn’t the chicken.
‘Well, if that’s all okay, I’ll see you next time, Mrs Andrews.’
‘What happened to more than just a meal?’ Gwen asked. ‘Isn’t that their motto?’
‘Oh.’ Molly felt strangely offended. She was Employee of the Month at the bakery (even if there were only three employees). ‘Sorry.’ She flopped on the plastic-covered armchair, her skinny legs stretched long across the carpet as she prepared to wait around, do the right thing. Watch the woman eat.
‘Kick your shoes off, if you like, it’s stinking hot. Roll on autumn, I say!’
‘That’s okay.’
After a silence, Molly started to worry that her old VW wouldn’t start if she left the parkers on too long. But something about this place relaxed her: the homeliness of the random clutter, the embroidery on the table-runner. Womanly things.
‘Where’s Mabel?’ Mrs Andrews had asked between dainty bites. She ate like a bird.
‘I’m doing her run for a while.’ Molly fidgeted with the tassels on the crocheted cushion.
‘MS playing up again?’
Molly frowned at her. ‘MS?’
Mrs Andrews ignored the question, like old people thought they had the right to do. ‘You look like your sister, before she got, what do you kids say? Too cool for school and went abroad.’
Molly wondered if any kid actually said that.
‘Your dad must miss her. He okay with her living over there? Especially being a teacher – all those shootings. Metal detectors at school – my lord!’
‘She’s thirty-three. Think his say on that expired a while back.’ Along with his will to live.
‘Thirty-three! Goodness. Time does march on. Seems like only yesterday.’ Her hand covered her mouth, but she expertly composed herself once more. She reminded Molly of the queen in those Christmas-Day messages – warm and graceful, but forever in check.
‘You’re probably busy with grandchildren, are you, Mrs Andrews? Bowling? And your garden looks nice.’ Molly reminded herself to hunt down a replacement for the lavender she’d flattened. She liked plants. They had simple needs.
‘Does it? I rarely go out there. Henry from the corner runs the mower over it for me. One of the few gentlemen left.’
‘I like succulents. My dad gave me a big pot of them for my birthday.’
‘A teenager who gardens. Wonders will never cease.’
‘They’re hard to kill.’ Hardy but beautiful.
Molly looked around for pictures, wondering if there was a Mr Andrews once. She noticed a happy plant looking rather unhappy in a dark corner, and took the liberty of refilling a watering can that sat near the door to attend to the withered plants. As she walked along the hall, she noticed wobbly piles of books plugging every available nook; along a picture board, jammed in what was probably supposed to be a broom cupboard. ‘You like to read, Mrs Andrews?’ Molly called out as she filled the watering can.
‘You make me feel like I’m at work calling me that. It’s Gwen. I was a school librarian for thirty-three years.’
Looking at the book stacks, Molly wondered if librarians stole novels the same way accountants nicked stationery. Crouched over the pot plant back in the lounge room, she watched the soil darken as she watered.
‘Hate the things now,’ Gwen muttered, all matter of fact.
‘What? Libraries?’ They were Molly’s favourite places.
Gwen glanced at Molly through hooded lids. ‘Books.’
Molly doubted that. No one said ‘hate’ without emotion and meant it. Not really. Gwen’s tone made it sound more like a challenge. Molly looked over to the plant; the leaves had sprung to life like an inflatable toy. She wished people could spruce up as easily.
She stood, approached a bookcase and ran her finger along a line of spines sitting tall on the shelf – from Jane Austen to Tim Winton – wishing she could absorb them via osmosis.
‘How can you hate books? They never judge, and they’re always waiting for you if you need them,’ Molly had mumbled, letting some candour seep through her girl-next-door persona. Books taught her how to be alone.
‘That’s a story requiring more than one course.’
Molly twisted her lip. She had planned to visit someone she probably shouldn’t after her deliveries, but she was trying to curb that habit. ‘I’ve got apricot danish in the esky. I’ve heard it tastes like breadcrumbs but it’s passable with ice cream.’
Molly saw the tension gripping the old woman’s face release, just a squidge.
And it felt good.
* * *
Molly blamed her Beetle for what had happened after that first meeting with Gwen Andrews. She simply felt the steering pull left, guiding her across town and to his place. Or maybe it was Gwen’s fault – something about meeting the old woman had given her the confidence to do what she daydreamed about.
He was home. Molly could feel it. She turned off the headlights and crept past his place, parked in the gravel flanking the Lago Point playground. It had happened before, this detour. Sometimes she justified it to herself, other times she accepted it as a habit she couldn’t kick, a relic of when they were together. When they’d meet after school. When she was still wanted.
/> But he’d put an end to that.
She sat, watching the waves, stealing glances at his place as though it were roadkill – she hated the sight but couldn’t look away. There was a light on in the little green house. His shadow had crossed the front window and she figured his mum was in bed already. He’d be on his computer. Sometimes, after youth group, when the other kids had left, they’d watch nerdy old shows together like Get Smart and Thunderbirds, Molly watching the screen, him watching her. She preferred The Big Bang Theory. Her dad hadn’t let her watch it back then, so Molly kept quiet about it. She never told him about their meetings. That was half the appeal.
The few pole houses guarding the headland watched over the lake, at the mouth where the lagoon met the ocean; a long sandy spit braced the lake like the elastic pants her mum used to wear, holding everything in place.
Molly saw his washing on the clothesline; his Dr Who t-shirt, side- by- side with his mother’s beige bloomers. He always wore clothes with personality. He’d left his mountain bike out, once. He hadn’t even heard her sneak up the side and puncture the back wheel with a nailfile. He’d gotten complacent, leaving clothes out overnight. Molly wondered if he needed a reminder.
She felt under the dashboard and pulled out the binoculars to give her tunnel vision into his house. He was at the computer, face aglow from the screen, rubbing ointment on his hands, his scaly, reddened hands. The eczema, like a patchy stain on his fingers, was off-putting, but she’d gotten used to it. She knew everything about him, not all of it good. His were the first hands to touch her. The first lips to tell her she was loved, that she was beautiful. Nothing would ever change that.
Molly startled. World’s Longest Dog bounced up the gutter, her greying coat glossy under the street lamp. It was Scout, prowling alone. The Great Dane bent her hind legs and shat in one clean mound. The dog kicked sand over her dirty deed, glanced over to Molly’s car as if it were a gift for her, before prancing off into the darkness.
Molly’s mind raced. Her mouth turned up at the sides, then she waited.
The coast was clear. Here was her chance.
She’d pulled her groceries out of the plastic bag on the passenger seat and, using the bag as a makeshift glove, opened the car door and snuck over to where the dog had stopped. She picked up the poo, turning her head away from the whiff of fresh shit as she scooped it into the bag. Checking she was alone, she snuck towards the little green house, opened the letterbox and shook the contents inside. Gingerly, she shut the lid, and threw the smelly bag in the wheelie bin. As she drove home, a pulse of adrenalin, laced with disgust – surged through her.
She smiled. For the first time in a long time, she felt alive.
* * *
Molly had heard her father’s husky voice call out as she walked into their kitchen, the milk squashing the bread in the over-stuffed bag hanging from her fingers. ‘Hi Dad.’ He was still in the same grey hoodie he’d worn all week, the pizza stain from Friday now a mottled brown.
‘That my princess? Get the Tally –Hos, love?’
‘They were out.’ A lie, but she’d already shed the girl-next-door act on the way in. Lying for her patient’s own good was allowable in caretaker mode.
‘Servo out too?’
‘Sorry. Must be a supply problem.’
Dan had nodded like it was perfectly fine, a forced smile on his cracked lips. When she opened the fridge, Molly noticed the reheating instructions she’d written out for him and stuck beneath the still-full container of stir-fry. ‘Have you been up at all?’ She asked.
‘Yep, yep.’
‘Your dinner. You didn’t see my note.’
Dan nodded again, apologetically. ‘Sorry love, not feeling like it. It smelt great though. How was your day?’
‘Okay.’
Dan looked at the clock. ‘It’s late. They keep you back at the bakery?’
‘Nah, I’ve been helping at the MOW.’
‘Where?’
‘Meals on Wheels. Remember Mabel with the blue hair, wears the weird colourful tights? You did her kitchen for her, years ago. She needs more drivers for a while, so I’ve taken up one of the routes now I’ve got my licence.’ Molly paused from unpacking the dishwasher. It was sort of true.
‘What about the bakery job?’
‘I can still do that.’
Dan’s eyes softened. ‘You’re a gem, M&M, you know that? But don’t forget – senior year. It’s important.’
Molly rolled her eyes, although he was right. She still had three chapters of modern history to read. ‘Did you know Mabel has MS?’
‘True? Man, that’s rough.’ She could see his insides wince from the kitchen. He scratched his thinning hair, now an island of fuzz separated by a ring of bald. ‘We should, I don’t know, get her a card.’
Molly thought it was funny. People got multiple sclerosis, cancer, other physical diseases, and the community sent flowers, well wishes. But her dad had had depression for years and was never sent any of that. People saw ‘weak’, not ill. They thought, snap out of it, not can I help?
He stood to escape back to bed, gently patting his daughter on the shoulder as he left.
‘Dad? I met a nice lady today. I think …’ Molly had mustered the courage to go on. ‘She knew Mum.’
A flicker of misery trespassed on her father’s face before it resumed its usual indifference to life. Grief was like a volcano, never gone for good. It lay dormant, festering silently, waiting to pounce.
Chapter 5
10 DAYS AFTER THE MOON FESTIVAL
Real-life Hannah was thinner than the Skype version: that was Blake’s first impression of his ex-girlfriend as she dragged herself through the arrival gates. Her auburn hair was longer, her body firmer than when he’d known every inch of it. As she pulled a bulging red suitcase marked ‘heavy’ behind her, a slideshow of welcome-homes from nightshifts and Sunday brunches in bed flicked through his mind.
His life had been in a holding pattern since she’d left: no progress, no change. Still a sergeant. Still single. Still the sidecar on Abbi’s bulletproof marriage. He had moved out of their rumpus, at least. He’d got a house. A dog. He’d thought of Hannah throughout his whole renovation – with the hope she’d return to fill it with thinly veiled sarcasm and Gucci shoes.
Build it and she will come. Pathetic.
But the second he saw her eyes scan scrums of waiting public like she expected him, he wished he’d never come. Wished he’d refused to make the first move. He suddenly felt every inch of the height he never grew, every fail of his HSC, every appraisal in which he was passed over for promotion, and prayed for a river of travellers to bridge the gap between himself and Hannah so that he could escape into anonymity with his pride intact. Return to his predictable days of finding half-arsed crooks and winding up Abbi, to lonely nights filled with pizza and porn, to a good dose of beer with the odd fellow cop who came to town. There were worse lives.
Then Blake remembered that life was no longer his. He was no longer the straight-forward bloke with nothing to fear but papercuts and the odd spit ball from a drunken fool. His new life was now tainted with the memory of something he could still taste, still smell, but wanted to forget ever happened, as if that was enough to banish it for good.
What he needed was a distraction, and Hannah was the best distraction he could imagine.
If she wanted him. But did she?
Shoving his hands into the navy cotton pockets of his pants, Blake was chastising himself for trying to pull this off, telling himself she was scanning the room for someone else – perhaps had a driver booked – when her eyes found his.
The look on her face floored him. It was a fleeting expression (Relief? Joy?), alive only for a nanosecond after their eyes locked: she’d wanted him to come. Him. It showed that this thing between them, even now, was more than a handful of Skype sessions. After all these years, he was her person – in Lago Point, anyway. And if there was one thing Blake appreciated, it was loyal
ty.
‘Hannah!’ Blake called in a burst of confidence (he never did mastered voice control). As their eyes locked, relief rippled along her face. She stopped a metre out, like she’d reached some invisible boundary, her face refreshed to its default – mildly annoyed with a touch of sass. ‘Blake. What are you doing here?’
Okay, we’re playing like that, are we? He bumped up the swagger, pulled on his collar. ‘Joint taskforce between State and the Feds – with the drug squad.’ Blake lowered his voice, looked around suspiciously as he yanked up his belt like a cowboy and said behind his hand in a whisper, ‘Classified.’
She cocked her head. ‘Is that right?’ Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘I might have some contraband Sudafed in my bag. Seems to have got past the Cocker Spaniel Patrol, but I hear it’s illegal in some provinces.’
Blake’s gaze stayed with hers as he said, ‘Don’t joke about the law, Missy. Might have to arrest you.’ He debated whether or not to go in for a kiss but played it safe with a hug, raising his arm to accommodate her height. The stiffness in Hannah’s frame eased as he pressed her close, their bodies adjusting to each other’s like the kind of mattress that’s meant to be good for you. As his arms snaked around her, her chest pressed tightly to his, Blake had a sudden thought: But are you good for me, Hannah? Or was Abbi right, and you’re here to expose the thinly veiled chaos I’m trying to hide.
The moment dragged on a second too long and Hannah sniffed, pulled away, shaking off whatever feelings the contact stirred. ‘Eyes – they get so watery from the filthy plane air,’ she said, running the edge of her fingertip along her lower lids to blot the tears. ‘Probably in for flight-flu tomorrow.’
‘Uh–uh,’ Blake uttered from twisted lips. He knew this girl, all her warts, all her weaknesses, and that’s why he forgave her prickliness. He grabbed her wheelie bag and she smiled a familiar smile before striding ahead. As they navigated through the crowds, Hannah eying off the Country Road sale as he spoke, it felt like they’d slotted into old, familiar roles – her as the competent leader, him as the loyal sidekick. As if they were actors, and their relationship, a romcom, was just waiting to replay.