by Kylie Kaden
* * *
The stand-alone garage down the back of Hannah’s family home was wall to wall with boxes. Hannah’s boxes. She had no idea what was in most of them. In the first, she found evidence of her misguided youth; a giant fake swatch watch, a pile of peasant tops and an Avril Lavigne poster that could all be dumped in one swift kick. Her father had sold her car when she wangled a work visa and needed the cash for rent and, when they could no longer afford the storage fees, he’d moved the rest of her stuff here. And here it had stayed. Hannah caught a glimpse of movement in the corner and looked up to see a sleepy, pink-nosed possum perched on the rafters, watching her rummage through her belongings. The old workbench was riddled with cockroach droppings and dust. She was recovering from a sneeze when a lankier version of the girl she remembered appeared between box towers.
She’d seen Molly’s teenage self a hundred times online, but in person she was a stranger; school bag on shoulder, broom in hand.
Molly sighed. ‘Man, I thought you were a rat!’ She took off her wide-brimmed school hat and leaned the broom against the wall. Slowly, as if it would buy her time to adjust.
‘Glad I’m not.’ Hannah inhaled, choked up.
‘Remember how Dad would always get Mum to kill the spiders? Set the rat traps? Such a Nancy.’
‘Classic Dad,’ they both joked in unison, and they laughed the same laugh. Hannah held her arms out for a hug.
Molly plonked her bag down, stepped towards her sister, arms folded, then unfolded awkwardly. ‘You’re not supposed to be here yet.’
Hannah had purposely failed to tell her dad the flight had changed. She wanted the freedom to go where she wanted once she landed. Turned out that was Blake’s bed. Thirty-three and yet a sense of shame obliged her to hide from her dad the fact that she’d engaged in an adult sleepover. He already had his outdated views about how many partners his oldest daughter must have ‘racked up’ over the years, always sure to ask over Skype if there were ‘any likely suitors over there in Yanky land to make an honest woman of you’. She’d have to learn to fend off his comments in person, now she was home.
‘Look at you!’ A wad of dark, glossy hair was tied up like a cloud, hovering high on Molly’s head in that way young girls did that Hannah hadn’t quite mastered. She was a beanpole, as lean as a runner – God knows how, since the girl was allergic to exercise – and with a familiar elegance in her limbs and warmth in her eyes that would melt hearts. Hannah lifted her hand to her mouth in an unexpected gush of emotion. ‘You remind me of her. You got all Mum’s good parts.’
‘Mum? Everyone says I look like you. I guess I could have done worse, looked like Dad.’
Hannah adjusted her skirt and smiled. Finally, Molly wrapped her arms around her. It was tentative, rigid at first before she felt a quick sob expand Molly’s chest. She let the moment linger for as long as she could, as if it were topping up a dry well inside her, before Molly pulled away. They both composed themselves, too proud to succumb to an all-out cry session. I wouldn’t want my face to go all weird.
‘Your voice. It sounds less American than I expected.’
‘I think hearing Blake’s slow, country drawl all night fixed that.’
Molly’s eyebrows arched. ‘So, he took you back? That didn’t take long.’ She grabbed an apple from her school bag and sat on a box. Hannah ignored the dig. Molly kicked her legs back and forth like an eight-year-old. ‘Surprised Dad let you out here. Found a red-back nest a while back.’
Hannah had forgotten about the pleasures of Australian living. ‘He’s not here. I knocked before, no answer. Figured I’d sift through these babies for a while. Transport myself back to the naughties.’ Hannah held up a pair of Juicy Couture jeans with a questioning look before her eyes fixed on an old Britney Spears CD. She unconsciously started humming, ‘Oops! … I Did It Again’ and felt fifteen again, sneaking out to parties, so sure of herself. The final year life felt simple.
Hannah glanced at the weatherboard cottage, flaking paint, rusted gutters. Her dad used to take such pride in his home when she was little, along with counting her skips-without-stopping and plaiting her hair. All that stopped, of course, when Molly, the new and improved version of Hannah, came along. ‘So, where is Dad?’
‘Oh, he’s in there. He’s always in there. Ageing.’
Hannah checked the driveway again. ‘Then where’s his car?’
‘Sold. Dad doesn’t do cars anymore.’ Molly bit into the hourglass–shaped apple with a crunch.
Hannah frowned. When she saw his car was missing, she’d assumed her dad was out. ‘Didn’t think to mention that during our chats?’
When Molly spoke again, it was one octave higher, and laced with the attitude Hannah was accustomed to. ‘Would you have come home if I did?’ That tone. It reminded Hannah of her teenage self, and a shiver prickled her neck. She remembered her mum’s words: Teenage girls should be buried at fourteen and dug up at twenty-four.
Her father’s declining mental health was exactly the sort of anxiety-provoking news that would have made her stay away – more evidence that she’d get sucked into the vortex of grief and shame that seeped through the fibres of this place. There was no privacy in the town, no anonymity. Hannah hadn’t been able to bear the pity nods after her mum died. She chose life over death. Or tried to, at least. For six years, she’d told herself it’s what her mother would have wanted. For six years, she’d told herself her family was better off without her.
Had she been wrong?
Chapter 6
THE DAY OF THE MOON FESTIVAL
Molly had attended the inaugural Lago Point Moon Festival seventeen years earlier, and every one since. She had been just six days old that first time, strapped to her mum’s beating heart in a tie-dye baby carrier. Molly had reconstructed her early childhood memories via a few key photos, like the one at the festival – inventing worlds around them, enhancing the raw images to play like film; she could hear the bustling crowd, smell the incense, taste the mooncakes. That very picture was one of her first baby shots, and she’d committed the details to memory: her mum’s flowing dress, windswept hair and a smile as luminous as the lanterns glowing in the foreground as she gazed over towards the camera – at her father, Molly was told. She had imagined him with hair back then. With spirit.
Molly bagged more mooncakes than she could count, stacking each empty tray in the ute as the crowds stumbled through lantern-lined dusty lanes. She kept serving, despite her shift having ended an hour ago. Her dad had promised to meet her but hadn’t yet showed. She could smell the pig roasting on the spit, hear the announcer wooing the crowds.
A group of school friends stopped to chat, bragged about scoring some fireworks online. ‘Gonna be a sick gatho,’ one of them said. ‘Coming?’
‘Nah, Dad’s meeting me, but thanks.’
She’d wait for her dad. He wouldn’t bail on her. Not for the festival. Everything was at its best for the extravaganza. Her dad would be too.
‘Get your mooncakes!’ Jay spruiked.
‘Taste more like arse-cakes,’ one of the boneheads heckled.
They were an acquired taste, like vegemite, alternative music and most things left of the middle. Molly liked what they stood for more than the taste: togetherness, wholeness, family reunion. The crowd lulled and Jay, in her black cotton pants and traditional headgear, encouraged Molly to finish up, have fun with her friends and watch the ceremony.
Molly shrugged, anxious her boss would make her leave the safety of her well-defined role behind the counter. ‘It’s okay.’ Molly liked the excuse, the scaffolding that her work role provided. It not only got her out of the selfie-fest her blinged-up school friends thought was fun, but helped her chip away at her car rego bill. There was only so long Molly could white-knuckle through their whinging about first-world problems before her eye started to twitch. She felt less alone without them.
Molly had left the marquee to get more stock from the ute, when she saw Jake Barker.
She pretended not to. Blake was right – he did look a bit like Ed Sheeran. She started humming ‘Perfect’. He staggered forward, his pale skin glowing beneath the cool light of the lanterns. Jake pocketed his hands in his Levis, and she felt a pang of empathy for him. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt. She approached him, leant on the ute, folded her arms.
Jake had stubble now, hidden between freckles, and she wondered how he shaved with all those zit eruptions, remembering all the reasons he used to gross her out. They’d tried starting something again earlier that year, but it failed to launch. He leant in. ‘Sup,’ he grunted.
Molly couldn’t tell if it was a snort or a word.
He smiled, blue eyes alive. ‘Parade starts soon. Come watch with me?’ He was harmless enough for a lanky senior. Not entirely stupid, but he watched too much YouTube – American gangster types on their soapbox as if they knew everything. All Molly pictured when she thought about the States were shootings and obesity, and how strange it was that her sister chose it over them. But if Molly wanted to hang out with people her age, there were limited options. ‘Alice is dressed as a Brahman’s arse on Dad’s cattle float.’
Molly mustered a smile. She felt her phone vibrate. A text.
Her dad. He wasn’t coming.
She tried to interpret the cheery emoticons he’d used, analyse exactly how down he was, to distract herself from her disappointment. She pocketed her phone and exhaled. ‘Maybe I should go home, check on my dad.’ For the thousandth time, she wished her sister hadn’t left. Blake had done his best to fill Hannah’s shoes, but he never quite did. Even Abbi had attempted to take up the slack, but she was so busy with her own daughter. Sometimes, when she babysat for Abbi and Will, Molly saw a glimpse of their quaint family life; the genuine affection they had for each other, how loved that little girl was. ‘You eat breakfast together? Every day?’ Molly had asked once while babysitting, and Abbi did her head tilt and said she was welcome anytime, which only made it worse.
Jake nodded, slid a dank red hair behind his ear. ‘He’d want you to have fun, though, wouldn’t he? How ’bout I get you a Chip Slinky and we check on him?’
Molly smiled. Jake being mature? And she’d been smelling those potato spirals all afternoon. ‘Okay. I’ll just tell Jay.’
In the cool autumn breeze, the soft light cast from the lanterns made the bushy surrounds seem smoother than the reality, like her town was being shot by a forgiving glamour photographer. Everything seemed more palatable.
She said goodbye to Jay and when she returned to the street market, she found Jake had slinky potatoes on sticks, and a wide grin. ‘Thanks.’ At least the guy was trying. It felt peculiarly nice. ‘Hey Jake – can you sing?’
‘No. Why? Is that a prerequisite?’ When he blushed his cheeks matched his fiery hair and it was kind of sweet.
‘It’s just Blake. He told me you remind him of Ed Sheeran.’
Realisation dawned on him. He nodded. ‘That’s why he calls me Ed.’ Then added, ‘Dickhead.’
Molly laughed.
As they meandered through stalls, she snuck glances at him. Under the sepia-toned haze that had shrouded the night, he was almost passable. The glow of red and orange offset his pallid complexion, blurring his acne scars and shaving rash. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad with him. It was just hard to move on from the past.
They stopped in front view of the stage – the youth group band, The Swarm, was sound testing and positioning their mic stands. The crowds on the riverbank roared as the electric lights dimmed, allowing the spectacle of the lanterns to steal the limelight. As the lamps were carefully placed on the mirrored water, the lake’s surface reflecting their colours, it was as if their village had been turned back centuries, the glow illuminating faces brighter than before.
Jake took her hand. Molly flinched, then disguised it with an itch. His hand was coarse from woodchopping, and felt scratchy in hers. He smiled, led her away from the lake and into the blurry darkness, but not before scanning the crowd one last time for her dad.
As they strolled around the bend of the lake, she could hear the squawks of her school friends’ laughter, smell the smoke of a failing fire of too-green wood and newspaper. The way they clustered together around a dwindling fire made her feel unwelcome.
Molly hadn’t felt so alone for a while. She was no stranger to loneliness. She’d tasted its dregs, like drips of stale, hot beer in an abandoned stubby, but never the full gush of it. Not lately, at least. Her strategy was to keep moving – it would never catch her if she kept running. But some things, like this seemingly innocent scene – a whirl of giggling, contented faces leering through puffs of smoke – forced her to stop.
Jake smelt of salt and fat as he took her arm and led her towards the scene. He handed her a hot beer, straight from the sixpack. Molly wondered how long she would need to wait before she could escape them all. But she would not take the easy way, become a recluse. She would stay as long as she could stand it.
As the group cranked their necks, eyes up to the sky, watching the lanterns float by, Molly looked at the original old houses, tall and thin, guarding over the shore. There was Abbi and Will’s rustic place, the wrap-around decks trimmed with fairy lights and scattered with scooters and beach balls; Trevor and Connie’s old cottage, with their boat tied to the jetty; and a series of new unit complexes filled with renters and holiday makers. They’d all be empty tonight. It was the only night of the year when there was anything to do in town.
Her eye caught a flash of pink light in the scrub past the dunes, up near the beach track.
Molly poked Jake. ‘Did you see that? A flash up near the houses.’ She realised she’d seen that light before.
He took a swig of beer, looked up to where she was pointing. ‘Probably just the reflection of the lanterns. Glo-sticks, maybe.’
She sipped her beer, but kept watching.
Waiting for the light.
Chapter 7
12 DAYS AFTER THE MOON FESTIVAL
Abbi wasn’t an always-running-late person. She considered herself optimistic with time. But she didn’t want to be late tonight. The last time she’d seen Hannah was pre-Will. Pre-Eadie. Abbi’s off-the-rails twenties were in full swing when Hannah left, and Abbi wanted to impress on her that she not only had her shit together, but that she also had it sorted and labelled.
It was beside the point that the ‘together’ image Abbi wanted to project was a stark contrast to the fucked-up mess festering inside her brain. That her perfect suburban existence could implode at any moment. She had to erase that thought from her mind to have any chance of pulling off this charade.
Cash-poor Molly had happily agreed to sit with Abbi’s daughter while they went out for dinner and was currently cross-legged on the shag rug downstairs, French- braiding Eadie’s hair. Molly was an old soul, and the only teenager in town Abbi trusted with her precious five-year-old.
Braid complete, Molly took Eadie’s little starfish hand and led her outside. Eadie subtly lined up her legs to walk at the same speed as the willowy limbs of her babysitter – a peculiar habit Abbi noticed her doing a lot lately. Molly noticed, too, and looked over at Abbi, showing her palm as if to say, What’s that about?
Abbi shrugged, whispering ‘It’s just her latest game,’ and dismissed it as a quirky way her daughter tried to stay in tune with those around her. Molly didn’t look convinced as Abbi ran along to get dressed.
* * *
Will stood naked at the sink like a giant, scruffy bear, and spat frothy toothpaste into the running water. ‘You know it’s supposed to rain tonight – the big wet they’re predicting. Remind me why we’re doing this again? Using a babysitting credit on a woman you don’t have much time for anymore?’ He mumbled in between his brushing. ‘And why don’t we like Hannah, exactly? The Blake thing?’
She liked that he said we. As if they were one person. But she still frowned. ‘I do like her. At least, I did.’
‘What changed? She dum
ped Blake – some might call that wise.’
Abbi was never sure if Will was joking when it came to his friendship with Blake. Aussie blokes were so different in how they related to each other. The more they took the piss, the more affection they felt.
‘She just leads a different life now. Different priorities. All fit and fancy-free.’
‘You sound envious.’
‘No way.’ Abbi kissed Will’s damp cheek. ‘Ever since she did that student exchange thing in high school she’s been different, like the Frogs put a plum in her mouth.’ Abbi touched up her make-up and mumbled, ‘and a stick up her arse’.
‘Hannah studied in France?’
‘First half of year twelve.’
‘Her parents afforded that? Sounds too elitist for the Dan Worthington I know.’
‘Hannah was obsessed with Paris in high school. With all things foreign, in fact. She delivered pamphlets for all of year eleven to save up. When she finally escaped us, she sent me postcards for the first month, showing off – then it was like we weren’t good enough for her anymore. We studied different courses at uni – her getting honours, me deferring twice. Now I’m married with a daughter, we’ll have even less in common.’
Being a parent had rehabilitated Abbi. It realigned her priorities and taught her daily to be selfless, a lesson she desperately needed. It’s not as if she felt superior to those yet to have children – it wasn’t exactly an exclusive club – just a different life. It was simply harder to connect with women who hadn’t felt motherhood for themselves.
‘You do get to live with the world’s best kid,’ Will piped in, bringing her back to reality. ‘And your husband isn’t too shabby, I hear. Generously endowed. Takes out the bins. Even knows how to plait and make loom bands.’ Will’s lips, still white-rimmed with residual toothpaste, smothered her neck with kisses as his arm snaked around her waist. She crumpled in laughter beneath him. There it was. The fluttery feeling of happiness. As she redid her lipstick, her fears from a moment before felt far away, as if the dark passenger she was hauling around had fallen from her shoulder.