by Emily Brewin
Suddenly she recalls the way it made her feel, the wonderful sense of knowing no matter how far her mother swam out, she’d always come back to them. It makes her choke and she sits on the bed, covering her mouth with both hands. She waits for the feeling to subside, to be replaced with despair or guilt or disappointment, any of the things she’s been feeling since her mother died and Marcus moved out of the house and in with Audra. But it doesn’t. It just subsides a little, like the tide going out, leaving her safe in the knowledge it will be back again.
‘Ya right, pet?’ Her father stands at the door in his brown woolly jumper. It’s knotty at the edges and fits snugly to his body. He walks over and takes the photo from her. ‘Remember that day?’
‘Yeah.’ She breathes out. ‘We were celebrating my scholarship to Nottingham.’
He smiles and rubs his thumb across the photograph. ‘Your mum was so proud of you.’
Isobel sniffs at the irony and looks again at her mother. The simple joy of the sand and the surf, her husband’s steady presence and her sun-warmed children nearby, plain on her face.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ The words seep out, thick and muddy and barely contained.
He places a rough hand on her shoulder, the familiar weight of it comforting.
She grimaces, afraid he doesn’t understand.
He sits beside her and pulls her close. In his arms, she senses the beach that day, her family.
‘I loved her so much.’
The first breath of spring rustles the camellia bush and flows in through the window, freshening the room. Her father shifts back a little and takes her face in his hands. ‘She knew it,’ he says softly.
Isobel begins to laugh or cry, she doesn’t know anymore. She gulps air as if she’s just been saved from drowning.
The world is better with her father’s words curled in her ears. When she goes to the bathroom to wash the smudged makeup from her face, she looks in the mirror and recognises the smile in the reflection.
Her phone rings on the sink and flashes Rosie’s name.
Rosie
AT NIGHT SHE DREAMS of Petey’s bare feet digging into her shins as they sleep and of his arms falling across her chest as he turns in the bed. She wakes with a start, emptiness in the pit of her stomach spreading again like spilt milk until she realises he really is beside her.
The feeling recedes, fast, like the sea going out, and she takes him in her arms for the hundredth time and squeezes until he squeals to let go. But it’s hard. It takes all her strength to leave him alone.
It’s been that way since she found him. Getting her fill, making sure he really exists. She can’t keep her eyes from trailing after him, from the kitchen where he tells her he can do his own toast to the toilet door, which he closes. He’s changed in the week since she saw him last. It’s fascinating and frightening.
Detective Khanna told her they’d be over straight away when Rosie called to say she’d found Petey wound around a fatter than ever Churchill. She kicked herself for calling so soon. All she wanted was to sit and watch her son. To make sure he was real and not some ghost her imagination had dreamt up in a fit of despair. It wouldn’t be the first time she heard his voice or felt his hair beneath her fingers. But this time he was real, she was sure of it. And so was Churchill.
She almost laughed when she realised they’d survived on Mr Granthall’s stock of Arnott’s biscuits and two-minute noodles, with a cup of dry dog food for Churchill each day. It had been just the two of them, safe in the mustiness of the old man’s flat where Petey had fled to after the police had searched it that morning. They didn’t need anyone else.
That’s how she felt when she saw them wrapped up together on the floor, and it still frightens her. Petey would have been happy to stay there forever, or at least until the food ran out.
But she’s proud too, in a secret way. The flat looked like it had been hit by a bomb, but he’d kept them both fed and watered. At some point, he even attempted a shower, which explained the flooded bathroom floor. He survived. He could survive without her and, despite a little bit of sadness, it’s a relief.
He was sleeping, arm around Churchill’s pudgy belly, when she found them. They were breathing, but she couldn’t tell if they were conscious. For a horrible minute she thought she was too late.
‘Petey!’ She rushed over and shook him until Churchill grunted and Petey opened his eyes.
Her heart stopped.
She’d imagined the moment, turned it over in her mind at night to help her sleep or in the morning to get her through the day. It was gold. It glittered and glistened and drove her forward, until she remembered why he’d run away.
What if he was still scared of her and refused to come home? What if she’d damaged him beyond repair? She knew trust could be lost in a second. Sometimes it only took one time to make you realise it was pointless hoping things would be different. A tipping point, like the trip to Inverloch, from where there was no return. That’s what she thought, the moment their eyes met.
But then he sat upright. ‘Mum, Mum, Mum,’ and threw his arms around her neck. ‘I took care of Churchy. Just me and him, Mum.’
Churchill waddled off to his bowl, annoyed at the disruption, and all she could do was hold onto Petey as if her life depended on it. She felt the ridge of his backbone beneath her hands and the rise of his ribcage beneath his shirt. She listened to the breath pump in and out of him and the lilt of his voice as he talked. It was all she could do to stop herself from turning into a heaving mess on the floor. She realised then that she needed him more than he needed her. It made her hold him tighter, as if the gentle breeze coming through the front door might blow him away again. She started to cry.
In bed, Petey wrestles his way out of her arms. ‘Let go, Mum,’ he says, and goes in search of Churchill, who’s staying with them until Mr Granthall gets out of hospital.
The old man cried when she told him she found Petey and the dog together, and that they were okay.
‘Violet was watching over them.’
Rosie was happy to think it might be true.
‘He can stay with us,’ she sniffed down the phone line. ‘Until you get home.’
There was a long silence then.
‘I don’t know if they’re gunna let me back home, Rose. They reckon I need help.’
She tried to say something to put his mind at ease but couldn’t find the words. ‘I’ll bring Petey in for a visit soon,’ she said instead.
‘That’d be great, love.’ He put on a brave voice. ‘Just great.’
Silence again before Petey tore past in his skateboard pyjamas with Churchill running after him.
‘I should have said thanks before this.’ She hoped he hadn’t hung up. ‘But thanks for everything.’ She pressed the phone closer to her mouth. ‘We couldn’t survive without you.’
It’s true.
‘No need, love.’ He cut her short. ‘We’re lucky buggers, you and me.’
She glanced at her son. He was pulling another biscuit from his pocket, breaking off half for the dog who was watching greedily near his feet. He turned to her and smiled, a big mischievous grin that makes her think Mr Granthall and Isobel were right. She’s lucky after all.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered again down the line, but Mr Granthall had already gone.
She tapped out Isobel’s number then held the phone to her ear, realising she might have gained something precious amongst all her grief.
Isobel
SHE WATCHES PETEY THROW the tennis ball to the dog and is amazed how quickly he’s growing. His tracksuit pants knock about his ankles and his slim wrists poke out the end of his school shirt. She’ll measure him against the doorframe when they get back to her house, like her parents used to do.
The sun is dropping but the air is still warm on her bare arms and she laughs when Churchill tries to launch himself off the ground. Laughter comes easier now. After her mother died and Marcus left, it felt as if she’d forgotten how. Sh
e smiled or nodded but anything more was beyond her. Looking after Petey was doing her good. It kneaded away the lump of sorrow that sat in her chest, letting the light back in.
‘Five minutes,’ she calls. ‘Your mum will be back soon.’
Petey gives an exaggerated thumbs-up that makes her laugh again and says, ‘Okay, Belly, okay.’ It was what her mother used to call her. It gave her a shock the first time he used it. Then it felt good, a word like a hug-worn teddy bear. That’s when she started to love him.
Petey was easy to love. The way he accepted her into his life, without her having to prove a thing. Frankly, it was baffling at first. She was used to working hard for approval. But Petey took her, warts and all, and it was a gift. Churchill too. She shakes her head as the dog struggles to keep up. The run will do him good.
Giving Churchill a home and keeping an eye on Petey was her suggestion.
‘Just while you finish school,’ she said to Rosie, who seemed unsure. ‘I’d enjoy it.’ And it was true. Deep down she knew Rosie was the one doing her a favour.
‘I’d have to pay you,’ Rosie said with narrowed eyes.
They shook on it, firmly, before grinning sillily at each other.
Isobel hadn’t considered the offer long. It crept up on her one morning as she finished her muesli at one end of her vast kitchen bench. The house felt too big, with its large L-shaped lounge suite and long low-lit hall, and the two empty bedrooms upstairs now the nursery was packed away. She was lost in it.
She watches Petey trying to extract the slimy ball from Churchill’s mouth. He huffs loudly with the effort and it makes her smile.
The house is still hers, for now at least. Marcus hasn’t mentioned selling, so she’ll make the most of it. He’s probably too distracted anyway, now that Audra’s expecting a baby. She takes stock, surprised how little it hurts to think about. Who knows, one day she might even be glad for them.
Taking care of Petey goes some way to stuffing the hollow in her heart. She enjoys their playground visits with Churchill and the dawdling afternoon activities they do while waiting for Rosie.
The arrangement was awkward at first, but now they share a pot of tea when Rosie gets back from TAFE or work. The ebb and flow of their day provides conversation and their silences are less uncomfortable. When all else fails, they talk about Petey.
It’s easier to appreciate the small things with him around, to recognise how precious they are. Like those long hot days at the beach with her family, curled up so close that the sand from her mother’s warm skin scuffed hers.
Somewhere along the line, life became too complicated. Petey reminds her it doesn’t have to be, and for that she is grateful.
Rosie
SHE PUTS HER TEXTBOOKS DOWN beside the front door and knocks. It’s cool in the shade of the awning and she takes a seat on the wicker chair nearby, savouring the moment before the door opens.
She rests her elbow on its arms and leans back, the wicker crackling. Breathe, she tells herself, because she’s so used to holding it in. So used to waiting for something bad to happen.
‘It’s all good,’ she whispers to herself.
And it is. Has been since she got over the shock of losing Mr Granthall. It shouldn’t have surprised her really. He was a stubborn old bugger, and there was no way he’d let them put him in a home.
His funeral was a small affair, just Petey and her and a couple of oldies from the flats. The woman from next door turned up too in a slightly crinkled black dress. She patted Petey’s head and told Rosie she’d kicked her husband out. Leaving Churchill to starve was the final straw.
Petey ran circles around the headstones then came and stood quietly beside Rosie as she tossed in the first fistful of earth. That night he insisted Churchill sleep on the end of his bed.
Luckily for them, Isobel doesn’t mind dog hair on her doona. It made sense for her to take him. They couldn’t keep him in the flat, and Rosie was buggered if she was sending him away. He was part of their family, like Mr Granthall was.
She was reluctant at first, had to fight off the feeling Isobel’s offer to look after Petey would come at a cost. And it did in a way, but not one that sent her broke like the deals she struck with Joel. It was simpler than that, just friendship, a good investment in the end.
Rosie relaxes further into the chair and thinks of the spag bol that Vera dropped off the night before. She’s been dropping meals off since Petey was found, waiting sheepishly at the door until Rosie reluctantly lets her in. The food’s terrible but if she keeps trying this hard, Rosie might invest in her too, for everyone’s sake.
She sits up when Churchill starts barking on the other side of the door. Things are easier now, as if losing Petey and finding him again shifted her view so the world became a brighter place. She’s not alone anymore. With Isobel’s help, and uni on the horizon, the ‘me against the world’ feeling is fading.
And of course, there’s always Petey, the love of her life, her reason for being. He’s still here, in all his flustering, fussy, funny ways. In the days after he came back, she could barely leave his side. But slowly, very slowly, she’s learning to let the past go. With each new breath she takes, it drains from her, making space for their future to rush in.
Acknowledgements
FOR HELPING ME bring this book into the world I would like to acknowledge and thank the following people.
The wonderful team at Allen & Unwin, especially my publisher, Annette Barlow, editors Samantha Kent and Siobhan Cantrill, also Jennifer Thurgate for assisting me with matters big and small. To Kate Goldsworthy, Simone Ford and Deonie Fiford for their invaluable input as well as Julia Eim for the beautiful cover; and to my agent, Gaby Naher, for her ever sage advice.
For their honesty and insights regarding parenting a child on the autism spectrum, thank you to Belle Griffin and Sally Johnson (co-founder of We Rock the Spectrum Kids Gyms); my uncle, Terry Kane, for his guidance regarding police procedure; and my beautiful pals, Marnie Vickers and Venita Munir, for sharing their personal journeys of IVF as well as their professional knowhow.
To Kate Mildenhall, Katherine Collette, Kim Hood, Meg Dunley, Venita Munir and Nicky Heaney, my writers’ group, for whom I am eternally grateful; Cathy and Peter Rogers from Musk Farm for the welcoming writing space; also to Jill Mancini for her words of wisdom and Harriet Tarbuck for her photographic prowess.
To the dynamic duo, Anne Gollan and John Carlin, for their hospitality—it truly is a precious gift; and to Wadetown, of course, for reminding me there’s freedom in letting go.
My friends, fellow writers and Penny Johnson from RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing course whose support has lifted me up; also to Georgios and Dianna Nakhoul and their crew at Espresso Alley in Northcote and the staff at True North in Coburg for their superb coffee and unofficial writing nooks.
And finally, to my family, especially my parents, Helen and Michael Brewin, my siblings Kate, Anne and Patrick, and my aunt, Rosie, who support me through thick and thin. I’d be lost without you. And to my children, Milos and Isla, whom I love to infinity and back.