by Max Henry
Fuck. I scrub both palms over my face, not caring in the slightest how grubby they may be. Fuck that. Who cares about a little dirt when my whole fucking world hangs in the balance?
If I could turn back time and take back the call to John, I would. But what else was I to do? We don’t have any money. Period. It’s all gone.
The last thing to do would be to sell the Barracuda. I’ve done it before for her—could I do it again? Sell off the only thing that gives me a glimmer of sanity outside of the mundane routine of work, sleep, and sometimes eat?
Without a passion project, the daily slog feels pointless. I grind myself into the ground for the sake of a roof over our head and the means to do it all again the next day. What kind of fucked up hamster wheel is that?
“Eh!” The cab rattles with Lenny’s fist to the glass. “What are ya fucking around at?”
I glance outside to the guys working a few hundred metres ahead of me. I missed smoko entirely, and now I’m behind.
“Yeah. Keep your fucking skirt on,” I holler, starting the Kubota.
The diesel engine shudders to life, shaking the last of the fog out of my brain. Get through the workday. One step at a fucking time. I can worry about what shitstorm I have to face when I get home. Until then, I need to make sure I keep the only source of income I have.
ELEVEN
Belle
“Come on,” I mutter, pacing the length of the checkouts with a screaming Sera clutched to my bouncing shoulder. “Calm down.”
I gave up trying to settle her outside when a bitter south-easterly wind pricked icicles at our faces, and the shoppers kept eyeing me as though I was some disgusting, homeless druggo looking for change.
“Not long.” Shades of the roadside two days ago flash through my mind.
My. Doesn’t this feel familiar?
Only, this time it isn’t a paid employee of the government coming to save me. It should be my darling partner—the father of my child.
The guy who can take this fucking screaming baby when he steps foot in the door.
My bounce gets a little more pep to the step when Sera’s warbles gain a shudder that indicates she’s at her limit. Aren’t we all, honey? I know what the issue is: she’s hungry. The logical thing to do would be head to the disabled bathroom at the end of the checkouts and relieve her ache. Problem being, the weight in my chest tells me that I’ve yet to produce more than a few mouthfuls. And if there’s one thing that makes a hungry baby more maniacal, it’s a hungry baby with the taste of milk on its tongue.
“I’m sorry, love,” a woman who I assume to be the shift supervisor says as she approaches. “But I need to ask you to take her elsewhere while you wait.”
“Are you kidding me?” I stop walking with such ferocity that I need to place a hand to the back of Sera’s head to stop her toppling off me.
At least it shut her up for all of a second.
“The noise is upsetting the customers,” she says as sweetly as one can when delivering an insult such as that.
“The customers,” I repeat with a nod. “You realise I’m a customer too, right?”
“You’ve been here for over forty minutes, and some of our patrons have sensitive hearing aids.”
I glance over her shoulder to the Betty that fits the bill of a complaining pensioner. “It’s single digits outside,” I point out, returning my focus to the supervisor. “Neither of us have an adequate coat.”
“Well, that’s not our problem, is it?”
I swear she’s taking advantage of the fact I wouldn’t deck her while holding a baby.
I’m seriously calculating the logistics of it when a familiar face appears behind her.
“Dad?” I so did not expect to see him.
“What’s the issue here?” he asks, glancing between the salty supervisor and me.
“I was just advising your …”
“Daughter.”
“Your daughter,” she continues, “that she will need to take the child outside until it calms down as the noise is upsetting some of our older customers.”
It occurs to me that nothing hinders Dad from landing one on this woman. For a second, I wonder if he would when his nostrils flare, and he grinds his jaw.
Instead, he quietly and levelly replies, “Has it occurred to your staff to perhaps ask how they could assist my daughter and granddaughter, who are clearly in distress?”
“Sir, this is a supermarket, not a doctor’s clinic. If they need emergency help, we aren’t the ones to administer that.”
“Lady,” he grinds out. “I understand where the fuck I’m standing considering there are aisles of cut-price shit to our left. What I’m asking,” he growls, “is whether you have the common decency and morality to perhaps offer her refuge in your staffroom instead of outside in six-degree weather.”
The woman blinks twice, speechless.
“It’s okay,” Dad says, layering on the charm with his hand to her shoulder. “I’m here now. So, why don’t you do what you’re paid to, and help me settle the bill? I assume that’s what you’re waiting on?”
I fucking love him.
He could have slid in and quietly removed me from the place to avoid any further embarrassment. But instead, my dad strides into a situation he has no background on and goes to war for my honour.
His response is something I’d expect from Zeus.
Well, something I would have expected from Zeus a few months ago. Our struggle has eaten away at his confidence; I see it. But he never says a thing, always putting on a brave face and telling me everything is fine.
It’s not. And I hate that I don’t know how to fix it. Not when I feel as though I’m the cause of it.
“All sorted,” Dad announces as he arrives, pushing my barely loaded cart. “Was this all of it?”
I duck my head, clutching a mostly sleepy, sometimes crying still, Sera to my chest. “Yeah.”
The metal cart wheels rattle and grind as he speeds us toward his work ute. “Are you topping up?”
“I’ve got my car here,” I point out when he begins hastily loading the bags onto the tray. “I can take it home.”
“So can I.” His face is hard and unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s tired, grumpy, or disappointed. Maybe some mix of all of them? “You didn’t answer me. Is this just a top-up?”
“Uh, yeah,” I lie.
He fists his hands around the handle of the empty cart and stares me down. “How much weight have you lost?”
“I don’t know.” I stopped keeping track when it fell lower than it was when I left town as a teenager.
“And bubba?” He asks, lifting a hand to stroke Sera’s hair delicately. “Why is she so upset?”
“She’s due a feed.”
“You could have done that while you waited.” His brow knits.
“It’s easier at home,” I hedge.
“Easier than dealing with that showdown?” he queries, hand gesturing to the building behind me.
Yeah. Sprung.
A heavy breath rushes from his nose. Dark eyes meet mine. “Get Sera home, Belle. I’ll see you there.”
***
The drive back to our house affords me eight minutes of peace while Sera sleeps, exhausted from her desperate pleas for milk. Eight minutes is hardly enough to deal with her raspy lungs when she wakes upon me shutting off the engine.
Ridiculously enough, I’m actually thankful Dad decided to bring the bags back. This way, I have free hands for her rigid body to save her falling out of my arms, and no need to leave her alone while I retrieve the shopping.
By the time Dad walks in the door with the first six bags strung over his wrists, I’ve entered my daily phase of weeping until my tears run dry and I get a headache from the pressure.
He dumps the shopping on the counter—more than I remember picking from the shelves—and lets his shoulders drop as he regards me.
“I have another lot to bring in, and then you’re telling me what the hell is goin
g on around here.” He points to the counter as he heads for the front door. “Make yourself useful and put the kettle on.”
Another five bags arrive on the counter while I measure the sugar into our mugs.
I peek across at the thin white plastic, noting shapes and colours I definitely did not pick out. The switch dings to let me know the water has boiled, but I’m elbows deep in a bag pulling out what I assumed correctly was a tin of formula.
He didn’t stop at one, though. I line up three different brands in front of the shopping and stare at the labels to pick the differences.
“I thought I’d get you a selection in case she doesn’t like one.” Dad hesitates beside me, watching as I read the benefits of each.
“How did you know?” I whisper.
He smiles softly; the greys in his stubbly beard catch the midday light spilling through our living room windows. “I have a daughter, you know. A little experience with kids, too.”
Fucking tears. I swore there were no more left.
His arm bands around my shoulders and, as though I’m ten all over again, I nestle into his work shirt, relishing the musty smell of steel and dust. The thick fabric scratches against where my spine protrudes at the base of my neck.
“Why did you let it get this bad, honey?” His gentle words pepper the top of my head with their heat.
“We thought we could fix it,” I explain. “It was supposed to be a temporary setback.”
“What was?” Dad pulls back, holding me at arm’s length.
“Zeus.” I tug free to finish our coffees before Sera starts screaming again. “His hours were reduced. Less than what they promised when he switched jobs.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
I set Dad’s drink beside him and then lift one of the tins. “Coupled with me working minimal hours because of Sera, we haven’t had a lot coming in.”
“You haven’t been eating right,” Dad says, stating the glaringly obvious. “Does Zeus know you’re starving yourself?”
“Yes. And he’s not happy about it either.” I know Dad wasn’t accusing Zeus of anything, but I feel the need to defend him just the same. “He’s been nagging me to look after myself as well.”
“You need to.” Dad looks at the tin in my hand. “Not just for your sake.”
“I know.” And I’m sick of hearing it. Being told what I need to do doesn’t make it possible. Words don’t fill my bank account. “I think I’ll try this one first. One of the mums at the ante-natal group said she would be using it.”
“Make a bottle up, and I’ll go get Sera.”
He abandons his drink in favour of his granddaughter, and I set to work starting a new routine that I can’t see me backing down from. If lack of food kept me dry, then I’m sure the stress contributed just the same. I’m not sure that a few good meals will be enough to kickstart milk production again. She’s five months old now. I did my best and, lucky for me, it was more than some mothers are allowed before their bodies rebel against them.
The only person making me feel bad about this decision is me.
And when I take the time to think about it, feeling shame because of my own opinion is just plain stupid.
I’m doing the best I can for Sera, and that’s already more than my mother did for me.
TWELVE
Zeus
“Fuck.”
I stop the bike at the end of the driveway and check the letterbox as a reason to stall.
John’s ute sits positioned outside our front door, a dry patch underneath it proving he’s been there since I sent him to get Belle.
I should have figured he wouldn’t just bail her out and be satisfied with an unexplained thanks.
After tucking the bike away in the garage, I step indoors to find Belle in the kitchen with two pots on the stove—a sight I haven’t seen in weeks—and John bouncing a giggling Sera on his knee, hands clasped on her waist.
“Who’s this?” John teases my daughter, turning her so that she faces me. “Dad’s here.”
“Hey, baby-girl.” I cross the room and place a kiss to my daughter’s head before taking her from John’s hold. “Thanks, mate.”
He rises to his feet, glancing over at Belle. “I’ll leave you two alone and head off.”
She wipes her hands on a tea-towel and rounds the island counter. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”
John mimics my action mere seconds ago, placing a kiss to his girl’s temple. “Next time, don’t leave it so long.” He turns to look at me, jerking his chin toward the door. “A word?”
Belle avoids my eye, burying her chin in her chest as she returns to the meal bubbling on the stove. Feeling as though I use Sera as a shield, I hoist her into the crook of my arm, bracing her with my other hand, and follow John out to the driveway.
He opens the driver’s side of his ute and then hesitates, one foot on the runner and arms braced between the roof and door. “Belle gave me the short version of what’s going on, Zeus.”
In other words, he thinks she held back. Interesting.
“Look. I get that you didn’t want to say anything after how this all started between you two.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, elbow still on the roof of the ute. “Not so long ago, I would have flipped my lid and demanded she move home, but your situation is different now.” His gaze settles on Sera.
I tighten my hold.
“The guts of it is, I don’t want you to be ashamed to ask when you need help just because we were friends first.”
“You have to admit it feels fucking weird,” I point out.
He shrugs one shoulder, mouth curled down. “Yeah, it does. I can’t get my head around being your father-in-law, so-to-speak,” he says with a hint of humour. “I mean, we’re the same fucking age.”
“Right.” Sera coos when my hold relaxes a little.
“But.” His tone turns deadly serious. “If there’s one thing I wish I had when Cerise and I went through shit at the start, that was parents to lean on.”
My chest tightens at the mention of his upbringing. John was an orphan. One who would talk non-stop as a kid about the day he’d find out about his parents and where he came from.
He still doesn’t know.
“What I’m trying to say,” he explains, grimacing. “Is that I want to be the parent for Belle that I never had, and if that means helping you in the process, bro, then that’s what it means.” He shrugs. “We’ll both have to deal with it and swallow whatever pride or reservations we have—for Belle’s sake, and Sera’s.”
Chin high, I school my features. “That’s what we did today, wasn’t it?”
He levels me with a hard stare. “I paid for a few groceries. That doesn’t mean she’ll have money in the bank to do it next week, or the week after that, does it?”
My silence answers him.
He removes his foot from the running board and steps away from the door. Fuck it. I’d hoped this would be a short conversation.
“She said you’re not getting enough hours at Anderson and McConnell.”
“Nope. Not right now.”
“If you were?” His eyes narrow. “What would you be doing with the spare cash first?”
He knows my goal—to start my own independent contracting business. What I hate is that we’re standing here talking like a boy and his girlfriend’s father instead of the fucking equals we are.
Everyone thought that by being with me, Belle was forced to mature too fast. Fuck. I think all it did was revert me to a second coming of my twenties.
“I need to get the right class licence to be able to drive a truck and dog.” Taking two steps back toward the house, I set Sera down on the front porch and let her explore the greenery that overhangs the garden either side. “Last I looked, I needed a couple of grand to get me through the day courses and make up for lost wages while I do it.”
“How much do you have now?”
“Maybe three hundred.” I run a hand through my hair, pushing the le
ngths out of my face. “I had close to a grand, but I’ve been dipping in when I felt the need to top up around here.”
“Yeah, I get that,” John cedes. He folds his arms; one leg kicked over the other as he leans against the vehicle. “Once you get the licence, you’ll need to prove to the bank you can service a loan for the equipment, right?”
I nod, feeling my dream slip through my fingers and down to the ground below.
“What I’m going to say next is bound to piss you off,” he warns. “But I need to ask.”
I nudge Sera back onto the pavers with my socked foot and then give him my attention.
“Logistically, it makes more sense to get Belle back to work, right?” He continues when I stay mute. “Her costs are less, and once she has childcare covered, then there aren’t any more hoops to jump through like there are for you. She can earn at the shop, and once she sets aside enough to get the home studio going, then she can cut back on childcare costs. You’d both be better off nurturing her career so that once it’s earning, she can carry you while you prove your worth to the big five.”
He’s right. One hundred per cent. That’s what makes me livid the most.
I hate that it’s always me who has to sacrifice something. And I hate even more that I’m petty and jealous enough to hold that against Belle if we did get her dream going first.
“What does she need to get Sera into daycare for a couple of weeks?” John asks softly. “Do you know?”
“Not really my area of expertise,” I grumble. “I can’t remember how much it is. Something like a few hundred, I think.”
“I can ask her.”
“No.” I stoop and relocate my inquisitive crawler closer to the door and away from the wet driveway. “It’s our discussion, J. Not yours.”
His eyes narrow. “It is kind of mine when it’s my money your using.”