The Minnow (18 page)

It was dark. Bill was digging one of his holes, and I was scruffing about in the bushes nearby. At first I thought I was alone. The night smells had me excited and I was off in my own little world—until I recognised something familiar. It was one of those weird dream moments where I found myself somewhere odd and couldn't understand how I got there.

I turned my head to locate the direction of the scent, and that was when I spotted Bill, about six or seven metres away. I realised that if he looked up, he would see me.

A small pit of fear began to grow. A branch cracked and Bill put down his shovel and reached for his torch. He shone it in a wide arc. The light landed on me, stayed for a moment, then Bill dropped the torch and carried on digging. I couldn't understand why he had ignored me, until I remembered I was in an animal body. Relief flooded through me like a drug. Part of me wanted to walk really close and flaunt my invisibility. But the part of me that knew Bill's unpredictable nature, that he would just as likely kill a small animal as let it go, chose to scuttle off in the opposite direction.

When I woke up, I realised the dream had shown me something. I was no closer to discovering whatever Bill was hiding, but I now knew that animals were no threat.

They wheeled Nana back to her room this afternoon. And they transferred me to Nana's wheelchair and parked me in the corner. Hazel stripped and remade the bed. Someone brought a vase filled with flowers from the kitchen garden, old Mrs Beakle brought Nana a chicken sandwich and a glass of lemonade, and Jonathan arrived with a set of crystal tumblers and a bottle of Tanqueray gin. Nana had been gone less than a week but, as very few residents go to the nursing wing and actually return, she was something of a heroine.

Halfway through Nana's second gin, Hazel arrived with the tea trolley, shortly followed by the Thursday Night Bridge Players—a group of women whose names all begin with the letter P. Mike Spice and a bottle of sherry were right behind them. Nana's room was getting crowded, but each arrival was met with a cheer.

By nightfall the celebrations had kicked up a notch, as other residents wandered over after their evening meal. Those who couldn't fit inside her room—or didn't know Nana all too well—sat outside on the veranda, talking and drinking.

The Minnow and I were going back to West Wrestler. When it came time for Jonathan and me to leave, Nana held out her hand for me to kiss.

A queen surrounded by her subjects.

‘Bye, my darling,' Nana said to me, a bit slurry. ‘Thank you for keeping my bed warm.'

‘Bye Nana,' I said, leaning out of the wheelchair and hugging her close. She smelled so familiar. I missed her already. Jonathan squeezed Nana's hand, and the throng parted to let us through. We headed down the wide veranda to the ramp at the main entrance.

‘Little wonder she hated the nursing wing,' said Papa as I wheeled past. He was sulking in a quiet spot, a fair distance from Nana's party.

‘You're lucky she doesn't talk to you,' I said under my breath, ‘because if she did, she'd definitely
not
be talking to you now!'

He knew what I meant.

Jonathan drove at a steady ninety. I was quite tired so I slept on and off for most of the trip. I was too groggy to answer any questions when we arrived, but Jonathan was amazing, demanding to see the person in charge and taking care of everything while an orderly wheeled me to my room.

A nurse showered me and put me to bed.

‘Dr Patek says to get some sleep and she'll be by to check on you first thing in the morning.'

I felt safe. I was drifting off when I heard someone.

‘That you, Jonathan?'

‘Sorry, Tom. Didn't mean to disturb you,' he whispered. ‘I'll see you in the morning.'

‘Thanks,' I said, but he was gone.

Nothing much changes.

You love someone, they die. You miss them. You grow older.

Sarah is sitting on the end of my bed.

I know she's there, but I keep my eyes closed. I have to make her wait. We both know she deserves it.

She is still there the next morning.

‘You're a moody shit,' she says, the moment I open my eyes.

‘And you're not?' I reply.

‘No. I'm dead, you idiot.'

‘You think I don't know that?' I had forgotten how annoying she could be.

‘Listen, Tom. It's not easy to be here. If you had any idea how hard it was you'd…well, you'd…'

‘Still the wordsmith,' I say.

‘Piss off,' she says.

‘Piss off, yourself.'

This was going well. A year and a half and it was like yesterday.

I sat up and looked at her. I thought she would be exactly the same, but something about her was different. If I didn't know better, I would say she looked older.

‘Should we start again?' Classic Sarah. Miss Clean Slate.

‘No. Just tell me about Mum and Dad.'

Sarah sat on the end of my bed and told me about the flood, and how she had spent weeks looking for Mum and Dad and me. I was sad to hear that; I thought the dead just found each other. Sarah said she thought she was going to be alone forever, until she stumbled across Dad at Fowlers Hill.

‘Fowlers Hill?' I said. ‘Why there?'

‘No idea,' she answered. ‘But something strange happens when you die. You think you're in control, but you end up places you don't intend.'

I knew what she meant. Papa has talked about this stuff.

‘So, how are Mum and Dad?'

Sarah stared at me. She definitely looked older. She stood up and smoothed her dress. I realised it was new. I was about to ask her about it when she sat back down, closer this time, and took my hand.

‘Sarah,' I said. ‘You're scaring me.'

‘Mum and Dad are dead,' she said, in her serious voice.

‘Oh, for Christ's sake, Sarah, I know they're bloody dead.'

She pulled back and was gone. It was so fast that I rubbed my eyes a few times in case they were playing tricks on me.

‘Don't leave, Sarah,' I said. But it was too late.

‘She'll be back,' said Papa.

‘Papa! You almost gave me a heart attack.'

‘Sorry sport.'

Papa sat on the small two-seater couch and slowly crossed one leg over the other. He cleared his throat as though he was about to speak, but instead he leaned back and folded his arms.

‘You're sure?'

‘Of course,' said Papa. ‘She is very young. It takes a while to sort out stuff at her age.'

I looked at him with a face that said I needed more.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘She tried to explain how hard it was to find you. My guess is she is faced with some tough decisions.'

‘Like?'

‘Like trying to decide where she wants to be. It was easy for me; I wanted to be near your grandmother. But Sarah's got lots of options.'

This was way too weird.

On the drive to West Wrestler, Jonathan told me that he had booked a hotel room, rather than drive back to The Crossing in the middle of the night. So I'm not surprised, the following morning, when he pops in to check on me.

He looks fresh, clean shaven.

‘Well, if it isn't Mr Neat,' comments Papa, as Jonathan enters the room.

It's too late to say something so, instead, I give Papa one of my looks.

‘Don't worry,' Papa says, ‘I'll get out of your hair. Anyway, I want to see what they've done to the park since the last time I was here.'

As Papa leaves the room, Jonathan moves across to the windows and opens the curtains. Then he settles in the armchair and we chat, mostly about Nana and how relieved we both are that she has bounced back.

During a pause in the conversation, I remember something. Jonathan had been telling me that they had found Bill.

‘Didn't you have a question?' I ask him. ‘You know… about Bill.'

‘Oh, yes,' answers Jonathan. He looks decidedly uncomfortable. He stands, puts his hands in his pockets and walks towards the door. When he turns to face me the discomfort has gone; in its place is Jonathan Whiting QC. It makes me nervous.

‘Bill Hamperton,' he says, his voice deep and clear, ‘will go to jail. My concern is thus for your wellbeing and that of your child.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘I think you do, Tom. Bill is the father, is he not?'

‘Is that the question?'

‘Yes.'

‘I don't want to talk about Bill.'

‘Tom,' says Jonathan, as he walks towards me, ‘I'm sorry to be so formal but this is rather difficult.' He sits on the chair next to my bed. He clears his throat. ‘Normally I wouldn't ask you such a personal question. But Bill has money. Some of it is legitimate, some not. It is your grandmother's wish that I take action to secure what I can on your behalf.'

‘Nana knows that Bill is the father?'

‘Yes, Tom. She has always known.'

Mum visits me every day. I feel her sitting next to me when I'm asleep. Sometimes she strokes my hair, sometimes she hums. When I wake up, she's gone.

Music is floating into my room. I think it's coming from one of the birthing suites: a woman's voice, slow, sad. It sounds like something Dad would play. He used to play the guitar. He was self-taught. He would sit on the veranda, usually after dinner, and play late into the night. Sometimes he would sing and Mum would cry. She said he made everything sound sad. I miss falling asleep to the sound of Dad's voice. If he were here, he could sing to the Minnow and me.

Jonah has a small radio in his bedroom which he listens to when he can't sleep. Once in a while they play a song that Dad used to sing. I imagine it is him, even if it's a woman's voice. Nana only listens to movie soundtracks. Her favourite is
The Lion King
.

The Minnow is moving. I place both my hands on my belly. I can feel her turning. ‘I miss you,' I say, but she doesn't reply. ‘They're putting up decorations,' I tell her, ignoring her silence, ‘because we'll be staying here over Christmas. Jonathan has bought us a tree, and Jonah and horrible Caleb have bought fairy lights. The three of them will be here this Saturday to set it up.' I really thought the fairy lights would get a response. ‘You've no idea how lucky we are,' I continue. ‘Not everyone gets to have their own tree.'

I lay back on the pillow and pull the sheet up under my chin.

‘It's okay,' I say. ‘Once you're born, you'll be able to see what I'm talking about.'

‘I know about Christmas.'

‘You do?'

‘Uh huh,' says the Minnow, in a voice that sounds like nothing has happened. It's a tad irritating. Tad means ‘a small amount', but it is actually short for tadpole. Not many people know that.

‘You haven't said boo for weeks,' I reply, ‘and all you can say is you know about Christmas?'

I can hear the resentment in my voice, but as I lie there, staring at the ceiling, I can't get the smile off my face.

‘The Minnow's back,' I tell Papa, who has been dozing off and on all afternoon, stretched out in the armchair, using the end of my bed as a footstool.

‘Well, she couldn't have been far,' he replies.

‘Yeah, I know.'

Papa yawns. ‘I found some music for you,' he says, pulling himself up. He walks over to the TV and plays around with the controls, scrolling through the channels until he finds what he is looking for. ‘I overheard one of the nurses talking about it,' he says. ‘It is a bit like elevator music, but it's better than nothing,'

Music fills the room. Papa and I listen for a while. I fall asleep.

In second grade, I won the class reading award. It was presented to me by a Visiting Special Person: a nun from somewhere foreign. I can't remember what brought her to The Crossing. Anyway, she spent a whole month at the school: giving talks, reading from her journals and generally helping out. She was kind. I don't know what made me think of her just now.

Mum is stroking my hair. Soft gentle strokes across my forehead from left to right. I can hear faint beeping noises, far away in the distance.

‘She seems fine,' says Mum to someone in the room.

‘Yes, she is definitely doing much better,' is the answer.

Good, I think. I'm doing better. Better than what, I don't know, but I don't seem to mind.

‘When will you remove the tube?' asks Mum.

The tube? I try to listen for the answer, but I can't quite make out the words. Everything is foggy. Mum and Sarah are standing at the end of the sand spit. They're looking over at me but the sun is in my eyes and I can't quite see their faces. I try to call their names, but my throat is dry and the words don't form. Suddenly I'm exhausted. My arms are as heavy as lead, impossible to lift. This is it, I realise. I have no way of reaching them. I am up to my neck in sand, only my arms and head are exposed, and I'm sinking. I try to move my legs, but the weight of the sand is crushing my lungs, draining my strength. I try to lift my head, but it doesn't respond. My breath comes in small pants. Grains of sand start to fill my nostrils. I'm suffocating and there's nothing I can do.