by Lilly Mirren
He picked her up, setting her on his hip as he headed for the kitchen. “How are you my darling? Did you have a nice day with Mamma?”
She nodded, her light brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. “Sì, Papa.”
“English, my love,” he corrected. He and Maria had chosen to teach their children two languages, with him they spoke English, with Maria they communicated in Italian. It worked well enough, though caused some confusion at times. The result was that at four years of age Marion could converse fluently in either language, though she generally preferred Italian, especially since beginning scuola materna, or pre-school as he called it.
Maria sat in front of a highchair, holding a spoon towards their son’s mouth. He slapped the highchair with both hands, his face covered in orange-coloured mush.
“Well, hello there Stefano. You look as though you’re enjoying your tea,” said Charlie.
Maria sighed. “A little too much, I think. Most of it is on his face or the floor.”
Charlie grunted. “Ah the life of a baby.”
“What about poor Mamma?” she asked, guiding the spoon into Stefano’s open mouth.
“Papa! Papa!” called Stefano.
Charlie kissed the top of Maria’s head, then hurried upstairs to change out of his work clothes and wash up for the evening meal. Maria preferred to eat late, but he’d convinced her they should eat something with the children before putting them to bed each night, so they generally had a light dish now, then another before bedtime. It kept them both happy, and he’d grown to enjoy the Italian fare, though it’d been a little hard on his stomach those first few months with the array of rich sauces, olives, and fatty meats.
He stripped down to his undershorts and stood staring into the small closet he shared with his wife. Her clothes were hung neatly on wooden hangers, the rest folded in straight piles that squatted on two wooden shelves on one side of the closet. Something fell to the ground, startling him. It was a hat box, tired and creased from years of use. He swore beneath his breath, picked it up and looked up to find where it’d come from.
Above the hanging clothes, another shelf stretched from one side to the other. He stood on tiptoe to peer at what was stored there. Usually he ignored that shelf, hadn’t looked at it in years. He set the box back in the space it’d vacated, then reached higher still on his toes to see what else was stored on the high shelf.
Beside the box, folded and sagging, was the dress Maria had worn on the day the priest married them at her uncle’s farm. He fingered it with a smile on his face. Beside the dress was a smaller box. He pulled it from the shelf and looked through it. A series of keepsakes from their first years together. Some dried flowers, a pamphlet advertising a movie they’d seen together, a pair of knitted booties from when Marion was a baby.
He slid the box back into place but found it didn’t quite fit where it’d been. He couldn’t see what was blocking it, so fetched a chair from the other side of the room to stand on. There was a pile of drab clothing in the way. He took it out, pushed the box back into place and then examined what he held in his hands. It was his military uniform. He hadn’t thought of it in years. Hadn’t seen it, either. Maria must’ve shoved it into the back of the closet when they moved in.
Charlie stepped off the chair and sat down, laying the uniform in his lap. With narrowed eyes, he took the shirt and unfolded it, studied the faded, stained material. The place where the dark, rust colour of his blood still showed faint against the green woollen fabric. The insignia sewn in place over the shirt pocket. He opened the pocket and felt inside. There was something there.
His brow furrowed as his fingers explored the small opening. With a grunt he managed to get two fingers around a small piece of what felt like paper and tugged it free. He stared at it, eyes widening. It was a photograph of a woman and baby. The woman looked very young. Even in black and white he could tell she was blonde. The baby held a fist close to its mouth, chubby legs protruding from a plain suit.
He sat on the chair in his underwear, the photograph in his hand, back slouched, studying the woman.
Every line of her face, the curve of her lips, the way her hip jutted out to hold the baby in place. Her slender figure and the bounce in her blonde curls. Those eyes…Edie.
Edie. Her name was Edie.
He leapt to his feet, heart pounding. Edie…and Keith. He was their son. They were in love. He’d promised to return after the war and marry her.
Panic swept its way down his throat and seized his lungs, his breath coming in short bursts as memories washed over him. He was Charles Jackson from Bathurst, Australia. He was engaged to be married to Edith Watson. Or at least, he had been. What must she think? He didn’t return home after the war, didn’t send a letter to tell her where he was. She must have thought he was dead. And his parents too, they must be so worried about him. An image of their smiling faces flashed through his mind, along with a laughing Sylvia. His family.
He fell back onto the chair as memories returned, one after the other. It was as though a flood gate had been opened and every remembrance that’d been held beyond its border now returned with a rush of emotion and a flurry of images.
Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, then spilled down his cheeks as grief welled up in his chest. A lump built in his throat and a wail grew there, though he held it back. Maria and the children were downstairs, he couldn’t let them know, couldn’t utter a sound. He bit on his fist, pain filling his soul.
Edie.
He’d left her without a husband, no father to their son. She must’ve been consumed with grief when his letters stopped coming.
He should write to her. His parents as well. He should let them know where he was, that he was fine.
He stood and paced across the room to Maria’s small writing desk, pushed up beneath a dormer window in the corner of their cramped bedroom. He took one look at her pile of correspondence, letters, bills, all notated in her neat script.
He couldn’t do it. What about Maria and the kids? He couldn’t return to Edie and Keith. He had a life in Casoli.
With a shake of his head, he slid into the chair and pulled a sheet of paper in front of him. He reached for a pen and began to write.
* * *
Dearest Edie,
* * *
I’m writing to tell you that I’m fine…
* * *
What else should he say? I’m married, I have two children, and am living a happy life in Italy without you. I forgot all about you and our son?
His eyes squeezed shut and he dropped the pen back onto the desk with a clatter. No, he couldn’t do that. No doubt after he left, she’d built a life for herself. He couldn’t disrupt whatever it was she’d built since there was no way for him to live up to the promise he’d made her. Not now. He was already married. Had a family of his own. He couldn’t be the husband he’d said he would, couldn’t love her the way he’d always planned to, the way he’d dreamed of for so many years of his young life.
He crossed his hands on the desk and let his head fall to rest on his arms, his tears dry on his cheeks. It was an impossible situation. Everything within him cried out for Edie, his soul longed to return to her. But he couldn’t. It was too late.
And he loved Maria, Marion, and Stefano. They were his heart, his life. Even if he reconnected with Edie, he wouldn’t leave them to go to her. So it seemed cruel to write, only to tell her that.
He’d write to his parents instead. Let them know where he was and what had happened and ask them about Edie and Keith. It was the only way to find out what he desperately needed to know — that his family in Australia was fine, didn’t need him, were happy without him.
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper and began to write, the words flying onto the page. What would Mother and Father think? He missed them so much, his chest ached with it. It was as though all the emotion he’d been suppressing for so many years welled up within him all at once.
When he finished the
first page of the letter, he leaned back in his seat to read it through. The bedroom door flew open and Marion raced in, leapt into his lap.
“Papa, what are you doing?”
He embraced her, kissed the top of her head. “I’m writing a letter, my darling.”
“Writing to who, Papa?”
“Some people you don’t know, my dear.” He set her feet back on the ground. “Now run downstairs and see Mamma, I’ll be down shortly.”
“Mamma wants you to come down with me,” pouted Marion, crossing her arms over her thin chest.
He cocked his head to one side, studying her as the pain evaporated from his chest and a bubble of joy replaced it. He pulled her close to squeeze her tight. He’d never leave his family, he loved them too much. They were everything to him. No matter how much he missed Edie, he couldn’t walk away from the life he’d built, the family who needed him.
“Papa, I can’t breathe!” she muttered against his chest.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you the mostest, Papa,” she boasted, her eyes gleaming.
He folded the letter and shoved it into a desk drawer, then strode to the closet to find something to wear.
“Are you coming down to eat with us?” called Maria up the stairs.
He slipped on a pair of pants and then pulled a shirt over his head, shouting through the fabric. “Yes, I’m coming. Just a minute.”
18
January 1997
Cabarita Beach
Bindi tucked her legs up beneath the covers and linked her arms around them. Her head sank into the pillow and she stared at the wall. She’d moved into Kate’s room, the suite on the ground floor of the inn, just before Christmas. It was hers now, not Kate’s room any longer. Kate and Alex were back from their honeymoon and living in Alex’s small brick house in Kingscliff. Bindi was getting used to the new state of affairs.
She sighed, her head pounding.
She’d been looking forward to this day for weeks. Her last day of chemotherapy. Reeda had driven her home after the treatment ended and tucked her into bed. She hadn’t felt up to eating or drinking anything, though Reeda left a glass of water on the bedside table just in case. Since then, she’d slept fitfully, sweating through the sheets and her loose-fitting pyjamas.
What she really needed was a Panadol. Something to help with the headache. But she didn’t feel like getting out of bed. Outside her room she could hear the buzz of conversation as guests made their way down the hall to the dining room for tea. Waning sunlight filtered around the edges of the curtains that blocked her bedroom windows. The air-conditioning vents on the walls hummed, sending cool air into the room to beat back the oppressive summer heat.
It was strange to be holed up in bed with so much going on just outside her door. She should shower, get dressed, make an appearance. She highly doubted she’d manage to sleep through the night if she kept dozing the way she had all afternoon.
In one week’s time she’d find out the results of her treatments.
Dread edged her stomach with nausea, making it tighten into a knot. What if it hadn’t worked? What if the doctor told her nothing had changed? Panic worked its way up her spine.
She didn’t feel well. If the treatment had worked, would she feel better than this? Would she know?
With a sharp intake of breath, she swung her feet to the ground, leaned forward, and stared hard at the floor while she worked at moderating her heart rate.
Breathe in, breathe out.
There was no sense in getting all worked up about something she couldn’t control — that was what Nan would’ve told her if Nan were here. But she wasn’t, and Bindi had to face whatever came alone. Well, not entirely alone. She had Kate, Reeda, Mima, Jack…and now Josh.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Josh had been a surprise. Was still a surprise to her.
She hadn’t expected their relationship to develop the way it had. Bindi had never experienced this kind of falling in deep, with a rush of passion, unable to stop the tumbling, laughing, joyful descent, not wanting to. When she and Brendan had first begun to date, there’d been a spark, a warmth, a sensible attraction that had morphed into a companionable relationship. With Josh, everything was different. She felt out of control, but in a good way. The best way.
She padded to the bathroom and took a hot shower, washing away the stink of the hospital, the feel of the poison leeching cold through her veins. Then she stood in front of the mirror combing her wet hair until it hung lank and straight around her face.
Since Brendan returned to Melbourne, she hadn’t heard from him. She shook her head, remembering how close she’d come to giving him another chance. It would’ve been a mistake to let him back into her life. He knew she was sick, yet all he’d done was run back to Melbourne, unable to stand with her. She’d expected him to call, check on her at the very least, but it seemed he’d only wanted to use her to get his job back and didn’t care about her wellbeing at all. How had she been so deceived about his character for so many years?
She’d only just buttoned herself into a summer dress and slipped on a pair of sandals when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” she said, her brow furrowed. The door had a privacy sign on it, which generally discouraged guests from knocking. It was most likely one of her sisters, or Mima, coming to check on her.
“How’s the patient,” asked Josh, pushing through the door with a smile. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He offered her a bunch of flowers, sylvan reds, pink ice proteas, dyandra, viburnum, privet berry, and banksias. Bindi loved Australian natives, the way they uniquely combined stylish beauty with strength.
She grinned and stood on tiptoe to kiss his soft lips. “No, I’ve been awake for a while. Just stepped out of the shower.”
“I brought soup. I thought it might help,” he replied as he held up a plastic bag with a round container in the bottom.
“Really? That sounds perfect, thank you.” She smiled. “Let’s go out onto the verandah.”
They sat side by side in rocking chairs watching the last remnants of the sun reflect across the garden as it set behind the inn. Everything was bathed in a soft golden light. The chooks returned to their coop, the horses stood idle in the paddock, eyes blinking lazily, and a pair of plovers circled above a grassy clearing, their calls ringing out in the still air.
“We had a crazy case at the station today,” said Josh, as he snapped the lid from the container of soup and set it on the table beside Bindi.
“Oh yeah?” Bindi reached for the plastic spoon and plunged it into the soup.
“We got a call from a couple who live out in the sticks. This guy was pacing around their yard, around the perimeter, in his birthday suit.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, completely sunburned from head to toe. He just kept pacing around their yard all afternoon, muttering under his breath. Poor guy, we had to bring him into the station, then they took him to the hospital.”
“I hope he’ll be okay.”
“The couple were so wigged out. They didn’t know what he was doing. They locked themselves in their house for hours, watching and waiting until they called us. When we got there, we couldn’t get him into the cruiser, we tried everything. I didn’t want to force him, not if we didn’t have to. In the end, I found a half-melted Cherry Ripe in my pocket. I held it out to him and lured him into the back seat that way. He ate it on the way to the station, got chocolate everywhere. Seriously, we should use video of it as a public service announcement — don’t do drugs.”
Bindi giggled as she gulped down mouthfuls of soup. It was warm and good, and soothed her stomach.
“I guess you had to clean out the car,” she said.
He grimaced. “No kidding. I hate it when people slide across the seat nude. I had to use gloves and bleach…”
Bindi giggled until her sides hurt as Josh regaled her with more stories from
his time on the force. When she’d finished her soup, they took a walk along the beach together in the cove. The last glow of a pink sunset hovered on the horizon.
Josh took her hand in his, kissed the back of it. She nestled against his side, their strides matching as they walked. Her hand felt warm and safe in his, her arm tucked beneath his. A feeling of well-being trickled down her spine and spread through her stomach. She smiled, letting the peacefulness of the moment invade, pushing away the worry, the fear, the pain. For this moment, she was happy.
“You know, I had a huge crush on you in high school,” he said.
She frowned. “What? No way.”
He chuckled. “Yep. I did. You were so beautiful, sweet, kind and a little bit mysterious. Always off reading a book on your own. But whenever anyone spoke to you, you’d give them your whole attention. I noticed that.”
He’d noticed her? She thought no one saw her in high school. She was the girl from Sydney, the one whose parents died in a horrible accident. Apart from a few other nerdy girls who accepted her into their group, she’d been anonymous in her years at school. She wasn’t a surfer, wasn’t tanned and athletic, wasn’t outgoing or vivacious, didn’t sleep around, didn’t fit the mould the way so many of the locals did.
She’d glided through those years, under the radar and happy to be there. She didn’t want attention, all she wanted was to disappear, to escape the pain, to get through the day. She’d made it through, left town, and never looked back. Not until recent years, when she’d begun to doubt that the path she’d chosen was bringing her the kind of satisfaction in life she longed for.
Then she’d lost her job, and the idea of moving to Cabarita began percolating in her mind. When Nan died, she knew it was time, past time. She wished with everything she had that she’d moved back six months earlier, that she’d had time to spend with Nan before it was too late.
