The Trouble With Paper Planes

by Amanda Dick

  For a split second, I felt triumphant. I could do this, talk to her, look at her, without making myself look stupid. I just had to concentrate. Hard. Then I realised what I’d said. I’d practically offered her the one thing I wasn’t prepared to do.

  She smiled nervously, both hands on the clipboard that now rested on the table. “Yeah. I was looking through the brochures she has over there earlier. I think I’ll contact the surf school tomorrow.”

  I glanced behind me, at the makeshift information centre Bridget had set up in the corner. It was filled with brochures and pamphlets on local amenities, places of interest and suchlike.

  “That’s a good start,” I said, turning back to her, relieved. “They’ll teach you the basics, enough to get you up and going.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she smiled.

  Holy shit. Even their smiles were similar. Not the same, but very close. I found myself looking for differences, as if trying to further convince myself. I’d always been one for hard evidence. I didn’t do fairy-tales. In that respect, Bridget and I were total opposites.

  “Heath could teach you,” Bridget piped up from across the room. “He’s been surfing forever, haven’t you, love? He’s patient and a good teacher. He taught my daughter how to surf.”

  And there it was, right on time. If I didn’t love her so much, I would’ve happily throttled her, right then and there.

  “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  She looked more embarrassed than I did.

  “I know you’re busy,” Bridget said, making her way back over to the table with a takeaway coffee and a paper bag. “I didn’t mean to drop you in it. Maybe you could think about it, and let Maia know at the party tomorrow night?”

  I smiled graciously, as if we hadn’t had this conversation only moments ago.

  “Coffee for you, chocolate éclair for the old man,” she said. “I’ve put an extra one in there, too – it’s for you, not for him, so make sure you stake your claim. You know what he’s like.”

  She set the coffee and paper bag down in front of me.

  “The chocolate éclair’s look lovely,” Maia said, indicating the brown bag. “I’ll have to try them. I had a chocolate and raspberry muffin earlier – to die for.”

  “Bridget’s a great cook, and she makes a mean coffee,” I said, grateful for the subject change, snatching at the small-talk like a life preserver in an unforgiving sea. “If you have a sweet tooth, you’re in the right place, too.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I do. I can see myself eating my way through the menu while I’m here, that’s for sure.”

  “I make no bones about the fact that I think chocolate can pretty much cure most things,” Bridget said, blushing slightly at the compliment. “One of the great things about being in business for yourself, isn’t it love? Being able to do what you like, without being answerable to anyone?”

  “Oh? What is it you do?”

  I suddenly felt inadequate, as I always did when talking about how I spent my days. Pushing around a lawn mower, pulling weeds, digging flower beds – hardly the dream career everyone longs for.

  “I mow lawns.”

  “Ha!” Bridget scoffed, turning to Maia. “He’s being modest. He’s probably the most under-paid landscape gardener you’ll ever meet. He does a beautiful job – lawns, weeds, planting, planning – the whole lot. If it wasn’t for Heath, there’d be a lot of ragged-looking holiday homes around here.”

  Compliments were something I never knew what to do with, but I did my best to take it like a man. As if laughing at me, my body rebelled and I could feel the back of my neck heating up again. Bridget pimped me out like a pro, but the truth was much less glamorous.

  “Hardly,” I mumbled, reaching for my coffee and the bag of cakes. I needed to get out of there before I lost it completely. “Anyway, it’s been really nice meeting you, but I have to go. I have a cantankerous seventy-nine year old waiting for his chocolate éclair. If I’m late, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Maia smiled. “Sounds intriguing. I better not hold you up.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” I kissed Bridget on the cheek then turned to Maia. “Nice to meet you. Sounds like I’ll see you tomorrow night, at my brother’s party.”

  “See you then,” she smiled.

  I PULLED UP OUTSIDE Henry’s house, grabbing my coffee and the éclairs from the centre console of the truck. I’d have to tell Henry about Maia. If the two met, I didn’t want the old man to have a stroke, and the possibility was a very real one, going by my own reaction.

  Even ten minutes after I’d left the café, my heart was still racing. I didn’t know what the hell to think. First there was hope, then confusion, then disappointment. Now – and this really shook me – curiosity. Who was she, and what the hell had just happened? I’d never experienced anything like that in my life. Whatever it was, it was discomforting. I thought I had things under control, more or less. Apparently, I was wrong.

  This was a shitty time to meet someone, especially someone who looked like she did. I was scared to move on, and afraid of what would happen to me if I couldn’t look back. So where did that leave me? Stuck in the middle, as usual. In limbo, just like I had been for the past five years. It felt like home. I’d mentally moved in, rearranged the furniture to my liking, redirected my mail and sat down to wait. But wait for what? Or, who?

  My bloody head hurt just thinking about it.

  I walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath my feet, the sun beating down on the top of my head. Glancing up at the small, pale blue weatherboard cottage, I spied Henry perched on the roof. What in the hell was the old bugger up to now? His attention was so captivated by whatever it was he was doing, he didn’t even see me, and suddenly I forgot all about Maia and what had happened at the café.

  Henry was a legend. The whole town knew him. He’d lived here his whole life, married Emily’s grandmother here, raised Bridget and her brother, owned a business and retired here. Part of me harboured a deep-seated hero-worship of him, and the other part of me sometimes felt like I was charged with babysitting a head-strong five-year-old. The old man had no idea the amount of mini-strokes he had caused everyone in recent years, due mainly to his fierce independent streak. Should I tell Bridget about this latest stunt? Probably best to find out what was going on first. I stopped still and stared up at the roof.

  “Henry! What the hell are you doing?”

  I startled him, but he managed to keep his balance. “Jesus, boy! What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

  “Give you a heart-attack? That’s bloody rich! What’re you doing up there?”

  “Checking the hot water cylinder overflow valve.”

  “I could’ve done that for you, y’know.”

  “I’m not in the grave yet,” Henry grumbled, his full head of steel-grey hair glinting in the sun.

  He made his way slowly across the roof to the ladder leaning against the end of the house. For as long as I could remember, this had been Henry’s house. As a kid, I used to come by with Vinnie to visit. His wife, Glenda, made the best cheese scones I’d ever tasted, and she could whip them up in twenty minutes flat. I loved them fresh out of the oven, loaded up with butter that melted on impact. Vinnie liked his cold, the weirdo. Even before Em and I got together, there was Henry and Glenda. Our families were close then, and even more so now.

  When Glenda died twelve years ago, there had never been any question of him moving. He’d lived here, in this house, for over fifty years. But the older he got, the more obvious it became that it was only a matter of time. The house needed maintaining, and even though Henry was determined to act like he was fifty, not closer to eighty, it was getting the better of him. Moving him out, selling the house, was the only option. The only trouble was, no one had actually bothered to tell Henry this.

  He was a formidable force, but I loved spending time with him, despite the sometimes gruff exterior. He was a product of his ge
neration – hardy, adventurous and independent. He was also cantankerous and short-tempered. It was the direct attitude that I admired most, though. Henry called a spade a spade, which meant you knew exactly where you stood, always. There was no pussy-footing around where Henry was concerned. It was as refreshing as it was entertaining, as long as you weren’t on the receiving end.

  I watched him navigating his way across the roof. Putting down the coffee and the paper bag on the porch, I went over to hold the ladder for him. Henry slowly made his way down, spying the treats as soon as he was back on terra firma again.

  “Good timing, I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, leading the way inside without another word.

  Christ. Up on the roof, and up and down a ladder that looked older than I was. I didn’t want to think what might’ve happened if he’d slipped. I picked up both coffee and bag and followed him. Bridget would chuck a fit.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Henry warned, reading my mind as he made his way across the front porch and into the house. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. The old bugger was as sharp as a tack, as usual. While his body may be letting him down as the years passed, there was nothing wrong with his mind.

  We settled down at Henry’s kitchen table, he with his cup of tea, me with my takeaway coffee. He ripped open the brown paper bag and helped himself to a chocolate éclair, murmuring appreciatively as he ate. Bridget knew they were his favourites. I’d fallen into the habit of finishing work early on a Thursday just so I could call in at the café and pick up a coffee for me and a treat for Henry on my way over. He deserved it.

  I visited him twice a week – Tuesdays and Thursdays. On Tuesdays, we went to the Police Station, then I dropped him off at the RSA for his weekly game of pool with his mates. Thursdays, we did this. He was a stickler for routine, and after Em disappeared, I needed something solid to set my clock by. I needed to keep track of the days somehow, to keep myself grounded. I’m sure Henry knew that. Henry seemed to know everything.

  “How’s Jasmine?” he asked, between sips of tea. “I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks.”

  “She’s fine. Fighting fit.”

  “How much longer is it now? Can’t be much.”

  “Anything from two to four weeks, apparently. She’s due on the 20th, but they say first babies could go a week or two over.”

  He nodded. “That’s right, I remember now. Vinnie’s having his birthday party tomorrow night, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, at the café. Costume party. Don’t ask why, I have no clue. Jas’s idea, apparently.”

  “You still planning on going?”

  Not him, too. “It’s his thirtieth. Of course I’m going.”

  “Good. No use mooching around the beach like you did last year.”

  I started to object, but before I could get a word in, Henry held his hand up.

  “You can’t kid a kidder, boy. Emily might be out there somewhere, but Vinnie’s right here. You owe it to him to make an effort, especially after last year. He can’t help when his birthday falls, and that’s never going to change. Best you get used to that, and stop letting your brother down. He wouldn’t let you down – just remember that.”

  I stared at Henry across the table. The old man was infuriating, especially when he was right. Suddenly, my appetite seemed to vanish. I picked at my chocolate éclair.

  It was true, I’d briefly entertained the idea of not going tomorrow night, or slipping away early, but Vinnie’s little speech this morning had washed all thoughts of that from my mind. After everything Vinnie and Jas had done for me over the past few years, I was ashamed of myself for even thinking it. Henry didn’t need to lay on the guilt.

  “You’re not being disloyal to her for picking up and moving on,” Henry said, in his usual matter-of-fact manner. “We all have to do it.”

  First Vinnie, then Henry. Either it was a conspiracy or a coincidence, but it felt targeted either way. It felt like, one by one, everyone was giving up on her. I was the last bastion of hope.

  Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I was going to regret them. Henry was far wiser than I could ever hope to be, yet my knee-jerk reaction was still to defend the concept of hope that I wasn’t even sure I believed in anymore.

  “Come on Henry – moving on? Is that what you call going to the police station every Tuesday?”

  My heart pounded but Henry wasn’t even rattled. He put down his cup of tea and stared at me over the table, his eyes steely blue, so like Bridget’s.

  “Moving on and giving in are two entirely different things. My granddaughter is still out there, somewhere. Cops come and go from that place, but as long as I’m alive, Latimer and the others will keep her picture up on that board and they’ll remember her name. I may not be able to do much for her, but I can do that.”

  I felt like I was ten years old again. A stupid kid, one who opened his mouth before he had a chance to think it through. One of Henry’s favourite quotes came back to me.

  Better to be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.

  This time next year, I should just lock myself in my house and unplug the phone. I wasn’t fit to be around people. Meeting Em’s double at the café today had only succeeded in making me crazier than usual.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, suitably contrite. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Henry snapped, picking up his cup once again and taking a quick sip. “I’m always right.”

  Without breaking into a smile, he winked at me, indicating the half-eaten chocolate éclair on the table in front of me. “You going to eat that? I hate to see good food go to waste.”

  Not so fast, old man. I picked up the éclair and took a large bite. Henry shook his head, as if I was a giant pain in the ass. He got up to retrieve the beaten-up aluminium teapot from the kitchen counter, muttering under his breath as I chewed. Pouring himself a refill, he sat down again.

  “Bridget has the birthday memorial at the beach again tomorrow morning. You coming to that?” he asked, deftly changing the subject while subtly letting me off the hook at the same time.

  I nodded, finishing my mouthful before I spoke. I knew better than to talk with my mouth full in front of Henry. It was one of his pet hates.

  “Yep. She told me she switched it to the morning so it wouldn’t interfere with Vinnie’s party, which makes sense, I suppose. I haven’t seen Alex lately, have you? I’m guessing he’ll be there, but she didn’t say.”

  “It makes no difference if he’s there or not – you’ve got as much right to be there as he has.”

  “I know. But… you know what he’s like.”

  It was hard to believe that Alex and I used to be good mates. These days, he treated me like a suspect. If it wasn’t for the fact he was Em’s brother, I would’ve sorted the situation out long ago, but I just felt like doing something about it now would only make things worse. Henry and Bridget had enough to deal with without Alex and I at each other’s throats. Until I could figure out another solution, I’d resigned myself to that fact that I had to just take it on the chin. I tried to stay away from him as much as I could, but Raglan was a small town.

  “Don’t let him scare you away. That boy has problems, no two ways about it. But they’re his problems, not yours. He’s going to have to deal with them himself. God knows, we’ve tried to help him but there’s only so much we can do.”

  Alex was unpredictable, that was for sure. He had a nasty habit of lighting up at the slightest thing, especially when he’d been drinking, which seemed to be all the damn time lately.

  “Bridget wants you there,” Henry said. “I want you there and I’m sure Jasmine and Vinnie want you there. That should be enough.”

  “I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

  This little ritual that Bridget had orchestrated over the past few years wasn’t really my thing. It seemed to help her though, and that was the only reason
I went along with it. Bridget had more right to call the shots than I did. I was just the boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. God, what the hell was I anyway? Was there even a word for it?

  My own way of marking Em’s birthday was more private. My grief wasn’t a spectator sport, it was something between me and Em and I wanted it to stay that way.

  Maia’s face flashed through my head.

  I’d better tell him. I didn’t want his death on my conscience, too.

  “Looks like Bridget’s got a new helper at the café,” I said, playing with the lid on my paper coffee cup as I looked across the table at him.

  MARLOW WAS NOTHING if not persistent. He lounged at an almost obscene angle on the bar, grinning at the pretty blonde tourist who was doing her best to get rid of him politely.

  “Any minute now,” Vinnie said, taking another sip of his beer as we all watched the drama play out for the third time that night.

  Marlow’s eyes slid down to the girl’s cleavage with less subtlety than a sledgehammer to the face.

  “For Christ’s sake,” I groaned, hanging my head. “Every single time! Has he learnt nothing? I can’t watch, it’s too painful. Tell me when it’s over.”

  I took a huge gulp of beer, avoiding the spectacle. Vinnie and Joel continued to watch Marlow with a combination of awe and disgust. I’d known him forever, but the dude had very few boundaries. Apparently, the pretty blonde had picked up on that. Suddenly, she got up, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she grabbed her bag. Marlow grinned up at her from his seat at the bar, clearly missing the signs. His face fell as she walked away, and he glanced over at us wearing a lost expression that set Vinnie and Joel howling with laughter. I felt sorry for him, in a way. He tried really hard, but I think that was the problem. He came across as desperate, and that was definitely not a selling point. Luckily, he bounced back pretty quickly. It was one of the things I admired most about him.

  “Frosty bitch,” he said, collapsing back into his chair across from me and picking up his beer. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”