The video ends and I say, ‘I love you too.’
I wipe my eyes dry with the corner of the sheet and sit myself up. I open my messages, hoping I’ll have birthday wishes. A dozen notifications roll in, making me smile. Paula, Dave, Lucy, and yes … Oliver. Paula and Dave promise to call later, and Lucy has sent a beautiful card with my head on a pretty swallow she’s drawn herself. So talented. I reply, asking what happened with Malcolm at the antique fair; did he come? I hope it went well.
I’ve saved Oliver’s for last.
There’s no message, just a video.
I press play.
It’s a mashup. Snippets of my favourite pop songs, selfies we’ve taken together, heads smooshed as close as we can get, and clips from the places we like to hang. He’s filmed the small scribbly-bark tree we planted in memory of Mum and counted all the new leaves sprouting. I remember how Oliver and I had walked from our gala dance, after I’d taken off my uncomfortable heels, up the hill to the spot where you can see the whole valley. I knew he was special right then—how he’d managed to both respect my grief and make a romantic gesture was nothing short of perfection.
The video has titles and captions, and he’s even made short animations with words popping up and fizzling away like soda bubbles. The end is a time lapse of him writing ‘happy birthday’. The speed slows and he turns the camera to his face and blows me a kiss. He must have spent hours editing it, and it’s the coolest video I’ve ever seen.
As I take a shower, I think of Mum’s words: ‘Surround yourself with good people. People who love you for you.’ I think I’ve done that, haven’t I? I contemplate the people in my life, my father now included, as I hum the pop songs.
‘After you, birthday girl.’ My father opens the restaurant door. We’re right on time for the birthday dinner he’s planned.
‘Can I take your coats?’ the hostess asks. It’s super toasty inside, and my father and I peel off our layers, passing a mountain of jackets, gloves, hats and scarfs to the hostess. I look around. Fancy. There’s a bar with hundreds of bottles lit from behind, and hanging lights illuminate the centres of dark mahogany tables. The light makes the cutlery shine and white linen serviettes glow orange. On the walls are a series of canvases painted with spring flowers. My mum would have liked them.
‘If you’ll follow me.’ The hostess leads us through the restaurant. A waiter walks past holding a plate with an abstract design made from swirly trails of orange dressing that circle a small green salad. I’m glad I dressed up. I’m wearing boots with heels, black high-waisted pants and a silky purple top tucked in. Mum’s necklace sits on my collarbone as always—I’m hoping it will bring me luck tonight. I also brushed on mascara and a smidge of lipstick.
The hostess seats us at a table next to the fire and hands us menus.
A moment later, a waitress appears. ‘Hi, my name is Lexie and I’ll be serving you tonight; can I get you some drinks to start?’
We order hot apple cider and I quickly scan the food choices. It’s nearly all meat and fish, and I don’t know what to order. The last thing I want is to offend my father when he’s taken me out for my birthday. Sometimes my diet and animal obsession are seriously impractical. My father whispers something to Lexie and she nods, taking the menus away.
‘I’ve prearranged a special banquet for us,’ he says. ‘All vegan.’
I’m taken aback by his thoughtfulness and how he’s included himself in the meal plan too. ‘Thank you,’ I say sincerely.
‘Finally we have time alone.’ He smiles. ‘And sorry again about Jaxon, that certainly wasn’t my plan. I hope you don’t mind too much having him around.’
I shake my head reassuringly. ‘Not at all.’ Which is partly true. Even though I’ve been in Alaska for the whole week, I don’t feel like I’ve gotten to know my man-of-mystery father as much as I want to. But Jaxon and I have been hanging out for the last couple of days and that’s been fun. I feel comfortable around him and he seems to feel the same. He’s practised all the songs he’ll be performing at the band competition, asking for my feedback on his lyrics and even changing a few words on my recommendations, which was flattering. His voice weirdly gives me goosebumps. I even met Trent and his other band mates when they came around to finalise the line-up for their show in a few days. Trent is good looking, part Japanese and grunge galore with an eyebrow piercing and one of those huge earrings that make your earlobe expand into a hole.
Jaxon wanted to know more about where I live, so we looked up West Creek on Google Earth. I zoomed out to the map of Australia and then the South Pacific after he insisted New Zealand was tropical. It turned into a world tour of all the places we both want to travel to.
‘Tell me everything.’ My father takes a sip of his cider. ‘Start from the beginning.’
‘That’s a lot!’ I laugh. ‘And I don’t really remember my babyhood.’
‘How about,’ he scratches his beard, ‘your favourite subjects? What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘I’m pretty much grown up.’ I feel a millisecond of annoyance as I’m again reminded that he missed the part where I was growing up, but I let it go.
We start with the bread basket, and I tell him about my dreams to travel, to be a journalist and maybe work for National Geographic or the BBC or something, and how Mum had wanted us to go to Borneo to see the endangered orangutans, whose name actually comes from the words for ‘people of the forest’, and I hope to do it for her one day too. My throat gets a bit choked up talking about Mum.
‘Tell me about her,’ he says as the first course arrives. ‘I remember she always aced her exams, real smart. I can see you’re just like her in that department.’
I smile and continue talking. He again proves his listening skills, like with my Chirp story. I enjoy describing Mum’s personality and the ins and outs of our relationship. Soon my father and I are both laughing as I’m recounting funny stories of Mum and me together. I see real tears in his eyes as I tell him about the cancer and all the failed treatments.
Lexie brings yet another course of delicious dishes, and I take a short clip of the spread to send to Oliver; he’ll appreciate it.
I swallow the last of my cider. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ I say. ‘Tell me about you. What do you want to be when you grow up?’
‘Where to start.’ He scratches his chin again. ‘My father wanted me to get a law degree and join his firm. But when I didn’t agree to kill myself climbing the corporate ladder, working fifteen hours a day in an expensive suit and tie, stress levels off the scale, and my only contact with nature networking on the golf course, he was very disappointed.’
‘You studied biology at uni in Sydney, right? I ask. ‘And you left the degree halfway when Mum got pregnant? That’s what I heard, anyway.’ I cut into the baked eggplant, despite feeling full. Now’s the time to hear the full story.
‘Yep.’ He gazes towards the window. ‘That was the start of a bad patch for me.’
I put my fork down. You? I want to say. Knocking up my mum and then leaving was bad for you? I take a big breath and pick my fork back up. ‘And that’s when you started salmon fishing.’ I’ve never liked the thought of having a father as a fisherman, fish flopping and gasping for breath in big nets. I’m hoping he’s finished with that job.
‘Yeah, not highly recommended.’ He pulls up his sleeve to reveal a big red scar. ‘But it paid well.’
‘What happened?’
‘A faulty piece of equipment. But it is one of the most dangerous jobs in America. Statistically. They didn’t tell me that at the interview!’
‘And after that …?’ I ask, feeling like a detective again. ‘What do you do now?’
‘It’s complicated. Why don’t I tell you instead about—’
This is too much. ‘Complicated? I thought you said I was smart. You’re not telling me anything.’
‘I just don’t want to disappoint you—it’s hard to explain.’
Disappoint—
how ironic. He did that sixteen years ago when he left.
‘Let’s just talk about something else,’ he says tenderly. ‘Please, Sky? I have a birthday present for you. I was going to wait until later but …’ He swivels around to reach into a backpack hanging from his chair.
‘Bro!’ Someone calls from the other side of the restaurant, and my father looks up.
‘Oh no,’ he says, putting his hand to his face. Must be someone he doesn’t like.
‘Yo! How insane. I was just thinking of you.’ A man walks up to our table, beaming. He wears a cowboy hat and a thin goatee. A young woman follows, orange lipstick and blonde hair sprayed high like a pageant girl’s.
My father plasters on a smile. ‘Ralph, nice to see you but—’
‘We have to go out together. Are you free this week? Tell me you have time for me?’
‘Sorry, can we talk another time? Just having a moment here with my daughter who’s visiting from Australia and—’
Ralph smiles at me. ‘She’s a beauty. And this here is my gorgeous wife, Barbara, just married last fall. Honey cakes,’ he turns to her, ‘wasn’t I just tellin’ you about this dude at the Lodge, and how I gotta call him? We only have a few days in town and no time to mess around. He’s like the best guide in the world. D’y’all hunt down under too?’ he asks me.
Lodge? Hunting? He must have got the wrong person. I study my father’s face. He’s turned pale.
‘That bear I bagged last year, Adam, how frickin’ awesome was that? Took us hours to track it.’ He looks at Barbara, eyes lit up. ‘The bastard gave us a run for our money, but this here Adam didn’t give up—best damn tracker in town. I took it by surprise in the end. Bam!’ He points his finger.
I jump slightly and my cutlery rattles.
‘Nice clean shot I made too. Didn’t I?’
‘Sure did,’ my father says.
‘Now he’s my living-room rug. And remember that deer? He was a beauty. What are they called again?’
‘Sitka black-tailed.’
‘Saw the little one run off into the woods, remember that? We gotta go again, I want a kick-ass moose head, mount it so it’s popping from my wall—there’s an empty spot over our fireplace that’s just beggin’ for it.’ He whacks my father on the back. ‘Beggin’ for it! Are we going to fill that wall? You always got my back; what do you say, Adam? Partners?’
A baby deer? I think of the fawns I saw on the documentary on the plane, born when the wildflowers bloom; small and spotty, weak and defenceless, they rely on their mothers for everything. My father’s shot one of their mums. That can’t be right. He’s an animal lover just like me.
I can’t seem to comprehend what I’m hearing.
‘Let’s talk business first thing tomorrow, okay, Ralph?’ my father says. ‘It’s Sky’s birthday and we’re just having a little celebration.’
‘Of course. Excuse the interruption, enjoy yourselves. Just let me get your number again.’ He takes out his phone.
I put my hand to my stomach. I’m feeling nauseous. Was this the secret conversation Adam and Jaxon were having? I remember my father whispering to Jaxon when I was on the stairs before we went camping, I don’t want her knowing yet. He’s been lying to me. Pretending. I can’t even …
‘Great to meet you.’ Ralph beams at me. ‘My niece is about your age—what are you, seventeen?’ He looks for something on his phone. ‘Here she is after a hunt. Looks a little like you, actually.’ He glances from the phone to me and back again. ‘Don’t you think, honey cakes?’ He shows his wife.
‘Y’know, I think you’re right.’ Now she beams at me too.
I look at the picture—a teen girl, long brown hair and fair skin, in camouflage gear, holding a bright pink gun. She’s smiling proudly. I can’t bear to linger on the huge dead boar by her feet, tongue hanging from his mouth.
‘You make sure to bring your dad down to visit us one day soon. Y’all can stay at our ranch. Your daddy’s the king of the woods, ha! Lucky girl.’
Bear. Rug. Bam. Baby deer. Orphaned. My head’s spinning. I’m going to be sick.
This can’t be happening. He’s deceived me. Coming across as this cool guy, good guy, nice guy, when he’s not. I have flashes in my head of gunshots, my father’s grinning face as the animal falls, red blood splattered in the snow. Talk business, he said. What kind of job is this? I hold my breath; the nausea’s getting worse.
Melody. I take out my phone. I have to tell Melody. She’ll come back. We have to go home.
As my father and Ralph exchange numbers, I turn away from them and try to call Melody, but the line doesn’t even ring, like it’s turned off. So I text and message on all my apps, hoping she’ll get it somehow. Why isn’t she answering? Why is she never around when I need her? I’m alone.
Ralph finally leaves with a slap on Adam’s back and a huge grin. Barbara follows.
‘Sky, this isn’t how I wanted it to come out—let me explain,’ my father says.
‘What has a bear ever done to you, ever done to deserve that? And to orphan a fawn, kill its mother? It’s disgusting.’
‘C’mon, Sky, let’s not overreact here. It’s the lifestyle.’
Overreact? My heart is beating double-time.
‘And what’s the difference to fishing?’ he continues. ‘I knew you’d be sensitive, that’s why I didn’t tell you yet. You love animals, I get it, so do I, but these ones aren’t endangered, they’re not chimpanzees or anything, you have to understand … They’re not like us, they’re just—’
‘What? Stupid animals who don’t deserve any better? No.’
‘That’s not what I meant. It’s part of nature, the life cycle, we’re the top predator. You were okay with the fishing?’
‘I didn’t like that you were a salmon fisher, but I could handle that. This, on the other hand …’ I can’t find the words. It’s like my body is going into nuclear meltdown; I feel blood rushing through my veins, my hands are shaking and there’s a distinct pounding, or maybe a buzzing, in my ears.
‘Lots of people love animals and still eat them,’ my father says. ‘And I totally agree with you that we treat chickens badly; we’re alike in that way, especially those hens in cages that—’
‘We’re nothing alike.’ My voice sounds small above the noise in my head. ‘You don’t understand me at all.’ I think of my idol, Jane Goodall. She’s not just a scientist, she’s an animal activist too and has dedicated her life, sacrificed everything, to saving all creatures. I know she’s against hunting. What would she do? She is brave. Determined. Courageous. She’d never …
‘Please, Sky. You’re letting your emotions take over, just like you said you do. It’s your birthday, there’s a special cake waiting and I haven’t given you your present yet. I thought we—’
‘No.’ I grab my bag. He wants to see impulsive? I jump to my feet and quickly weave through tables towards the door. People are looking. But there’s no other choice; I feel like I’m going to burst. I can’t even look at him, let alone sit down with him again.
Miraculously, I see my coat on a hook peeking out from the cloakroom just behind the front door.
The cold hits me like a hard slap as I step outside. I look at my phone in my hand. Jaxon’s at my father’s house so there’s no use calling him. I could go straight to the airport but the last time I saw my passport was in Melody’s bag. I need to find her. She said she was going to a festival; how many of those can there be? She also said she found the festival online, so I’ll just retrace her steps and get the address.
‘Sky.’ I hear my father’s voice from the restaurant door as I’m deciding which way to turn. ‘It’s freezing, come back in and we can talk at home.’
I start running towards the main street. It’s Saturday night, there must be a taxi somewhere. I have American dollars in my bag; I can make it to wherever Melody is. Good guy. Father–daughter. Nothing has meaning anymore.
The road’s empty. I run across, not looking back, an
d continue for as long as my lungs hold up and then start to walk. But it’s too cold; my fingers are ice and so is my face—I left my gloves and hat in the cloakroom. I run again, my chest burning. Meanwhile, I’m holding my phone trying to find signs of a festival on the internet. My fingers are struggling to work, the screen’s jiggling, and I’m not having any luck. Where is she? Maybe a taxi driver would know. Melody said ‘south’, that’s something. I turn right onto a busier road and look out for a passing taxi. Nothing. I don’t want my father to find me so I keep going. At least the running is keeping my body warm-ish.
My phone rings—it’s him. I flick it to silent so I don’t have to hear it.
About five minutes later, I see a bus stop. I scan both ways, still no sign of a taxi. Guess I’ll wait for a bus. There’s a bar behind me, a neon sign flickering with Mug Shot Saloon, and suddenly I hear shouting and loud laughter. A big group of lumberjack-looking men spill out, and a few seem to be arguing drunkenly. The street is otherwise deserted. One of the men spots me, points, slaps the other on the back and then they all turn to look. I feel their eyes bore into me, predator-like, and my skin prickles.
A big vehicle approaches and, in the dark, I can’t tell what it is.
It pulls up next to me and I see it’s a large freight truck. The passenger door opens wide.
‘Where are you headed?’ The driver peers down at me. He has longish blond hair sticking out from under a baseball cap, and looks to be in his fifties or maybe sixties.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I say, my teeth chattering again. ‘I’m just waiting for a cab.’
‘Sorry, hun. Not too many of those around this time of year.’ He looks me up and down. ‘You should really get out of this cold. Want me to give you a lift somewhere? I don’t bite, promise.’
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