They went for walks in the late afternoon—when the sun was going down in both the day and Dad. That restless time of day when Dad became unsettled and sometimes even angry. Foster liked the walks best if it had been raining, if there were puddles reflecting the last of the light, making even the smallest water slick on the path look like an entire world. Dad said there were worlds everywhere if you looked for them. They’d take Archie on the walks. Dad liked to hold the leash. As they walked, Dad’s face would begin to settle, his fingers would begin to rest, and he would start to talk. Mom would link arms with him on the leash side and Foster would hold his other hand. When they got home, Dad would seem more rested and Aunty would use the opportunity to take Geraldine for a walk. Sometimes Foster would go with her because he felt sorry for Geraldine. They couldn’t walk both dogs together. It made Dad angry.
The walks weren’t always a good thing. Sometimes they’d get to the end of the garden path and have to grapple with Dad to get him turned around and right back inside again. Aunty would say “Never mind” and put some music on instead. Aunty said if you can get used to the idea that the routine isn’t always routine, then you’ll never be kicked in the rear by your own expectations. Foster wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, because a routine was routine, but it made Mom laugh, so he did too.
They went for drives. They didn’t necessarily get out of the car when they got to where they were going. It was always dependent on Dad. Foster liked the drives because Dad would hum. Dad used to hum a lot when he drove the car. Foster would close his eyes and imagine it was Dad driving with Mom in the passenger seat like it always had been. And maybe they would stop for ice cream.
Dad usually enjoyed the car ride to pick up Foster from school, but this particular afternoon when Foster climbed into the backseat, he could tell that Dad was angry and Mom was clearly close to losing her marbles again. Aunty must have been at work, because Mom wouldn’t usually make Dad get in the car in this mood if there was someone she could leave him with at home.
“Let me out,” Dad said. “Let me out now. I know what you’re doing. Let me out!” He pulled on the door handle and slapped the car window.
“It’s all right, Malcolm. We’re going home now.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Dad said. Mom pulled onto the street and put her foot down. She was in a hurry. Foster had told her he could walk home. It wasn’t far at all. But she said it wasn’t safe. Foster wasn’t feeling particularly safe right now, especially when Dad swung his arm wide and slapped a stinging blow on Mom’s upper arm. She pulled the car so suddenly into the curb that the front tire skidded against the concrete and Dad hit his head on the side window. They just sat there then. Engine running, Mom breathing hard, Dad still doing battle with the car door. Foster could see Dad’s hands through the little gap between the front passenger seat and the door. His fingers were grasping, scratching, prying, as if he were being covered in dirt and trying to punch a hole through to the sky. It frightened Foster terribly.
“Foster, how are you doing back there?” Mom asked, her head resting on the steering wheel. “I didn’t bring anything for his hands. I’m sorry.”
They were supposed to do that. They were supposed to always have a distraction ready. That was when Foster remembered he had one.
He quickly unzipped his backpack and pulled it out. He had been carrying it around with him since the birthday party. His hands were shaking. The wrapping had taken a bit of a beating. The corners were worn and the shiny red paper was scuffed and scratched. He removed his seat belt and leaned forward, poking it through that little gap until it rested on the back of one of Dad’s shimmying hands.
“Dad, I have a present for you,” Foster said.
Dad took hold of the bright red package immediately. Foster slid toward the middle of the backseat and leaned forward to watch Dad turning the present this way and that, running his hands across the paper. Mom looked on for a moment, then reached over and picked at the edge of a piece of sticky tape. It was enough to encourage Dad to start picking at it as well, and then eventually start tearing the paper away altogether.
Foster hadn’t seen it in so long himself that he had forgotten just how good the cover was. Dad opened the book, lifted it to his face, and smelled it. He always did that with new books.
“It’s beautiful, Foster,” Mom said. She said to Dad, “Foster made that.”
“I wrote it too,” Foster said.
“The General,” Dad read. “It’s lovely. Look at the pictures.”
“Let’s go home and read it,” Mom said.
“Let’s read it now,” Dad said.
Foster saw Mom hesitate. They were stopped outside someone else’s house with the car running, and they were so close to home. They could see their street sign from here.
“Look, I think—”
“Once upon a time…,” Foster began.
Mom turned the engine off.
Routine isn’t always routine. Foster reckoned sometimes it’s just better to crawl under the overturned clothespin basket yourself.
I would like to thank everyone at Allen & Unwin, particularly Erica Wagner for her guidance and support from the onset. Thanks also to Angela Namoi for tirelessly spreading the word and to Sophie Splatt, because editing me can’t be one of the fun jobs.
I would also like to thank Kate Sullivan at Penguin Random House for reading and editing so sensitively.
My love and thanks always to Linda Brooks, Ainslie Douglas, and Jenny McDonald, who have supported me during a year they were barely able to stand themselves.
And to Robert Schofield for his invaluable insight into the first draft and for always having the breath of kindness.
Dianne Touchell was born and raised in Fremantle, Western Australia. Her debut novel, Creepy & Maud, was shortlisted for the Children’s Book Council of Australia’s Book of the Year Award in the Older Readers category. She has worked as a fry cook, a nightclub singer, a housekeeper, a bookseller, and a manager of a construction company. Sometimes she has time to write books for young adults, who she thinks are far more interesting than grown-ups. She lives with animals.
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Sticky Notes Page 14
