A Home Like Ours

by Fiona Lowe

  He grinned. ‘And my English teacher said I was crap with words. So how’s Jon dealing with it?’

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘He was always the life of the party and now he’s quiet, fighting depression.’

  ‘Apparently that’s common with Parkinson’s.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Been doing a bit of reading.’

  She stared at him, utterly flummoxed. Zac only read stuff about exercise and nutrition. ‘What sort of reading?’

  He shrugged. ‘Stuff about the disease and the drugs. There are some pretty sick side effects.’

  ‘Tell me about it. They scare Jon and me rigid.’

  ‘But he needs to take them, yeah?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. It’s like doing a deal with the devil. You can only get the good effects if you risk the bad. Jon gets shirty if I ask him how he is, so I feel like I’m an undercover cop searching for clues. It doesn’t go down well if he catches me watching him, but I’m terrified he mightn’t notice he’s being obsessive.’ She pulled at the wrapper on the bottle. ‘I read an article about a man with young Parkinson’s who gambled all his family’s savings. Just the thought of it makes me want to hide and rock.’

  ‘You know, exercise is important for Jon too. If he wanted, I could do some sess—’

  ‘Thanks, but he’s got cricket.’ The thought of Zac and Jon together sent a chill across her skin. Not that Zac would say anything, but even so, it was two worlds best not colliding.

  Zac’s usually relaxed demeanour stiffened. ‘I wasn’t cadging for business, Tara.’

  Guilt kicked her. Cutting him off was everything to do with her shame.

  ‘I know you weren’t. I’m sorry. It’s a very kind offer, but Jon’s never been one for workouts. He’s a rusted-on footy and cricket player.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  He still sounded hurt and she rushed to change the topic. ‘How’s the marathon training going?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Just okay?’

  ‘I’m finding it hard to stay motivated without a training buddy.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘God, Tara. Don’t be sorry.’ He drew circles in the dust. ‘You know, running’s not just about training for a marathon. It sounds like you need to do it for the headspace stuff.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m definitely calmer than I was an hour ago.’

  ‘But you need to do it safely. Not in heat like this, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘I meant what I said in the text.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t know where I can squeeze it in.’

  ‘You don’t squeeze it in. You make it a priority.’

  Irritation dug at her. She knew he meant well, but Zac’s entire life revolved around working out.

  ‘You have no idea what my life’s like now.’

  ‘Maybe. But what will it be like for Jon and the kids if you reach a point when you can’t cope?’

  She closed her eyes as the image of the water over her sandal-clad feet rushed back. With it came the fear that she’d unthinkingly stepped into the water seeking peace and calm when the reality was it came with known risks. Zac was right—she needed to run.

  She thought about the routine of each day, looking for gaps that coincided with the appropriate exercise weather. ‘Maybe I need to come to one of your 6 am park classes.’

  Zac laughed. ‘I want to say yes, but I don’t need you freaking out my ladies so they give up.’

  ‘I’m not that competitive.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Tell yourself that. Here’s an idea. I don’t have an early class on Tuesdays and Thursdays or the weekends. We could run then.’

  ‘But you’ll lose your sleep-in.’

  ‘I’m awake at five anyway. May as well run with you as lie in bed staring at the ceiling. You in?’

  His kindness crashed into her and she swallowed hard, trying not to cry. ‘I’m in.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  ‘Thanks, Zac.’

  ‘No worries. Anything for a mate.’

  CHAPTER

  28

  When Tara got out of the shower, she heard Jon calling out that he was home. She found him in the kitchen holding his hand under the tap, blood mixing with water.

  She grabbed the first-aid kit. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The knife, the tomato and I disagreed. Don’t fuss.’

  ‘Does it need stitches?’

  ‘No!’ The word bounced around the room loaded with anger and frustration.

  She tried not to take it personally. ‘May I offer you a band-aid?’

  His shoulders slumped and a long breath rumbled out of him. ‘Sorry. A band-aid would be good.’

  She dried his hand, checked the cut, confirmed it was superficial, then covered it with the dressing and binned the rubbish.

  ‘What do you think about us buying and growing cherry tomatoes from now on?’ she said lightly.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ He bent down and pressed a kiss on her hair. ‘Thanks, T. Did you get held up at the garden with another morning tea?’

  She wanted to say yes, because she remembered his reaction to her exercise routine and marathon plans before his diagnosis. But if she didn’t tell him she was going back to running, where would that leave them? In as much of a mess as before and she never wanted to return to that dark place.

  ‘It was more when I was leaving the garden. My phone went crazy, mostly with messages from the store—’

  ‘I’m not a bloody invalid!’ He slammed his fist into his palm. ‘I’ve been in the office all morning twiddling my thumbs. I hate they’re bothering you when they should be talking to me.’

  ‘I guess they got used to talking to me during the early weeks when you weren’t in as much. Anyway, it wasn’t just my phone that went crazy. I did too for a minute. I had a desperate need for peace and quiet where no one wanted anything from me. I wanted to run away.’

  A stricken look crossed his face and she hastily added, ‘It was a momentary thing. I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. I love you and the kids to bits and I’m staying no matter what Parkinson’s throws at us. But that feeling scared me so I went for a run. It cleared my head and now I feel like me again.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘I need to start running again.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay? I thought you hated me running.’

  ‘I didn’t hate you running.’

  She raised her brows at his resigned tone and locked onto his gaze.

  He lifted his hands in defeat. ‘Yeah, okay. Fair call. I did hate the running. But one thing this bastard disease has given me is time to think. I think I hated what the running represented rather than the running. It got tangled up with me being sick and not understanding what the hell was going on with my body. It felt like you were running away from me even though you were pushing me to get help. I still hate the idea that you need to run because of me.’

  ‘No, not because of you.’ She slid her hand over his trembling one, pressing down to still the movement. ‘I need to run because of me.’

  He grimaced. ‘Come on, T. Be honest. Team Hooper’s got two junior players and a co-captain who spends more time on the bench than is fair. You’re carrying this team and I hate that you have to.’

  ‘But Parkinson’s isn’t the only stress in our lives. Even if you didn’t have it, I’d still want to run. I fell in love with the buzz it gives me.’ He gave her a long look, but there was a sparkle in his eyes she hadn’t seen in a while. ‘What?’

  ‘Just checking for obsessive behaviours.’

  ‘I’m not obsessive.’ But the moment the words left her mouth she remembered her previous preoccupation with training. With Zac. ‘Okay, I was, but this time I’m not training for a marathon. I don’t have the time and it wouldn’t be fair on you or the kids. I’m thinking more of a quick five kay a couple of times a week and maybe longer on a Sunday morning. I’ll always be back for the breakfast rush.’
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  ‘Probably wise. Otherwise, Flynn and I might turn the kitchen into a river of milk and juice.’

  ‘You’re just trying to get out of breakfast entirely.’

  ‘I’m only thinking of you.’

  ‘You’re still on toast duty, mate. Butter knives are pretty blunt.’

  ‘Good to know you love me.’

  He laughed then—a booming and joyous sound she didn’t hear often enough and it released a pressure value. She relaxed into it, taking it as a sign things were improving. Once they’d teased each other all the time, but like so many things in the months before the diagnosis, they’d lost it. Now it was coming back, even if it was black humour. But the fact Jon was making jokes against himself had to be a sign he was coming out of his dark funk.

  God, she hoped so for his sake as well as hers. If they could laugh together about Parkinson’s instead of only crying, surely that would strengthen them as a couple.

  His laughter died away. ‘I get you need to run and that first thing in the morning works best, but I’m not too keen about you running on your own in the dark. What about that personal trainer guy?’

  ‘Zac?’

  ‘Yeah. Can you go back and run with him?’

  His suggestion, born out of love for her, spun guilt so fast inside her that nausea hit the back of her throat. He had no clue she’d once run with Zac at midnight. Or kissed him. That she’d risked everything. And she hoped he never would.

  ‘Already sorted,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Good.’ He picked cutlery from the drawer and left her to carry the plates to the table. ‘Let’s sort out these work texts.’

  ‘Do you want to deal with Vivian Leppart?’

  He gave a non-Parkinson’s-related shudder. ‘Hell, no. She’s all yours.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  They ran through the other texts and Jon dictated some notes into his phone. ‘I’ll add this to the agenda so the staff have got clear guidelines about which of us is handling what.’

  Tara dallied her fork over her coleslaw. ‘About the summer casuals. What if we offer Amal a job?’

  ‘Has he applied?’ Jon sounded surprised.

  ‘No, but I think we should ask him if he’d like to work for us.’

  ‘Where’s this coming from?’

  ‘He helped you.’

  ‘And I thanked him and you gave him a music voucher. Isn’t that enough?’

  Tara shifted in her chair, still uncomfortable about the length of time it had taken her to thank the Atallahs.

  ‘It’s something Helen Demetriou said. When the community garden got damaged, the police interviewed Amal even though he was at home at the time. Helen says he gets called into the police station every time there’s a break-in. It’s the reason Fiza moved out of town.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘I got the feeling Helen blames us.’

  Jon’s eyes flashed. ‘I never said Amal broke into the store!’

  ‘I know, but we’ve both said publicly we think it’s African kids.’

  ‘Yeah, because that’s what Denny North keeps telling us.’

  ‘And no one’s been caught. My gut says it’s not Amal. Does yours?’

  He was silent for a long minute. ‘Yeah. I find it hard to imagine the kid who talked footy statistics to me for ten minutes to keep me from freaking out would rip me off.’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d done that. Does he play footy?’

  ‘Not with the Brolgas, maybe at school? Perhaps he’s just a fan? Either way, the kid’s a walking encyclopedia for the Doggies. Under different circumstances, I might have held that against him.’

  She smiled, but it felt forced. Discomfort tangoed with a new appreciation for Amal. Most teenage boys Tara knew could barely string ten words together in the company of adults, but Amal had not only sat with Jon, he’d found the perfect way to keep him calm.

  ‘Isn’t it wrong the police automatically assume he’s involved?’ she said.

  ‘They’re just doing their job, T.’

  ‘I said that too, but how would we feel if Flynn was older and the police always treated him like he was guilty?’

  ‘That wouldn’t happen.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re Hoopers and they know us.’

  ‘Exactly. But what if Hoopers didn’t have a hundred years of history in the district?’ She bit her lip, toying with the truth she’d been avoiding. ‘What if we weren’t white?’

  ‘The Wongs have been here almost as long as us and you don’t see the police giving Jack a hard time.’

  ‘Not these days, but read Lucy Wong’s book. Apparently Boolanga’s favourite Chinese family were persecuted for years. It only stopped when the Greeks arrived in town and to quote Lucy, suddenly the chinks Boolanga knew were better than the wogs they didn’t.’

  Jon laughed, but Tara fidgeted. ‘I laughed when I read it too, but now … I keep thinking about how I’d feel if no one believed Flynn. I think we should trust Amal and offer him a job. He’s got all the qualities we’re looking for in an employee. He’s kind, caring and, going on what he does for Fiza in the garden, hardworking.’ She grimaced. ‘He’s already better than some of the new casuals.’

  ‘That’s not saying much.’

  ‘True.’

  Tara railed at the historical precedent set by Ian that was hard to break. It meant each year they ended up hiring at least one lazy and entitled kid because their father or uncle were connected with the store or their grandfather played golf or bowls with Ian. Inevitably, one or more reluctant teenagers stood around waiting to be instructed, then did the job in a way that oozed ‘massive favour’.

  ‘By the way, I vote you have that uncomfortable conversation,’ she added.

  Jon’s leg jerked. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking we sack one of the casuals to employ Amal? That won’t go down well with the staff.’

  ‘Even if it’s on merit?’

  ‘Come on, Tara. You know they won’t see it that way. If you want to offer Amal a job, we have to wear the cost and add him to the team without dropping anyone. After Christmas, if he’s proved himself and the others haven’t, then we can talk about it.’

  Tara didn’t need Jon’s raised brows to understand that giving Amal a job was one thing. Convincing some of the staff it was a good idea would be something else entirely.

  Helen had gone straight from the garden meeting to her shift at the café, where a steady stream of tourists kept her busy. By the time she knocked off at seven, her legs ached, but she’d driven straight to the park with the leftover food and spent the evening chatting with Roxy, Cinta and three new women.

  Helen told the women about the tiny houses project and asked them to ‘like’ the Facebook page. ‘The more people who support the project, the more noise we make.’

  ‘Any news on the Chinese resort?’ Cinta asked.

  ‘That’s still an unsubstantiated rumour. The mayor maintains there are no plans for the land, but he’s currently in rural France promoting cultural exchange.’

  ‘Pah! It’s a junket,’ Cinta said. ‘And a smokescreen.’

  Once Helen would have written off Cinta’s comments but these days she found herself agreeing.

  ‘I’m more interested in his stopovers in the UAE and Hong Kong,’ she said.

  ‘Buying his wife clothes, is he?’ Roxy asked.

  ‘More like selling out Boolanga. I just need some solid proof.’

  ‘You’ll find it. They slip up every time.’

  ‘Maybe, but I have to find it before he dazzles the rest of council and they agree to getting into bed with an overseas consortium.’

  ‘I thought you said the three women were on side with the tiny houses project?’

  ‘They are, but four votes is a majority and the other four are men.’

  ‘Bastards,’ one of the new women muttered.

  ‘Talking about men,’ Cinta said. ‘Where’s the delightful Bob tonight? It’s not like him to stand us up.’

&n
bsp; ‘Not sure,’ Helen said. ‘He must have something on.’

  But the words sounded wrong. Since that wet evening when she’d run into Bob at Riverbend, he’d been at every park food night. He was usually waiting for her when she arrived to help set up. She’d assumed he was running late and had then got busy and forgotten. But then she remembered the missed committee meeting and dread upended her stomach. Had something happened?

  You’re being ridiculous. He’s a grown man who doesn’t owe you a thing or even a text message.

  But the urge to call and check he was okay made her fingers itch for her phone.

  Distracted, she listened to the women’s chatter as they finished their drinks. When they rose almost as one to walk down to the river for their after-dinner cigarette, Helen said, ‘Perhaps I’ll see you next week.’

  ‘If you wait five, I’ll help you pack up after the ciggie,’ Roxy said.

  ‘Thanks, but I need to get going. It’s only a couple of trips to the car.’

  Helen watched the craving for nicotine win the battle over Roxy’s genuine desire to help. ‘Thanks, Helen,’ she said, and hurried after the other women.

  Faint vestiges of light played across the darkening sky, casting it in shades of lilac and violet. Helen popped the boot and slid the drinks box in before returning for the esky. The shrieking cockatoos had settled and the cicadas’ song filled the fast-darkening dusk, drowning the indistinct buzz of the women’s voices. She glanced around, checking she hadn’t missed anything, then walked back towards the car.

  On the way, she paused to gaze up at Venus shining white and bright in the now inky sky. As she brought her gaze down, something moved in her peripheral vision. She turned and peered, but couldn’t make out the shape of anything other than the silhouette of trees.

  Old memories of nights in the car and the cold sweat of fear rushed back.

  Don’t be ridiculous. She had no reason to feel unsafe. In all her years in Boolanga, nothing had ever happened here or anywhere else in town—not even a whiff of danger. The movement was probably just a possum out adventuring.

  She reached the car and was juggling the esky while she opened the hatch when a loud crack sounded behind her. Just an animal snapping a twig.