I do the special knock on my wall with Harry.
He bzzzzzes. I press receive straight away.
‘What’s up, Floppy?’
I slump. ‘Harry …’
‘Sorry. Sorry, Pops. What’s happening?’
‘Are you going to training soon?’
‘Yeah. I have to leave in about five minutes, actually. Had better get my boots on.’
‘Can I come with you?’
He pauses. ‘To football training?’
‘I’ll bring Pixie and the ball-chucker. I just …’ I trail off.
I don’t know why, but I just feel like being with him this afternoon.
‘Yeah!’ he says, ‘that’s fine. That’s cool. Bring a jumper, though, it gets cold out there. And leave a note for Mum.’
I nod at the intercom unit. Thanks, Harry.
It’s been three weeks now since Mei left. It’s five o’clock. I’m doing my homework at the kitchen counter. Harry’s outside, playing with Wall. Mum’s staring into the fridge – she’s been there so long it beeps at her to close the door.
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ she says, shutting the fridge door and then reopening it. ‘Whatever happened to giving someone time to think?’
I finish writing my reflection about finger-knitting versus knitting with needles and slap my book shut. ‘Mum, can I go over to the park for a bit?’
She looks out the window. ‘Sure, love. But be back in half an hour, okay? Apparently dinner will be soon,’ she says, turning back to the fridge. She squats and opens the vegie drawer. There’s a brief silence before a pained groan.
‘Oh good grief,’ she says as I leave the kitchen, ‘there’s a liquid zucchini in here.’
‘Yuck!’ I say, then, quickly, ‘I’ll take Pixie with me. Bye!’
Once I’ve got Pixie on the lead, I slide my feet into my easiest-to-put-on shoes, then run across the lawn and jump over Harry’s ball as I go.
‘Where are you off to?’ he says.
‘Park!’ I yell. ‘Half an hour till dinner! And don’t go in there – Mum’s dealing with a zucchini!’
‘Wha—?’ I hear as I cross the road to the park.
Out here, the air is cool and fresh on my face. I love this time of day – the last bit of free time before dinner and teeth and bed and all that. Pixie’s pulling like mad so I unclip her lead and she disappears, sniffing.
I get the fast swing going. I pull my legs back on the down and push them out hard and straight on the up, till I’m as high as the swing can go.
From the top of the swing’s arc I can see our whole street. The houses are lined up in a perfect row, and it’s bin night, so all the bins are parked on the footpath along some sort of invisible line.
Up at the end of the street the kids are out on their scooters, doing figure-of-eights and raising a few sparks. Pixie pops out of the bushes and does a big poo right in the middle of the grass. Piiiiiiixiiiiiiie!
I look around for where I dropped the lead – Mum usually ties a couple of bags to it. I launch off the swing at the perfect moment and land in the cool sand.
A couple of kids and their mum are coming across the oval towards me. One of them is little, and has dark hair, just like … It’s not, is it? Is it? Mei? Mei?! The waddling body falls over in its effort to reach the playground, and when the child gets up and moves closer, I realise that it’s not her, it’s not Mei. And I feel really disappointed.
I scrape up the poo and hold the bag away from me as I tie a knot in it. The child squeals as she reaches the sand and makes a beeline for the slide.
The mum smiles at me.
‘Hi,’ I say. I jog over to the bin and drop Pixie’s poo bag in, before returning to the swing. This time I just sit on it, and watch the other kids running about. I wonder if they like Bob the Builder? I wonder if they like balls? I wonder if there’s a soccer ball where Mei is living now – wherever that is.
I rest my head against the chain of the swing. It’s cold and smells of metal. The kids’ squeals are super excited and I wonder one more thing … Is Mei happy?
Walking home with Pixie in time for dinner, I can see our house. I know that it’s as warm inside as it looks from this distance, with yellow light glowing out from the kitchen window. And I realise: it looks like a happy house, the kind of place where Mei – or any kid – could be safe and happy. Maybe that’s why Mei’s mum chose it. Chose us.
Pink Kitten is living in my room again. She’s got the top spot on my bed. Mum was packing our old stuff away – Mei’s stuff – and I grabbed Pink Kitten as I saw her going back into the box. Tonight, as I burrow into bed, I have her right beside me on my pillow. Her paw is touching my hair.
Goodnight, Mei, wherever you are.
Deb Fitzpatrick lives and works in Fremantle. A freelance editor and writer, she has published novels for adults, young adults and children.
First published in 2015 by
FREMANTLE PRESS
25 Quarry Street, Fremantle 6160
Western Australia
www.fremantlepress.com.au
Copyright text © Deb Fitzpatrick, 2015.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover design and illustrations by traceygibbs.com.au.
Printed by Everbest Printing Company, China.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication data
Fitzpatrick, Deb – author.
At My Door / Deb Fitzpatrick.
ISBN 9781925162707 (pbk)
Abandoned children—Juvenile fiction.
Foundlings—Juvenile fiction.
A823.4
Publication of this title was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.
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