You advance on him with a cloth. He squirms as you wipe, and then rewards you with a smile as you release him, and you can’t help but smile back with that familiar yet somehow amazing rush of love.
Where did this kid come from? He’s bigger than the sum of your parts, far more beautiful than any genetic combination of you and Finn should be. It isn’t just a mother speaking: you didn’t have this same feeling of disbelief about Jarrah. Maybe it’s because you waited so long and nearly gave up, but you swear there’s something special about Toby. Strangers stop you in the street, turn to watch him pass, melt when he smiles at them.
‘He’ll be a heartbreaker,’ someone said just last week.
You hope not. You don’t think Toby’s beauty is the cruel kind. Some essential goodness shines through. If that’s not just a mother speaking.
Perhaps it’s not a bad thing, Finn’s breakthrough. You’ve missed a lot of Toby’s childhood. If Finn really is succeeding, maybe you can cut back on work a little, work from home or something. You’ve done the career thing for years now. Maybe you need a change.
‘Weed it?’
You glance at your watch. There’s still the clearing up to do, and you need to eat something yourself and dress for work, then get Toby dressed and pack a bag for day care, and you know from the size of the bulging thing Finn organises to accompany you on every outing that it’s no minor thing. The morning minutes have galloped away. You’d planned to make Finn a quick egg and bacon roll, normally a weekend treat, but time’s running out.
You clean Toby again and lift him out of the chair. ‘Go get your book,’ you tell him, and he thunders into the hallway. You stack the dishwasher until a frustrated squeal echoes down the stairs. You run up, locate the worn copy of his book in Jarrah’s bedroom and carry Toby back down. You plop him on the ground, spread the book in front of him and turn back to the sink. You can recite the book in your sleep and he’s an old hand at turning the pages himself.
Finn’s strong coffee has done its work, and by the time the dishwasher is stacked you need your morning trip to the toilet. God, you’d forgotten how the simplest adult act – taking a shower or a shit – is hard with a toddler around.
‘Stay there, Toby, and I’ll read to you from the bathroom.’
‘Weed it gain.’
‘Yes, yes, OK,’ you say.
You leave him sitting in the sunlight on the floor – which needs a sweep, you mentally note – and raise your voice in recitation as you head down the hall and into the bathroom, leaving the door open.
The sun streams in the bathroom window, promising a hot day. You try to hurry, cursing the timing of your digestive system, calling the words in Toby’s direction.
You flush the toilet, drag your pants up, button them, wash your hands. Glance into the mirror. Unmade-up and hair drying like a bird’s nest. Is there time to drag a comb through it before teeth cleaning?
You pause the story. ‘Teeth time, Toby.’
You grab the electric toothbrush, smear it with paste, rev it up, run it over your teeth. Spit. ‘Toby?’
You flick the thing off. Lorikeets squabble raucously over the scarlet stems of flowers on the umbrella tree just outside the kitchen, masking any sound from him. He won’t sit for long with his story interrupted. You flick the toothbrush on again, quickly finish your teeth. Grab his toothbrush and load it.
‘Toby? Teeth time.’
No answer. You put the toothpaste down and walk towards the kitchen. The birds are still racketing outside, their shrieks loud in your ears as you walk down the hall. Around the corner in the kitchen, his book is lying alone on the floor in the pool of sunlight.
Your belly lurches.
The garden is fully fenced from the road, the pool fully fenced from the garden. That’s why you chose this place. He must have wandered outside or upstairs, that’s all.
‘Toby!’ The shrill note of your voice should bring him scurrying.
You push the screen door open, step onto the verandah. To your left, the pool gate is firmly shut, Finn’s contraption of cogs and gears motionless against the wall. You cross to the top of the short flight of steps leading down into the garden. With a corner of your mind you notice the day is glorious, the colours so vivid it almost hurts to look at them. The lorikeets streak away with a racket, leaving the softer birds to fill the air with melodic chimes and chattering. You take a deep breath to calm the pounding in your chest. Is Toby suddenly old enough to play a game of hiding?
You scan the garden. ‘TOBY! COME HERE NOW!’ You try to keep the anger out of your voice, anger that he is frightening you, anger that you didn’t put him just outside the bathroom door where you could see him.
He isn’t in the garden, unless his hiding skills have ratcheted up lately. He must be back inside. Now you’re running, back through the living room and up the stairs, calling his name. You reach the doorway to his room, but it’s empty and your chest pounds hard. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong. He’s too little to hide like this and you run from room to room, searching frantically, and through your bedroom window something makes you notice the blue sparkle of the pool, a blue that’s brighter than the colour of your son’s eyes.
JARRAH
For weeks Dave and his friends had been casually circling, checking me out. I’d tried to keep out of their way, especially at lunchtime, sometimes cutting classes or whole afternoons. Didn’t catch the school bus unless it was raining, mostly cycled to school. One of Dave’s friends caught my bus and all that time sitting still was just asking someone to start on you. I knew that from Tassie.
Someone knocked on the door and took Mr Addison out of the classroom midway through second-period maths. He was gone long enough for a buzz to start. When he came back and looked straight at me, I knew I’d been caught. Worse than caught, by the look on his face. It wasn’t a caught-nicking-off-school-once look.
He came to my desk and leaned over. ‘Get your things, please Jarrah.’
Getting my things sounded serious, even for skipping school. I couldn’t think what else I’d done, but guilt washed over me anyway.
I shut my books, ignored the stares and snickers around me, and headed out the door. Mr Addison followed. I grabbed my pack from my locker and stuffed my books in, hearing the rise of voices behind us from the unattended class. Weirdly, he didn’t seem to notice. I hoisted my pack and turned to him.
‘The principal needs to see you,’ he said and I couldn’t read his tone.
He walked by my side down the corridor, up the stairs, past the school office and to the principal’s door. The burn in my gut was starting to creep up the back of my throat. Being sent to the principal was bad enough, but being accompanied there was a whole new level of trouble. Calling-your-parents kind of trouble. Detention, suspension, expulsion trouble.
He stopped and knocked. Mr Karlsson opened the door a crack, nodded and stepped out, pulling it quickly shut behind him.
‘Jarrah,’ he said.
I looked from one of them to the other, trying to work out the degree of my bustedness.
Karlsson took off his glasses. He looked half-blind without them on and I wondered how just a pair of glasses could make someone look so scary.
‘Your father is here.’ He put the glasses back on like he didn’t know what else to do with them. ‘He’s very upset.’
Karlsson opened his office door and gestured for me to step inside. He was trying to warn me, but nothing could have prepared me for what was in there.
Dad hunched over with his face in his hands, shaking. He lifted his head and I saw my great big father broken into little pieces.
I can’t remember how I crossed the room. Next thing I was trying, somehow, to put him back together with my bare hands, gripping his shoulders and saying ‘Dad, Dad, Dad.’
He made a noise and reached for me, and I wrapped my skinny arms around him and he said my name, twice, and I couldn’t ask. I wanted one more moment of not kn
owing what made him like this.
He gulped one word. ‘Toby.’
My hands tightened on his shoulders to stop him saying it.
‘Toby fell in the pool.’
For a wild moment I thought everything was all right. If Toby had fallen in the pool, someone had got him out, hadn’t they? It was the very last moment of my childhood. A micro-measurement of time – not even a second – passed and then the instantly adult part of my brain understood they hadn’t got him out.
‘He’s gone, Jarrah.’
He clutched me again as though he was, too, hearing the words for the first time, and the noises he made were terrifying. I don’t think I’d ever seen Dad cry, except at Nanna Brenn’s funeral, but I could hardly remember that.
It gave me something to focus on because I couldn’t understand the notion that Toby was gone. I had to see Mum. That was all I knew.
‘Let’s go.’ I straightened up.
Dad looked up with his ravaged face, like he was the child, and I saw how it was going to be. I walked to the door and opened it. The principal and Mr Addison were still outside.
‘We need to go home.’
‘The police brought your father here. They’re waiting outside to take you both home.’ Mr Karlsson put his hand on my shoulder. ‘It won’t be easy, Jarrah. You’ll have to be strong.’
‘Yes, sir.’ I swallowed Jarrah the schoolkid down to some distant place.
‘If there’s anything you need, call me,’ he said, as if this wasn’t a totally weird concept.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The bell went with an ear-splitting shriek as I turned back into that room. I helped my father to his feet and he put an arm around my shoulders. His clothes were damp and there were wet footprints where his shoes had been. Pool water. It was the worst thing yet.
I led him, stumbling, to the door and we stepped into the corridor. Karlsson and Addison were standing like bouncers, hands outstretched to halt the rush of students thundering down the corridor towards us. The roar of voices hushed as they skidded to a halt and stared.
I turned away from them, I steered my father the other way, and we shuffled down the corridor and out onto the street, towards the waiting police car, watched by hundreds of eyes as I walked into my new life.
*
We didn’t talk on the way home. Dad would start shaking and I’d know he was crying again. I’d reach over from the back seat and hold his hand. The shakes would slow, he’d wipe his eyes and nose on the back of his hand, stare into his lap.
I looked straight ahead at the headrest and the police officer’s dark hair sticking up above it. Had I kissed Toby goodbye that morning? I could only remember how Mum had sent me to the bathroom for deodorant. Maybe I gave Toby a high five before that? Maybe I walked out with just a wave? No matter how many times I went over it, I couldn’t remember.
The car pulled up outside our house, next to another police car. No one moved.
‘Dad?’ I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him a little.
He blinked like he was waking up. Saw where we were. Saw the other police car. For the first time he moved quickly. Grabbed the door handle, shoved the door open, swung himself around. He managed to get his head outside the car before he vomited.
I got out the other side, rushed around, put my hand on his shoulder. I wanted to run inside and at the same time wanted to run away. None of this was real until I got inside and saw Mum’s face.
Dad got up, leaning on the roof of the car like he might fall. Stood for a moment. The vomit stank. The constable who’d been in the passenger seat held out her hand like she was going to lead him.
‘Come on, Dad.’ I wondered if I’d need to help him, but he took a deep breath and stood straight. Put his shoulders back. Nodded slightly and started to walk.
We got across the lawn and up the steps. The pool area was taped off with blue and white checked tape. More police, crouching by the fence, taking photos, writing things down. I broke into a run down the verandah. Shoved the door open, ran into the kitchen, skidded to a halt.
She was sitting at the table staring straight ahead. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying. A woman I didn’t know stood next to her.
I meant to say ‘Mum?’ but what came out of my mouth instead was ‘Toby?’
Her head jerked around to me and she drew in a sharp breath. ‘He’s gone.’
Her head dropped down again. She hunched in on herself, her shoulders curled. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.
Dad came in behind me and the strange woman stepped forward. ‘Mr Brennan, I’m Detective Inspector Evans. I am sorry for your loss.’
Dad just stared.
‘Your wife has given us her statement and we need you to make one too. We can do it now or wait until tomorrow.’
Dad kind of nodded and she gestured for him to go through into the lounge room.
‘Want me to come?’ I asked him.
The woman shook her head. ‘You must be Jarrah? I need to speak to your father alone.’
They stepped out and shut the door, leaving me alone with Mum. More than anything I needed to ask: How did you let him out of your sight? More than anything I knew I could never ask that.
The phone shrieked and we both jumped. I looked at Mum, who didn’t move.
‘It might be the hospital,’ I said. ‘He might be all right.’ I snatched the handset before she could say anything. ‘Yes?’
‘Hello? Is that you, Finn?’
The tinny voice carried through the silence of the room and Mum put her hands over her ears.
‘He can’t talk,’ I said.
‘Jarrah? This is Edmund. I’ve got some fantastic news for your dad. Will he be long?’
I looked at Mum helplessly. She didn’t respond.
I took a breath. ‘It’s Toby. He’s dead.’
As soon as the words left my lips I knew why Dad had vomited. I’d said it out loud. Mum made a noise like she was choking.
Edmund didn’t answer at first. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said at last, his voice trembling. ‘Christ, Jarrah. What? Where are your parents?’
‘Here. Dad’s talking to the police.’
Mum got up. Grabbed the phone from my hand, stabbed the buttons until the call was cut off and dropped the handset on the table. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked me.
The clock was right there. Why didn’t she look? ‘Nearly twelve,’ I said. ‘When did it happen?’
She rubbed her face with both hands. ‘Um. About nine.’
Toby had drowned three hours ago. The hospital wasn’t going to be ringing with the news that they’d resuscitated him. I’d seen her and I knew it was true.
She covered her face and sat very still. Dad cried noisily and messily. The only way I knew Mum was crying was that tears were running down her wrists. With Dad I knew to touch him. With Mum I had no idea.
I hadn’t cried. Couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do next. Didn’t know how to even start living in the world without him.
FINN
There was a small scorch mark on the back of his left hand. It must have been from the blowtorch. A little blister was forming under the skin.
Finn studied the hands on his lap like they belonged to someone else. As long as he examined them, he hadn’t just broken the news to Jarrah at school. As long as he studied them, he wasn’t trying to answer the questions the detective was asking him.
‘Could you start by telling me what happened this morning?’
He’d read her name tag but it refused to make an impression on him. Each time he closed his eyes the pictures came again.
‘Mr Brennan?’
Finn shook his head slightly, gathered himself. ‘I had this new work, this deadline, and Bridget had to get up early and get the boys ready.’
In halting sentences he staggered through the morning. His early trip to the studio, the hiss of the blowtorch, the sound he’d somehow heard over the top of it. The way he ran out of the studio and w
hat he saw when he did. The phone call he made to Triple 0.
When he was done, the woman gave him a glass of water and a tissue. Waited till he’d composed himself.
‘Do you know how Toby got into the pool area?’
Finn moaned out loud, a sound out of his control, and shook his head.
‘Your wife told us she left Toby in the kitchen while she went to the bathroom, and when she came out he was gone. She checked the pool gate and it was shut. She didn’t see him in the pool until she was searching upstairs and looked out the window.’
Everything slowed. Finn heard Bridget pulling a tissue out of a box in the kitchen and catching her breath. He could hear the second police offer pacing the verandah, and the soft metallic clicking of a camera shutter. His own blood washed around his veins, roaring. Bridget had left Toby unsupervised and somehow, in that time, Toby had got into the pool. How? How? How?
In the studio, those few hours earlier, he’d been welding with his back to the pool. If he’d turned his head, even just a little, he’d have seen Toby.
One thing he remembered clearly: he hadn’t gone through the pool area that morning. It was bin day. He’d given Bridget her coffee, taken the rubbish from the kitchen, and gone through the garden to drop it in the bin and wheel the bin to the kerb. He’d been closer then to the back door of the studio, the stiff, unwieldy one he hardly ever used. Though he’d have loved a swim, he was conscious of Bridget and the new routine. He’d dragged the studio’s rear door open and got to work. Bridget was the only one who’d swum that morning. The only one who’d gone through the gate.
‘Mr Brennan?’
Finn reached for the water. ‘Just a moment.’
‘Of course.’
For the rest of her life Bridget would carry this, and it was too heavy. He couldn’t let her. He swallowed and drew a deep, shuddering breath.
‘We have a device that opens the gate and closes it automatically.’
‘Yes?’
‘It malfunctions sometimes. I was meaning to fix it, but I couldn’t work out what was wrong. When I went through the pool area this morning, I had a lot on my mind with this new work. I wasn’t thinking.’
Sixty Seconds Page 4
