by Cathryn Hein
Matt pushed his chair back, cutting her off. He stood, running his hand over his face. He was here, away from Callie, because his parents, after twenty-six-plus years, had decided to go on some bizarre guilt trip? ‘This is nuts.’
‘Not quite the reaction I expected.’
‘I’m sorry but . . .’ Matt breathed out hard. If only Callie would call, he might be able to think clearly. He forced himself to sit back down. ‘Okay, let me get this straight. You and Keiren bought me a property – a farm, I take it – to make up for—’ he raised his hands and eyes to the ceiling, ‘—fuck knows what. And I’m grateful, I am, but you didn’t have to. I can make my own way.’
Phoebe tapped a manicured nail against the laptop lid, assessing him steadily, cool businesswoman once more. ‘It’s a commercial decision as well. If you fail, the land has excellent development potential. You’ll be secure either way, as will our investment. As it stands, you own fifty-one per cent of MPK Holdings. Kieran and I own the remaining forty-nine per cent, split twenty-five per cent my way, twenty-four to your father. That way, should he change his mind – which he’d better not – he can’t pull it out from under your feet.’
Matt let his hands flop between his legs, wondering why he felt so upset when his parents had effectively handed him his dream.
‘Okay, so where is this property?’
‘The perfect place. Right next door to Uncle Wal’s.’
The tamped-down fear that had been haunting Matt since his arrival rose in a flood. Horror spread across his skin like swarming ants.
‘You mean . . .’ He couldn’t say it, but the property name screamed in his head anyway.
‘Yes,’ announced Phoebe triumphantly. ‘We bought you Glenmore.’
Twenty-four
Callie pulled up at the front of her parents’ suburban Malvern house and took a moment to gather herself. She’d hit peak-hour traffic and the journey across town, with its endless horn honking, squashed-in traffic and rude driving, had sapped the last of her energy.
She dug her fingers into the corners of her eyes. Tired. So damn tired. And heartsore. The day’s events weighed on her chest as though tied to a thousand lead sinkers. She’d been so certain of her path this morning, only for a single conversation to sour the sweet happiness she’d tasted.
She didn’t want to think about Matt. She couldn’t. What was done was done. All Callie wanted now was to complete the plan she’d devised at the start, make proper peace with her parents and move on.
With weary movements, she gathered up her turned-off phone and bag and trudged up the path toward the house. Little had changed. The Queen Anne-style house retained its brick and timber elegance. Roses still bloomed along the fenceline, a Japanese maple taking pride of place in the centre of the manicured fescue lawn, but as she opened the timber gate, hints that all wasn’t well became apparent. Moss grew between the path’s brickwork. Paspalum spread coarse leaves across the lawn’s margins. One of the decorative timber roofline frets near the entrance had broken away. Unswept leaves and grass colonised the corners of the porch.
The front door opened before Callie could knock. Her smiling, watery-eyed father unlatched the screen door. ‘Honey,’ he said, opening his arms.
Callie slumped into them, the urge to howl against his chest enormous.
‘It’s so good to have you home,’ he whispered, rubbing his cheek against her hair. ‘We’ve missed you so much.’ He pulled away and gathered himself. ‘Now, let’s get you inside before Jacq starts fussing. She’s in a big enough state as it is.’
Callie sniffed and swiped at her cheeks. She’d forgotten how comforting a Dad cuddle could be. She might be grown up, but his embrace still possessed the power to soothe.
Photos of Hope, from birth to pretty, unsmiling seventeen-year-old, adorned the walls. A life locked in glossy paper, chemicals and silver frames, partially lived, never to be completed. There were photos of Callie, too. All years old, as if, like Hope, she’d been swallowed into a void as a teenager and never let out. Feeling guilty, Callie made a mental note to send her parents some new snaps to hang – joy-filled ones.
As she entered the kitchen, her mother rushed at her, stopping Callie in her tracks. The hug was strangely standoffish, Jacqueline’s body not quite connecting like her arms, as though she didn’t know how far to go with it. After several seconds she stood back, hands still on Callie’s shoulders, and the same brittle, hopeful smile that she’d worn at Glenmore on her face.
‘I’m so pleased to see you. And here too.’
‘Thanks, Mum. It’s good to be home.’
‘Can I get you something? Glass of wine?’ Her brow furrowed with sudden distress. ‘Maybe you prefer beer? Or perhaps Coke?’ She blinked rapidly, hand fluttering to her mouth. ‘I don’t know what to offer. Isn’t that awful?’
‘A glass of white wine would be lovely, thanks.’
‘Sauv blanc?’
‘Whatever you’re having is fine.’
Jacqueline buzzed off in a nervous flurry leaving Callie staring wide-eyed at her dad.
He sidled alongside her. ‘She’s just excited you’re here.’
Callie frowned and watched as her mother poured them all a glass of wine. The kitchen bench was laden with salad bowls, condiments and a plastic-covered plate of chops, sausages and steaks. Enough food to cater for twice their number at least.
‘Well,’ said Michael, taking a glass from his wife, ‘I think this requires a toast.’ He held up his drink. Dutifully, Callie followed suit. ‘To family.’
‘To family,’ Callie murmured and took a sip.
Silence lingered as they flicked glances and awkward, solicitous smiles, waiting for the other to talk. Callie’s mind crowded with things she needed to say but she could sense now wasn’t right. They needed time to relax, to get used to being together again, before she bombed them with her desperation to get the hell away.
She looked around, expression polite when inside she rattled as badly as her mother.
‘It’s still the same.’
‘Yes,’ replied Jacqueline. ‘It never felt right to change it.’
Callie dropped her gaze to the floor. Of course her mum didn’t want to change the kitchen; she never wanted to change anything. Even Hope’s room had remained the same as the night she left it. Callie might not have been home for eight years but she would bet her ute that if she walked upstairs and entered her sister’s bedroom right now it would be like walking backward in life.
‘I should light the barbie.’ Her dad closed a firm hand around her shoulder. ‘Want to come give me a hand?’
‘Sure.’ She tamped down her pointless brooding and glanced at her mum. ‘Can I help? Set the table or anything?’
‘No, no. You go out with your father. I’m fine.’ As if to prove it, Jacqueline returned to the bench to arrange bowls that didn’t need moving, apprehensive false smile fixed in place.
Callie looked away. Damn this was hard. For all of them.
She followed her dad out onto the back patio. A high hedge still separated the Reynolds from their neighbours and half shaded the garden, its shadow long in the fading evening light. Past the patio’s paved edge, the underwater lights of the family pool turned the surface an unnatural ocean turquoise in the encroaching night. The colour made Callie think of Airlie and the home she’d soon return to.
She walked to the edge, wondering when someone last splashed in the cool water. When laughter last rang from the Reynolds’ yard.
‘Your mum’s not handling this well.’ Her dad stepped alongside, barbecue scraper in one hand. The hiss of gas flame mixed with insect whirs. The oily scent of the heating barbecue plate filled the air. He held her gaze. ‘She thinks you blame her.’
‘For what?’
He shrugged. ‘For forcing you away.’
Callie thought of how hard she’d tried to gain her parents’ attention, to be good for them, to make up for the daughter they’d lost, that she’d failed to
save. How they’d thrown all their energies into the Hope Foundation. How, even silenced by a coffin and layers of dirt, the house had vibrated with her sister’s presence.
Her mum was the worst, always bringing up foundation news. The girls they could save. A never-ending reminder of what Callie couldn’t do. Yeah, Callie blamed her mum back then. But it was nothing compared to how severely she blamed herself.
‘I left for a whole bunch of reasons, Dad. Not just because of Mum.’ Callie regarded the shimmery pool surface. ‘Phantom hurt though. I know to everyone else he was just a horse, but he was more than that to me. I really needed him.’
‘I know. And we never understood how much until it was too late.’ He stroked her hair, smiling. ‘But we’re going to make up for that, I promise. Anyway, enough. There’ll be plenty of time for this later. Let’s get this dinner going before your mother decides to make another salad.’
Thanks to her dad, dinner was eaten with more talk than quiet. Callie could see him doing his best to relax both the women in his life, teasing her mum over how much food she’d prepared, asking Callie about Airlie and the other places she’d lived.
Callie tried to play along but her heart was so leaden with sorrow it was a slog. Her mind kept drifting to Glenmore and Matt. Two more things she’d loved and lost.
She insisted her mother remained seated while she and Michael did the dishes. The fridge was crammed with leftovers, and Callie tried not to think how much Patch would have loved a spare sausage or chop bone to gnaw on. But he was gone too.
With the last dish put away and every surface wiped clean, Callie apologised and ducked off to the loo. She sat on the toilet with her eyes closed and her palms held together in front of her face, their edges pressed to her mouth as though praying. The urge to bolt back to her ute clawed at her, but the time for running from her family was over. She was an adult, not a confused eighteen-year-old, and they needed to talk. For all their sakes.
If only she weren’t so tired and hurt.
Cold water splashed on her face helped shock her system back to alertness. Though a large mirror hung over the bathroom sink, Callie avoided inspecting her image too closely. She knew how she looked – ragged and sorrowful – and she didn’t want to contrast who she was now to the girl who’d so fleetingly danced with happiness at Glenmore.
Stiff-backed and determined, Callie returned to the kitchen. Her mother regarded her with a tentative smile over the steam of a boiling kettle. A prepared coffee plunger stood beside it. Three small coffee cups were grouped on the polished timber dining table, along with a sugar bowl, milk jug and plate of Tim Tams.
‘Want a port?’ asked her father from his position near the sideboard. Eyebrows raised, he held up a small glass. ‘There’s scotch if you prefer. Or I think there might be some of your mother’s Cointreau hanging around in the cupboard.’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Callie had already had too much wine and she needed a clear head for what was to come.
She took her seat and waited for their return, crossing her arms then uncrossing them, trying to stay calm. To occupy herself, she studied the room again only for her gaze to become locked on the wall behind her mother’s chair, where a series of photographs formed a rectangular pattern. Callie stared as she recognised images from early Hope Foundation events. Her parents looked nothing like they did now. Jacqueline Reynolds mingling at a fundraiser. Confident, perfectly groomed, her drive evident from the spark in her eyes and the way she pointed at a brochure as she spoke to a pair of smartly suited men. Her father addressing a group of attentive teenagers, arms held out from his side, leaning toward them, impassioned.
Callie sank back, disturbed at the change, and glanced toward her dad. He nodded slightly, as if to say, ‘I know’, then quickly turned to shove his wife’s chair out of the way as she carried the filled plunger to the table.
Jacqueline placed it down before dragging her chair back and pushing the plate of biscuits toward her daughter. ‘Tim Tams. They used to be your favourite.’
Callie shook her head.
‘Oh. I have others.’ Jacqueline made to rise but Callie stayed her with a hand on her forearm.
‘It’s fine, Mum. I’ve eaten far too much as it is.’
‘Are you sure? I think there are some mint chocolates somewhere if you’d prefer.’
‘Positive.’ She smiled. ‘Now sit down and let me sort your coffee.’
‘No, no. I’ll do it.’
Callie didn’t see the point of arguing, activity seemed to help her mother cope. She waited until they were all seated with steaming cups before looking from her dad to her mum and back again.
‘I need to tell you both something.’ She fingered her cup handle as a thick burr blocked her throat.
Her mother’s hand crept toward her but didn’t touch. ‘What, darling?’
‘Callie?’
The prickly burr grew thorns. She lifted her gaze up to meet her father’s. ‘I sold Glenmore today.’
‘Oh, honey.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, distressed by the devastation in his voice. ‘I should have talked to you first but I thought it would help make things right between us. If I gave the money to the foundation. To make up for letting Hope down, for not being like her.’ At her father’s expression she began to crumble. ‘It was your home. I should have asked. And Nanna—’ Tears began to seep again. She covered her face. ‘I’m so sorry!’
A chair clattered to the floor. Arms lifted Callie, snatching her into a fierce hug.
‘You stop. You stop this right now.’
Callie could only shake her head. She’d let them down again. One look at his face and she’d seen the horror contained there.
A soft hand gripped hers, pulling it away from her face. ‘Callie, darling, please.’
She opened her eyes. Her mum’s face was close to hers, overflowing with concern and tears.
‘You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.’ Jacqueline gave a watery smile. ‘It’s us who need to be apologising.’
Her dad eased his hold. ‘Your mum’s right, honey. We’re the ones who had it wrong.’
‘Me especially.’ Her mum touched her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry about Phantom.’
Overwhelmed, Callie shook her head.
‘Don’t you dare say it doesn’t matter because it does.’
‘It doesn’t, not any more. I’m letting it go.’ Taking a step back, she hauled in a long breath and swiped at her wet cheeks. ‘I’m sorry. I know you loved her and I did too, but I’m so tired of Hope’s death ruling my life. The money from the sale of Glenmore can go to the foundation but after that . . .’ She held her hands up and dropped them. ‘I can’t keep doing this, trying to make up for what happened.’ She looked at them, knowing the next words would hurt. ‘I’m going back to Airlie.’
Her mother’s mouth trembled. ‘But you’ve just come back.’ She wrung her hands. ‘I haven’t—’ Anguished, she looked at her husband. ‘Do something!’
But Michael shook his head. ‘Callie needs to do what she thinks is right.’ He held Callie’s gaze. ‘But one thing’s for certain, we’re not taking the money. That’s yours. It’s what Mum wanted.’
‘It’s not. What Nanna wanted was for me to stay. That’s why she left me the horse. To make up for Phantom, but it turned out Glenmore didn’t want me the way I wanted it.’
He frowned, not understanding.
Callie smiled crookedly. ‘Long story. Maybe another time.’ She placed a gentle hand on her mum’s back. ‘Come on. Our coffees are getting cold. And I think I need a Tim Tam after all.’
*
They talked into the night. About Callie, about Hope, about Michael and Jacqueline and the weariness of extended grief that had worn them down too. Although her dad glimpsed the truth, her mother hadn’t realised how much it affected their lives. They’d lost a daughter, but that didn’t mean they had to wallow in her loss.
To Callie’s shock, when she climbed the sta
irs for her old room, she found it exactly the way it had been when she left.
‘You kept it the same,’ she said to her hovering mum.
‘Well, yes. Of course.’
With a laugh, Callie hugged her tight, her mum responding in kind, although with a bewildered expression.
After Glenmore’s gravity-fed rainwater trickle, her parents’ shower was an indulgent pleasure. Callie stood under the cascade for longer than she should, letting the water thump her scalp and back, stripping away the day’s difficulty.
Even the shower couldn’t halt the drag of her fatigue but when she snapped off the light, slipped into bed, and pulled the sweet-smelling sheets up to her chin, wakefulness persisted. Her thoughts tumbled between her mother and father, Matt and Glenmore. She let them roll, hoping tiredness would see them fade, but her heartache was too acute. Giving up, Callie reached for her phone and turned it on. Texts, missed calls and voicemail alerts crowded the screen, every one of them from Matt. She deleted the lot without reading or listening to them, even though part of her longed to hear his voice, to feel that special cocoon of love again.
When the screen was clear and Matt erased, she dialled Anna.
It was nearing midnight on a Thursday. Anna should be awake, either at work or winding down after it. Callie hoped for the latter.
‘About time you called me,’ Anna accused in her nasal quack when she answered.
‘Sorry. Been a lot going on. So what’s happening?’
‘Heaps!’
Callie’s nerves began to jingle at her flatmate’s overexcitement. Something major had happened; it rang through Anna’s voice like a klaxon. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Bruce asked me to move in with him and I said yes!’
‘That’s really great, Anna,’ said Callie, trying to keep her dismay at bay. ‘I’m pleased for you. Next we’ll be hearing wedding bells.’
‘Maybe. He’s been hinting but I want to see how it goes first.’
‘So it’ll be just me and Rowan then.’
‘Ahh, well,’ replied Anna hesitantly, ‘that’s the thing. With me moving out and the lease coming up, Rowan decided that now was a good time to get out too. He’s moving to Mackay so he can go to uni full time.’
