Unspoken Words

by K. M. Golland

  “Just take a look and maybe meet her. We’ll go from there.”

  “Rightyo, baby girl,” I said, as I suspended Christina over the kitchen bench, her little legs dancing like a Leprechaun. “I’m thinking we need some kind of private signal between us. I don’t know … maybe roll from your back to your front to your back again if you like her, and do that I’m-about-to-crawl-but-fall-flat-on-my-face thing if you don’t like her. How does that sound?”

  She kicked some more and said, “Bub bub bub.”

  “Yes, bub bub bub. When are you gonna say dad dad dad?”

  She ignored me and dribbled on my hand.

  “Nice.”

  As if not so perfect, perfect timing, my doorbell sounded, so I moved Christina to my hip and wiped my hand down the front of my jeans before heading along the hall to answer the door.

  Through Trevor’s stained glass fish body was the silhouette of a blonde woman wearing a green dress. My stomach tightened and my throat grew thick. The decision to meet this nanny wasn’t made lightly, and I still wasn’t sure it was the right decision to make. But I’d made it and at least had to give her a chance.

  Swallowing heavily, I turned the handle and opened the door. “Hello, Madeline is it?”

  She smiled and nodded, and something about her made me feel a little more at ease.

  “Please, come in.”

  I held the door open as she entered my home, but she paused on the threshold and slipped her finger into Christina’s hand. “And you must be Miss Christina. Hi, cutie pie. Pleased to meet you.”

  Christina opened her arms like a friendly scarecrow, but rather than ward Madeline away, she leaned toward her instead.

  “Oh, you want to come to me?” Madeline glanced up. “May I?” she asked, opening her hands to take Christina.

  “Surrrre.” A little shocked, I passed her over, but to be honest she didn’t really give me a choice. “Well, that’s a promising start.” I shut the door and followed behind them just as Madeline started speaking in baby-tongue.

  “Peek-a-boo. That’s a pretty pink dress you’re wearing. A-boo. And I love your bow.”

  “Last door on the right,” I advised.

  She glanced back, still smiling. “Thanks.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  Madeline knelt down on the floor after entering my lounge room and laid Christina under her activity gym. “There you go. Lots of pretty coloured toys to play with.”

  Christina squealed and kicked like a seasoned kickboxer.

  I chuckled. “She loves that thing.”

  “Yes! I can see that. It’s really great for their motor skills and building strength in their legs.” She stood up and brushed down her skirt, and in the split second she performed that action, my world began crashing in.

  Memories of Ellie brushing her skirt down at the river, in her room, in my room, and at the studio came thick and fast, and I had to blink my eyes to see past them.

  “Is everything okay?” Madeline asked, her concerned face searching mine.

  “Yes. Sorry. Just got a little something in my eye.”

  “Ouch. You should go rinse it out.”

  “Na, it’s fine. I think it’s gone.”

  “Oh, good.” She took a seat on my couch and clasped her hands on her lap. “So I understand Jackson has filled you in on my credentials?”

  “Yes. He has,” I said, as I, too, took a seat. “And I must say, on paper, they’re impressive.”

  “Thank you. But let’s face it, where children are concerned, ‘on paper’ is only half of it. My guess is that you invited me here today to see if Christina and I hit it off.”

  I laughed. “That would be correct.”

  “Okay. In that case,” she said, linking her fingers and stretching her hands out in front of her, as if to crack them. “Best I work my magic.”

  Madeline removed her shoes, made her way to the floor, and crawled toward Christina where she sat side-legged next to the play gym. She slid her hands under Christina’s arms and picked her up, holding her high above her head and sticking her nose directly into her bum. “Pee-Ew. Someone has a wet nappy, doesn’t she?”

  Christina cackled with delight.

  “Wanna point me in the direction of her nursery so I can change her?”

  “Sure. Follow me.”

  I showed her to Christina’s room where she changed her like a pro.

  “There you go. All clean.” She turned to me. “Does she need a bottle or some solids?”

  “No. Not right now.”

  “She doesn’t appear to be tired—”

  “No. She not long woke up.”

  “I guess it’s more playtime then.”

  We headed back to the lounge room where, once again, Madeline laid Christina down on the mat. And as if on perfect cue, she rolled onto her tummy then onto her back again, smiled and said, “Bub bub bub.”

  “Well, there you have it,” I said, gesturing to my daughter.

  “Have what?”

  “She likes you.”

  The crowd chanted, “Saxon. Saxon. Saxon.” My name a continuous hum throughout the arena. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. I was only seconds away from taking the stage, my palms sweat dampened, my fingers tingling.

  Shaking them loose, I wasn’t sure they’d pluck the strings of my guitar, or if when I opened my mouth to sing, the words would come out. Without Ellie, I wasn’t sure I could sing at all. You can do this, Connor. You will do this. For your fans, for Christina … for Ellie.

  Stepping onto the stage, the spotlight illuminated my body like a Christmas tree. I drew upon its warmth and let it settle over me before waving to the darkness, the light lifting from my face and revealing the silhouetted audience before me.

  “Good evening, Sydney!” I said into my microphone.

  They erupted into cheers and whistling, the vibrations from their voices hitting me direct in the chest. My pulse spiked, and I held my hand over my heart, feeling Ellie’s presence and love as I looked to my left.

  Madeline stood just off stage with Christina on her hip, her tiny ears protected with earmuffs. I let go of my heart and waved, her twinkly emerald eyes alight as she clapped her hands and waved back, and for the smallest of seconds and most magical of moments, I saw her mother standing next to her.

  My Ellie.

  My Life.

  My Ever After.

  Epilogue

  Christina

  “You travelled.”

  “I did not.”

  “Yes, Dad, you did.” I turned to my older brother Max who was playing his guitar in the shade of our tree. “He travelled, didn’t he?”

  Max shrugged, so Dad took his opportunity, bounced the basketball twice, and then stepped around me before leaping up to shoot a goal.

  “Hey! That’s cheating!”

  Dad chuckled. “It is not.”

  Securing the ball under my arm, I placed my hands on my hips and glared at him. “Is so.”

  “You look so much like your mother when you do that.”

  I tried not to smile but couldn’t help it. When Dad said things like that, I felt so much closer to her, as if she was standing there next to me with her hands on her hips too. It also made me feel sad because I couldn’t remember what little time we’d spent together. But I had photos, and the diary she wrote me. And Dad, Uncle Chris, and Nanna and Pa share their memories all the time.

  Uncle Chris said I whinge like Mum, Pa said I have her creativity, and Nanna said I have her eyes and hair, but that I get my height and lone dimple from Dad. She told me I was the perfect mix of them both; a living, breathing link preserving Mum’s memory. She called me the most precious of tethers, and I guess that made me feel special. That just by being alive so, too was my mother.

  Flicking the ball up, I spun it on my finger. “Wanna go again?”

  Dad bent over to catch his breath.

  “Old McOldy Head.”<
br />
  He straightened. “Did you just call me old?”

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  Dad launched himself toward me and clasped my waist as I tried to get away. I screamed and laughed and screamed again, his ticklish hands my most favourite kind of torture.

  “Am I old?” he asked, pausing his assault.

  “Yes.”

  Dad’s manic tickling ensued, the sensation almost unbearable. “Okay! Okay! You’re not old. I take it back. I take it back.”

  Releasing me from his torture, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder instead, tucking me into his side. “Hungry?”

  “Yep.”

  I looked up into his proud and loving eyes just as he looked down at me, both of us saying, “Pizza” at the same time.

  The End

  Plight

  Turn over for a sneak peek.

  Prologue

  Twenty-two years ago I promised myself to a boy. We were eight years old. Neighbours. He gave me a cheese ring, pushed it onto my finger, and asked me to marry him.

  I ate the cheese ring.

  I also said, “Yes” but that we’d have to wait until I turned thirty. Back then, thirty was more like fifty, which was more like one hundred — I wasn’t planning on getting married when I was one hundred.

  Anyway, my thirtieth birthday was last week, and now that boy, that cheese ring bestowing boy, is calling in that promise.

  Seriously, Elliot Parker is insane if he thinks that a private Facebook message stipulating the binding law of an oral contractual agreement is going to seal our twenty-two-year bullshit deal. In.Sane.

  I wonder if he really does look like his profile picture though.

  Chapter 1

  Message from Danielle Cunningham:

  I’ll admit, I was a little unsure as to your level of creepiness for a minute or two. You got me good, Lots, lol. See you Saturday.

  I first fell in love with Danielle Cunningham when I was eight years old. She wasn’t the most popular girl at school, but she was the most beautiful, inside and out. That’s why I’d fallen in love with her, because she was kind and she cared. She’d cared about me in particular and what I’d had to say.

  Not many people ever had.

  She’d also had the cutest button nose, apple cheeks, dark brown hair that reminded me of those chocolate curls that were sometimes on the top of birthday cakes, and bushy eyebrows that looked like little caterpillars. A few kids had teased her about her facial caterpillars, but I always thought they were cool. Unique.

  The second time I fell in love with her was when she’d eaten my Cheezel ring and said she’d marry me. Marriage was a big promise for anyone let alone an eight-year-old, and it was a promise I now planned to have a bit of fun with, maybe even hold her to. She was the first girl I’d ever loved — the only girl.

  As for the third time, well … there hadn’t been a third time yet, but I knew there would be. I knew because my entire body had just frozen solid then slowly thawed the moment she stepped out of her Volkswagen Beetle wearing a thick grey beanie that was miles too big for her head. So if the mere sight of her could do that to a grown man, a man that hadn’t laid eyes on her in seventeen years, then yeah, I knew I’d fall in love with Danielle Cunningham for a third time.

  It was just a matter of when.

  Awkwardly diverting my gaze to the scrap pile of wood pieces in my gloved hands, and instantly regretting that decision because Danielle was far better to look at, I quickly glanced back at her as she took a few steps toward us before pausing at the threshold of the garden. She toed a few rocks where a perfectly curved brick path had once wound through brightly coloured flowers and plants.

  It no longer did.

  My stomach twisted as I took in the sorrowful look on her face, because it was the same look I’d possessed moments ago when I’d stood where she was standing. The state of our memorial garden was a knife to the heart and a cold hard slap to the face, those exact sentiments emphasized by her wide open, coffee cup eyes that were melting as tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.

  Danielle’s jaw fell slack, her mouth forming an O, her shoulders slumped, her arms lifeless by her sides. Every particle that composed who I was wanted to wrap myself around her and tell her that we’d fix this, that we’d restore the garden to its former glory and pay the respect and gratitude to Mr Hillier that he deserved. We owed him that and so much more.

  We owed him our lives.

  When we were just ten years old, Mr Hillier had heard our terrified cries for help and driven through a flash flood that had very quickly turned our storm drain hide-and-seek game into a matter of life or death. We’d become trapped underground behind a metal grated storm drain cover after being unable to return the way we’d entered the drain system we’d often hung out in. The rising floodwaters had been fierce, unapologetic, and rapidly climbing the height of the ledge Danielle and I were huddled upon.

  Recalling that memory, even after twenty years, still sent a chill down my spine. It had been the single most frightening experience of my life; helplessly watching as a ferocious aquatic monster chased us down.

  Thankfully, Mr Hillier — a local tree-lopper at the time — carried a chain in his utility truck and was able to winch the metal grate free of the concrete it was encased in, setting us free.

  I’d never forget that day, never forget the level of fear a person could feel, but, most importantly, I’d never forget Mr Hillier, which was why restoring the garden was so important. During the past decade, I’d allowed my busy lifestyle to overshadow what was once a fitting tribute to a hero, my hero, and that was about to change. Hillier Community Garden would return to its former glory and then some.

  My body stiffened once again as Danielle sheepishly smiled, waved, and closed the space between us. I went to lift my hand to return her gesture but fumbled with the planks of wood in my arms.

  “Shit,” I muttered, rebalancing them as she stopped before me.

  “Lots! That’s ‘lots’ of wood in your arms.” She giggled and nudged my shoulder, and I all but crumbled to the ground under the weight of nostalgia and tree offcuts.

  I managed a chuckle instead and raised my arms, flexing my biceps in the process — not that she could see them through the wood. “Na, this is nothing. I’ve only just started.”

  She dipped her head, and I caught a glimpse of a small smile before it was hidden behind several loose strands of hair that were still chocolate in colour, her manicured fingers poking them behind her ear.

  “So, how are you? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. You look … you look good.”

  Her stuttering puzzled me. Maybe she’s cold? I should lend her my jacket. I went to shrug out of the woollen coat I was wearing when I realised she was already wearing one of her own; a white puffy one with a furry hood that dangled over her shoulders. Maybe she just stutters now? Maybe she’s nervous?

  Realising I hadn’t yet answered, a playful idea entered my head, and I didn’t really think too much before deciding to just go with it. I was a little nervous, and that rarely happened.

  “This is bad luck, you know.” I gestured between the two of us. “I’m not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”

  She laughed, but then her hand found her hip. “This again? This fake engagement stuff? Really?”

  I remained impassive. “You say ‘fake’ as if you mean it.”

  “I do mean it! We are not engaged, Elliot.”

  “Technically, we are.” I smiled.

  She laughed. “No, we’re not.”

  “Yeah, we are.” I stopped smiling, playing around with her a little.

  She shook her head, vehemently. “I don’t believe you.”

  I shrugged and stepped away, dropping the wood planks into a wheelbarrow. “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant.”

  This time, both her hands found her hips, her fingers gripping the denim hugging her skin. I fought my rising eyebrow — her elevated fr
ustration was so cute. As a child, she’d possessed a fiery attitude, except with her mum, Jeanette. Jeanette was all she had — no siblings, no father.

  “I don’t see how it is irrelevant. My not believing you is very relevant,” she stated.

  I smiled. “You’re wrong.”

  Danielle stared at me. Really stared. It was a defiant body language tactic I’d used in the courtroom many times, yet I was impressed with her determined eye contact dedication.

  I couldn’t help it and let out a laugh. “You haven’t changed much.”

  “You have!” she blurted while simultaneously scoffing.

  Her cheeks blushed, like polished apples, and I wasn’t sure whether that reaction was good or not. It was hard to tell from her broken stare and awkward shifting of boot-covered feet whether she was referring to my physical change or my playful baiting, which wasn’t something I’d ever done when we were younger — I’d learned to become a smartarse during my adult years.

  Before I could question her new rosy complexion, Jeanette sprung out from behind the garden shed and encased her daughter in a hug. “Good morning, Pumpkin.”

  “Mum! Hi.” Danielle tried to gently struggle free. “Okay, ow… you’re kinda hurting me. And you’re covered in dirt!”

  “That’s generally what happens when you do gardening, Danielle.”

  I bit my lip at Jeanette’s response. From memory, she was a force to be reckoned with, a gale force that often blew poor Danielle right over.

  “Very funny, Mum,” she muttered.

  Jeanette released her grip and stepped back, holding her daughter at arm’s length for assessment before tutting. “You’re wasting away. And why on earth are you wearing a white jacket?”

  Danielle opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out, which didn’t seem to bother Jeanette because she was already dismissing any pending response by kissing Danielle on the forehead before turning to me and laughing, mockingly.