‘I’ll go anywhere you want,’ I say quickly. ‘Just give me some time in Bangkok to get the full experience. Going together is a brilliant idea.’
‘Together,’ he nods. ‘I like it – hey, your dad just went into your room.’
‘What?’
Eli climbs over me on his bed and sidles up to his window, beckons for me to join him. My heart trips over itself as I dash across the room and press against the wall beside Eli.
Dad steps stiffly towards my desk and I crane my neck to see past Eli, into my room. My mouth goes dry. Micah’s photo. His letters. All in the top drawer. Shit, maybe Marcella found them. I hold my breath.
‘What’s he doing?’ Eli whispers.
I shrug, but there’s a metallic taste in my mouth.
Suddenly, Dad snatches something from the shelf above my desk. He studies the silver oblong for a second, then he’s gone.
I exhale. It’s only a picture of my mother.
Eli turns around to face me. I’m pressed with my back against the wall, my heart rate slowing.
Eli gives me a quizzical frown. ‘What was that about?’
‘He has this thing about photos of my mother. Likes to rearrange them.’
‘What?’
‘Well, if you leave a picture in the one place too long, you don’t see it any more. So he changes them up.’
He baulks. ‘But that’s your room.’
‘It’s only my room when I’m here. And they’re his photos, not mine.’
‘Bel, that’s … don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes you’re a little blasé about your mum.’
‘What do you mean?’ I feel my hackles rising.
‘Don’t you grieve for her and stuff? I mean, Dad makes me want to punch a hole in the wall sometimes, but if anything happened to him, I’d be gutted.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Are you saying I’m not grieving right? What do you know about losing a parent?’
‘Well, nothing, but –’
‘Then don’t tell me how I should be feeling,’ I snap.
‘I just think it’s weird –’
‘Yeah, well, you know what, going to Thailand together is weird too. The weirdest idea you’ve ever had.’
‘Hey,’ he says gently, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s fine. Forget about it.’
‘What? Thailand, or …?’
‘Everything. I’m going back to Dad’s. I’m tired.’
‘Sure,’ he says hollowly.
He walks me to the door, and I wave goodbye to his parents who are engrossed in a David Attenborough documentary.
‘I’ll see you round,’ I say. Then I’m out of there.
Telling me how to feel about my own mother. Who does he think he is?
When I get to my room, the photo of my mother cradling me in hospital is missing from my desk. In its place is her standing in a field of daisies, backlit by a wine-yellow sun. I want to scream at her perfect face.
Eli’s right. I am doing this wrong – grieving. I’m sick of it. That’s what really got me. Not Eli. He didn’t mean to hurt me. He just hit me right in the sore spot.
I don’t like talking about her. And I’m not sure how I’m meant to feel about her. Nobody tells you how to grieve. Your body’s just meant to know how, and mine doesn’t. Eli’s right, I’m weird.
I open the top drawer of my desk. Reach under some papers until I find Micah’s photo, then slip it back into my suitcase between the pages of Othello for safekeeping.
I reach for the heavy curtains to yank them closed, but he’s there. At his window. He mock pouts at me, holding a sheet of paper with big black letters scrawled across it:
Sorry for being a dick.
I hang my head, but when I look back up, he’s holding another sign:
I want to go to Thailand with you. Don’t make me beg.
I bite my lip, but a smile bolts right across my face.
He’s always been a good guy, Eli. And it would have cut him that he upset me.
I wave his sign down with my hand, and mouth ‘Okay.’ Then grin as I draw the curtains.
We’re going to Thailand.
I’ve become addicted to the growl of the postman’s bike. I fuss nervously in my room each morning, peeping out the blinds till the hum of his bike sounds in the distance. My heart hammers as the noise gets closer. Yesterday, I snuck out of the house without Dad noticing and ran down the long drive to the letterbox. I was handed only thin, colourless business envelopes. But each day that passes is a day closer to Micah’s present. And I can’t risk the postman bringing a parcel to the door in case Dad gets to it first. A parcel with stamps from Thailand and a Bang Kwang Prison return address would generate serious questions.
The waiting is interminable. His parcel is almost a week overdue.
When it does arrive, I’ve decided not to open it. Instead, I’ll smuggle it upstairs to my room and hide it in my wardrobe. Force myself to wait until Christmas morning. I’ll allow myself to feel the parcel, but there’ll be no peeking. It will be like reviving Santa. And even though we’re an ocean apart, we’ll be opening our presents together.
Dad stopped buying presents a long time ago. The end of Santa was the end of Christmas. No more stocking, no more milk and cookies, no more sack, no more presents for me. Like Dad decided I’d had enough of the magic and it was time for the cold realities of the real world.
Well, not this year.
Tuesday fills me half with anticipation, half with anguish. But the day passes with no parcel. By Wednesday, I’m anxious. What if his present got lost? No. It will surely arrive tomorrow. But Thursday comes, and the postman drops a lone white envelope into my hand. A Christmas card for Dad.
I watch him drive off.
There is one day left. I busy myself wrapping a present for Eli, but my fingers are trembly and the sticky tape kinks. What if it doesn’t arrive? I block the thought.
Christmas Eve dawn peels across the sky and my stomach flutters with excitement. Shortly after ten, I hear it. The roar of the engine.
I sneak out of my room, check for Dad. I can’t see him. With my heart throbbing in my throat, I run, barefoot, down the stairs, out the door, along the cobbled drive, wincing as the stones press into my feet.
The postman revs as he nears the house, and my knees feel weak beneath me. He smiles as he approaches and lifts a hand in greeting as he motors past Dad’s house. At first I chase after him, thinking it’s a mistake, but he doesn’t see me. I stop when I realise the truth. Micah’s gift isn’t coming. There is nothing for Christmas.
Just Micah’s cold, empty promise.
The disappointment is so shocking, I can taste it. It’s the same as the day I discovered Santa wasn’t real. That there is no magic. That I’d been duped by Marcella and Dad all along. How stupid of me. Even more stupid of me to believe Micah would send me a present for Christmas and it could bring back the magic.
I don’t want to be disappointed, but the feeling is so heavy it sinks into the pit of my stomach. I want to cry like a kid who got a piece of coal in her stocking.
There is nothing left to look forward to.
Christmas comes, like it always does. I lie in bed, grateful for the curtains that keep the sun at bay a little longer. But fighting Christmas is futile. Like trying to hold back the tide.
I have to get up and face it. Be a big girl, as Marcella told me when I was first shipped off to boarding school.
I go to my window, pull back the curtains. Eli’s still in his room. Standing next to his open wardrobe door. He pulls a shirt out and his arms stretch up as he pulls it over his head. I watch the way the light falls across his body, the way the muscles in his back move – then I yank the curtains shut. I reach for my phone instead.
Merry Christmas. Hope Santa was good to you, I type.
I make a show of opening my curtains. Like I haven’t already seen him getting dressed. Eli smiles when he sees me.<
br />
My phone buzzes.
Merry Christmas, beautiful. Signed off with a piece of mistletoe.
Beautiful? I glance in the mirror – a creased nightie and morning hair.
Smartarse. I type. So, how many are you expecting today? 100?
Ha, close enough. Aunties, uncles, cousins. Too many to count. Can I hide at your place?
If I don’t escape to yours first. I have lunch. With Dad. Way worse.
Good luck to us both then, huh?
I give him the thumbs up and shut my curtains.
I change into a nice, strappy dress and try not to let the sinking feeling overwhelm me. But all the shine has worn off Christmas. No letter, no parcel from Micah.
Before long, the first cars roll up Eli’s drive. When they fill that, they park higgledy piggledy at the top of the cul-de-sac, and, as more come, they use the grass out the front of Dad’s. Making it look like his place is full of visitors too.
The truth is, even Marcella has deserted us. Taking two weeks off to spend time with her grandson for his first Christmas. She almost danced out of here on her last day. Not that I blame her. Of course she’d rather be with her real family. Still, her absence at Christmas always adds to my emptiness.
Laughter floats over Eli’s fence. The rise and fall of voices, music in the yard. Ed Sheeran. Eli’s in charge of the music, then. I can’t bear to look at them, wrapped up in the laughter and festive joy.
So I decide to block it out. I can’t be miserable at Christmas. It’s so much worse than being depressed any other time of the year.
I head downstairs and resolve to turn this unbearable day into something bearable. I’m going to make pancakes. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
I set to work and the task helps to shift my mood. Green batter in one bowl, red batter in the other. It’s kind of cute. Christmas pancakes.
When I’m done, Dad and I have a pancake stack each. Red, green, red, green. I set the table for us, get the dollop cream and maple syrup from the fridge. It doesn’t look quite complete, so I dash into the living room with a pair of scissors. Snip two small sections of tinsel from the tree decorations, and place them on top of each pancake stack. There. Christmas breakfast.
Dad’s footsteps sound upstairs, and I actually feel a bit nervous. I’ve never cooked him a proper breakfast before.
He starts when he sees me, sitting at our small breakfast table.
‘Morning, sweetheart.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ I say.
He looks stunned for a second, then he looks down at the pancakes on the plate and back up at me.
‘Of course. Is this, uh …’
‘Festive pancakes,’ I say. But my pride in them is fast shrinking. I suddenly notice Dad’s stack is lopsided and the colours are so vibrant they look sickly. Even the piece of tinsel I stuck in the top has keeled over.
‘Well, this is … creative.’
I feel like crying. I don’t, of course.
We eat in silence until he finishes half the pancakes – enough for me not to be insulted. As I clear the dishes, he says, ‘Guess we’d better do the presents now.’
We both dread the present ceremony. I don’t know why. Because it’s a ritual all families have to do and we’re not really a family? Something like that. It’s always a relief when it’s over.
We never take photos at Christmas. Or ever. Which is funny, cause Dad took so many photos of my mother. I think the latest photo he has of me is my school photo.
Dad hands me his usual envelope. Kisses me on the cheek.
He mumbles about me putting it towards something I want. Seems embarrassed as usual about giving me money, but I’m grateful because to buy the right present would mean he’d actually have to know me. And this year I can put it towards something I want. Something I really want.
‘Thanks, Dad, I can really use it,’ I say.
He perks up a bit, and I give him my gift. A set of monogrammed cufflinks. Then we do Marcella’s presents. Arabica beans from Peru and a book for Dad, with a note telling him to rest his feet this Christmas. For me, a small silver locket necklace. It’s stunning – a delicate, pretty heart with a small clasp, and when you open it there are two empty spaces inside for photos. Marcella’s note says:
From my shopping at Macarthur Square! To keep the ones you love close, my darling.
It is so beautiful. I don’t deserve it. I’ve never deserved her, either. Especially after the mean thoughts I had about her shopping with her grandson.
‘Wow,’ Dad says. ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’
I get out my phone and text Marcella.
Merry Christmas, Marcella. You shouldn’t have spent your money on me, but I love it SO much. Thank you for being so good to me xxx
An hour later, a response flashes up.
You are so welcome, my darling. Feliz Navidad to you and your father.
Quay Lime is closed. Most places are on Christmas Day, but Dad got us a reservation at an Indian restaurant decked to the nines in tinsel. The waiter greets us, extending an arm inside. The smell of basmati rice and curry hangs sweetly in the air. The restaurant is small and the tables are crowded closely together, but there’s only one other table occupied. An elderly couple with matching grey, close-cropped hair. The woman is wearing pearls and a navy blue dress. The man is in a suit and bow tie. It breaks my heart just looking at them. Where are their kids, their families? But then I remember that we’re here too. Families aren’t perfect and Christmas is the time of year when it really hits home.
I decide to be generous with Dad. ‘So what’s the latest with the Balducci case?’
Dad looks genuinely surprised by the question. I never ask him about this stuff.
‘It’s a disaster, actually. Just as I predicted it would be.’ He says it with pride. ‘Terrible for his wife, terrible for her family. The plea-deal’s been struck, so it’ll at least spare the family a trial because he went guilty. But it won’t spare them the pathetic sentence.’
‘So that’ll work in your favour, you think? For the mandatory sentencing bill?’
‘I damn well hope so.’
Our curries arrive, along with side serves of pappadums and naan bread.
‘Anyway, how’s Elijah doing?’ he says. ‘Where’d he go again?’
‘Thailand.’ It’s an opportunity. One I can’t resist. ‘He’s told me so much about it, Dad, and it sounds amazing over there. I’d really like to go, too.’
‘Mmm. Let’s not forget, you’re still seventeen.’
‘Eli’s heading back next year and he asked if I want to come with him.’
Dad chokes on a bit of naan bread and splutters into his napkin. ‘I bet he did.’
‘Pardon?’
He clears his throat. ‘Eli’s still a kid himself, Annabelle. I’m hardly going to let you two go gallivanting off to a country like Thailand without an adult.’
‘Dad, he’s eighteen. And it’s like his second home now. Eli has friends there. He can speak fluent Thai …’
But Dad waves me off with his hand. ‘We’ll talk about it another time. Let’s not ruin Christmas.’
Ruin Christmas? Should I tell him it’s too late? Christmas was ruined a long time ago. All I want Christmas to do now is to disappear.
Turns out I don’t need Christmas to disappear, because Dad does instead. As we’re leaving the restaurant, his phone rings. It seems Parliament isn’t entirely dead over Christmas, after all. People still need to run this great nation of ours. So Dad is booked on the first flight out of Sydney for some urgent conference in Canberra. Something about the Balducci trial, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of more questions.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ he says as we drive home.
‘Don’t be.’
‘I know it’s Christmas. Can you maybe go to Elijah’s or something?’
Good job, Dad.
‘Are you palming me off to another family?’
‘Annabelle, be reasonable. Yo
u know this is part of the job …’
I roll my eyes.
‘You didn’t get this angry when it happened two years ago. Is it the Thailand thing upsetting you? Sweetheart, we’ll talk about it later, okay? We will.’
Silence.
‘If I could get out of this, I would.’
When he pulls into the garage, I slam my door especially hard. ‘Merry Christmas, Dad.’
Then I skulk up to my room and slam my bedroom door even harder.
After curling up in bed for the afternoon, I text Tash.
Hope you’re having a fun day. With a smiley face.
She doesn’t respond. Which means she’s having too much fun to be near her phone. Good for her. I’m glad one of us is.
I get up and go to my window. Peek through the curtains in the dim hope I might find Eli escaping the Christmas madness, but his room is still and empty.
Why would he be upstairs when there’s so much action downstairs? I can hear whoops and splashes in the pool. I bet he’s swimming with his cousins. I can’t see the yard from my window, but part of me wishes I could. That I could sit up here and watch his Christmas. Pretend to be part of it.
This is torture.
I jump under the shower to kill time and think about what I’m going to do for dinner. Dad left money for pizza, but that’s going towards Thailand. I’ll make myself some tinned soup instead.
When I get out of the shower, there’s a message on my phone.
Eli: You back from lunch yet?
Bel: It’s five o’clock.
Eli: Oh, right. You wanna come over? I have something for you.
The fact that Eli’s thinking of me lifts my spirits, but I’m too fragile to handle his loud relatives.
I have something for you too. I type. But I’m not really up for a big gathering. You want to come here quickly? Would your parents let you?
Eli: They’re too drunk to notice. Be there in five.
When the doorbell rings, my heart jumps with it. My hair’s still wet from the shower, but instead of getting into my pjs like I’d planned, I got back into the strappy dress I wore to the restaurant. Got to look Christmassy.
Inside the Tiger Page 7
