But I walk over to him, anyway.
He is tall and thick and gray, with an oil coat just like the one Edith used to wear when she went out into the paddocks in the rain, and he has dirty boots and lines around his wide mouth and his eyes—and I recognize him.
“Hello,” says my father.
* * *
Dominic Stewart’s truck smells of old coffee, and I see why when I put my feet down on about thirty old takeaway cups.
“Sorry,” he grunts.
I shrug and close the door.
We sit in silence, listening to the fall of rain on the roof.
“Where to?” Dom asks. His Australian accent is broad and fills me, astonishingly, with a sense of home.
I try to think of where he could give me a lift to but come up with nothing. Instead I think of the years I spent hating this man for what he did and where he was sent, and the years I spent ashamed of how like him I turned out to be, and the years I spent simply wishing I had family, even one single member, just one.
“Have you ever been to Scotland?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Wanna go?”
He glances at me, then back to the rain. Without a word he starts the car. And I see perfectly the old, faded tattoo of a bird on his hand.
Dom sees me staring at it and smiles shyly. “Iris used to like that one best.”
I return the smile.
Mam used to tell me to look for the clues.
“The clues to what?” I asked the first time.
“To life. They’re hidden everywhere.”