It’s different to Dad’s house. Dad still lives in our old house, the one where we lived all together. Lots of things there are the same as they have always been. But then, not quite. Because Mum isn’t there anymore, but you know how when you draw really hard into the paper with a pencil and even after you rub out the drawing there is still an impression of the outline? It’s like that.
The furniture has been divided up. For my whole life the coloured Mexican rug was always with the fringed green lamp and the painted coffee table. It’s in all the photos of me as a little tacker toddling about. But now Mum has the rug and Dad has the coffee table and as for the lamp? It must have got lost in the move. When I see the rug at Mum’s place, I can’t help but wonder if the coffee table misses the bright zigzag weave under its legs and if the rug feels lonely without the coffee table sitting on it. To be honest, I don’t feel quite right at either house anymore. I’m a bit like the lamp that everyone forgot to pack.
I walk into the bedroom I share with Ivy, dump my bags and put Pung on my bed. There is something else I take from house to house when I do week-about. It’s a secret. I keep a photo of Mum and Dad on their wedding day. The photo is black and white and Mum’s hair is pale blonde and curled like a movie star and she’s hugging a big bunch of tulips. Dad’s hair is in a big quiff like Elvis and they are grinning their faces off. Mum says they had costumes from the local theatre company and that it was all a joke. Playing grown-ups. But I don’t understand because they were grown-ups and are still grown-ups and grown-ups are supposed to know what they are doing.
I look at the photo. Mum and Dad’s heads are together like they are magnetised. I can’t believe that they don’t like being together anymore. Aren’t families destined to be together forever? Are we even still a family? Two families? I just don’t get it.
I put the photo under my pillow and then run into the kitchen before Ivy eats all the cake.
Mum always asks lots of questions about the last week but only the official stuff. Mum never asks about Dad.
‘How was the week? Anything I need to know?’
‘Nup, can’t think of anything.’
‘Any excursions, birthday parties, sleepovers, head lice notices, working bees, fundraisers, walk-a-thons, read-a-thons, school concerts, dress-up days or homework?’
‘Nup.’
‘Extraordinary!’ Mum says. ‘We’re free!’
Just stuff like that. She hates us talking about Dad and what we did with him. I can’t tell her that Dad was working really hard all week and that when I got up in the night, I found he was asleep at his desk. I can’t tell her that we had takeaway almost every night. Or that Dad helped me with netball training so I can get better at goals. It’s as if she only wants our lives to exist when we are with her.
Mum wraps me in her arms and gives me a big hug. She keeps hugging me. Really hugging me. The hug is now beyond a hug. It’s going on for too long. Still hugging. I do a nervous cough. Still hugging … I’m not sure if Mum is hugging me and crying or if she is checking my hair for nits. I cough again and finally, she lets go.
I go to grab a slice of cake and Ivy shouts ‘Eagle!’ I duck and I swear I can feel the whir of wings near my ears.
‘Can you put Eagle somewhere else? Like in a zoo? Or a cage or even, you know – set Eagle free?’
Ivy collects Eagle on her arm. ‘Eagle wouldn’t like that. Eagle is my pet.’
Ivy gives Eagle an Eskimo kiss and places him in the corner of the lounge room. I can feel his eyes on my back.
‘Here, Hattie,’ Mum says. ‘Nan has sent you a parcel.’
A bubble of love rises through me like a lava lamp. My nan is the best. She can do everything from cooking a lemon meringue pie to reversing a trailer. She lives in the country on a farm and we don’t get to see her much. But every second week since the Big Split she has been sending me a letter or a card or just something. She never forgets me.
I open the parcel and see two old walkie-talkies and a note:
Dear Hattie,
I thought these might come in handy.
Love, Nan x
Just knowing Nan is thinking about me makes me feel less jittery. One of the walkie-talkies even has my name on it. Hattie. That’s because it’s Nan’s name too. I’m named after her. We like to joke that it means I’m her favourite, even though grandmothers never have favourites (wink, wink). I turn on the walkie-talkie and static blares through the speaker.
‘Ivy! Come here and take this!’ I show Ivy how to use the other walkie-talkie. ‘Now go out the back and see if you can hear me, okay?’
I watch through the window and can see Ivy at the clothesline. Her arm is raised up so I assume Eagle is with her. I push the button. ‘Can you read me, over?’ I say, using proper walkie-talkie speak.
Silence.
I change the channel.
‘Ivy! Can you read me? Over?’
Nothing.
Does this thing work or not? I give it a bit of a bash.
Behind me, Mum calls Nan from the landline. We only have a landline for Nan.
‘Hi, Mum. Yes, the kids are back. She loves the present, here, I’ll put her on. Hattie!’
I put the walkie-talkie on the kitchen bench and run to the phone.
‘Hi, Nan! Thanks for the parcel!’
In the background I can hear the sheep baaing and cockatoos squawking and I can clearly imagine Nan standing at the back door and looking out to the bush around her as she talks.
‘I thought you could use them, Hattie. They are proper ones, you know, not toys. They should pick up a good signal. Pop and I used them when we were out in the paddocks, but I don’t need them now.’
Poor Nan. Pop has been gone a few years but I know it’s still hard for her.
‘I’ll look after them, Nan,’ I say. ‘And I’ll bring them to the farm next time and we can use them in the paddocks.’
‘Roger that,’ she says.
‘Over and out,’ I say.
Then I pass the phone back to Mum.
I run back to the walkie-talkie and hit the button. ‘Hattie to Ivy. Do you roger that?’
Nothing.
‘Hattie to Ivy, over.’
Then I hear Ivy reply, but her voice is weird. She says what sounds like, ‘Focus on tuna’.
‘You want tuna, over?’
I release the button to listen.
‘Where is the half key? I need to find the half key!’
‘What are you talking about, Ivy?’
‘Focus on tuna,’ she says again.
I guess she’s too young to use the walkie-talkies properly.
Mum’s still on the phone, and I can hear her telling Nan about Hummingbird House.
‘It’s terrible. If this area gets developed the parkland will go for sure. I don’t know if I’d still want to live here. Whatever’s left will be overrun with all the people living in the apartments … hmmm … Yes, I know … yeah … the city is getting too crazy … Of course I’d like to move back to the farm, Mum. It’s a great place to grow up. I know you’d help …’
I can’t believe it! Would Mum really move back to the country? And what would happen to us? I mean, I love Nan and I know she’s lonely without Pop, but how would we do week-about from the country? Or would we just be with Mum? Then I’d never see Dad! My heart starts jumping out of my chest. If we move to the country, that’s it. The Big Split becomes the Final Split. Mum and Dad will never get back together.