I crunch on the snow peas as we walk. Our cabin doesn’t look so bad, with the lights on and the curtains of the living area drawn closed. It looks kind of welcoming and cosy. ‘Thanks,’ I say and Matthew nods and waits until I go into the annex. When I look out the dark window, I see him heading slowly home, hands pressed hard into his pockets.
I don’t go straight to bed. Instead, I sit in one of the camp chairs. My heart is still beating too fast, too loudly. Matthew would’ve only been eleven years old when his mother packed up to leave and he’d begged her to take him along, too. I keep thinking about Matthew’s mother not wanting to see him. Of those letters never being answered. I keep hearing my letter rustling. And I know it’s different. I know that I don’t have to reply; that I don’t actually owe Kelly Russo anything. But still.
I pull the letter out of my bra and my hands shake. I’ve put it off for too long already, even if it hasn’t been real avoidance. It’s stupid, how I’ve been carrying it around like this. Like someone who doesn’t practise meditating at least twice a month. I rip it open and a dried flower lands in my lap. Dark purple. It smells like wild, pretty things.
Dear Stella,
In case you change your mind and do wish to contact me at some stage, just letting you know that my number’s changed. I’ve included my business card below.
Kind regards,
Kelly Russo
She’s a landscape designer. It’s a strange letter to have tucked into the envelope with a flower. I wonder, for a moment, if the flower is an accident, but I know that it’s not. The rest of the letter is too precise for that. I put the letter, business card and the flower back into the envelope and tuck it back down my top.
Taylor’s sitting cross-legged on our bed when I walk in. The bunkroom door’s shut and there’s a sort of static in the air – the traces of hissed arguments and tears and frustration. There’s always a trace left.
‘Who was that?’ Taylor asks as I shut the bedroom door and pull off my shoes.
‘Matthew,’ I say, putting the bruised handful of flowers and last couple of snow peas on the bedside table and flopping down on the mattress. In case you change your mind. What does that mean?
Compartmentalise, Stella. Be your best self and engage with the subject at hand. That’s what How to Survive the Wild West of Social Etiquette says to do. ‘What happened with Mum and Dad?’
She grimaces. ‘The usual.’
I pull the money out of the toes of my shoes and hear Taylor’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh my God! Where’s that from? You sell a kidney or something?’
‘I took it off Dad at the track.’ It feels like years ago, being at the track with Clem.
Taylor’s expression goes very still. I wait for her to start railing against Dad, but she just flops down next to me. We’re all tired. Exhausted. Wearied. Empty.
‘Good night, Taylor,’ I say, curling up on my quarter of the bed. Taylor kicks me as she rolls over and I know it’s on purpose. I run my tongue over my teeth, but my toothbrush is in the bathroom and the idea of going in there when my parents have been fighting makes me feel sick.
‘You left me here with them,’ she says. ‘I’m mad at you.’
I used to look up different feeling words in the dictionary. Just so I had them on hand if I needed them. Mad. Angry. Furious. Frustrated. Livid. Upset. Annoyed. Aggravated.
Taylor kicks me again and I grit my teeth but don’t move or say anything because she’d do something a hundred times worse back. Pretty soon there’d be hair pulling and swearing, and you’ve got to be in the right mood for that sort of tussle. Taylor sighs and rolls onto her back and I can hear her softly counting the seashells on the ceiling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Taylor keeps whispering to Adam in her sleep. She’s plotting a mission to the moon with him. They’re going to collect the diamonds there so Mum’s feet don’t get so swollen at work. It’s sort of heartbreaking to listen to, so I kick her awake.
‘Ow! What?’
‘You’re sleep-talking to Adam!’
‘Just deal with it,’ she snaps.
‘Sleep on the floor if you’re going to get that creepy.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ she says, rolling away from me.
‘Yes, I’m jealous of your Ascott boyfriend. Painfully, painfully jealous.’ But I think of them, the way Adam had just accepted our move here, the annex, Dad’s problems, everything. The way he looks at Taylor like she’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. Sometimes I want that, but the whole thing just seems so overwhelming. Particularly now. Maybe, a few months ago, walking home with Matthew would have given me butterflies or started me off daydreaming. But it’s like my brain’s rewired itself and I can’t even think about that stuff.
‘You’re such a snob,’ Taylor says. ‘Adam is high quality.’
‘He’s from Ascott.’
‘So what? So am I.’ She cuddles into her pillow. ‘You’re going to die alone.’
‘Better than with an Ascott boy,’ I mutter, but she’s already dozed off again.
In the morning, I have five missed calls from Zin. I slip into the bathroom to brush my teeth and have a shower. Mum’s bed is neatly made, but Dad’s still curled up in a ball on the top bunk. I think of waking him, of insisting that he get up and go for a walk or have a nutritionally dense breakfast. I don’t, though. Instead, I go outside and wander far enough away from the cabins to be sure of not being overheard.
‘I was just about to turf everyone out and run to your house. I need details desperately. Joshua. Chelsea. Spill.’
‘I had a moment,’ I say, shuddering at the thought of Zin knocking on the door of our old house. Our home. ‘That’s all.’
‘I hear you just about brained him.’
‘Did she brain him?’ I hear Clem ask eagerly in the background.
‘No, I just . . . I dunno. Kicked him in the shins. Elbowed him a bit. It was just an expression of . . .’
‘Your emotional turmoil?’ Zin sighs. ‘You know, sometimes people just lose their tempers and lash out. Sometimes it’s just people behaving badly.’
‘Are you saying I behaved badly?’ I’m almost speechless with indignation.
‘No,’ Zin says. ‘I think he deserved it. But sometimes you’re going to behave just like the rest of us, Stell. And that’s okay. You don’t need to live your best emotionally nuanced life all the time.’
‘Huh,’ I say, like I’m considering her words, because it would not be emotionally sophisticated to yell at her about how wrong she is.
If I crane my neck, I can just see Matthew Clarke coming out onto the verandah of the manager’s house, pulling a t-shirt off the washing line.
‘And Matthew Clarke swooped in and rescued you.’
‘He did not rescue me! I did not need rescuing. I am a strong, powerful woman.’
‘And you totally hooked up in Lee’s front yard until the police broke you up.’
‘No!’ I close my eyes. ‘There is so much wrong with every single thing you just said. Look – just stay there. I’m coming over.’