‘The first letter that Kelly sent Stella. When was it?’
‘I don’t know, Taylor.’
‘You do too,’ Taylor says crossly. ‘When was it?’
‘I really can’t remember.’
‘Four,’ says Taylor.
‘What?’
‘How old was she when she had Stella?’
‘Young.’
‘Stella was four, right?’
‘I’m going back out,’ Mum says, shaking her head.
‘Well, it’s obviously been going on for long enough for you to feel really guilty,’ Taylor calls after her. ‘Five? Three?’
‘Six, okay? She was six!’ Mum yells from the annex.
‘No need to yell,’ Taylor says, smiling. ‘There you have it – over a decade of silence. My letters would probably be pretty short by now, too.’
‘I guess so.’ I close my eyes. Six! I imagine what things would’ve been like if I’d opened the letter then, if Mum hadn’t secreted them all away. I wouldn’t have realised what a big deal they were if I’d opened them when I was that young. They would have just been like anything else; part of the unremarkable fabric that made up the rest of my life. I feel a tremble of anger run through me. She’d really had no right to do that. Particularly not once I got older.
‘Kelly must really want to know you,’ says Taylor. ‘To keep writing. Don’t think I would. I would’ve written you off as a lost cause years ago.’
I bundle my knees up under my chin and stare at the letter, which is written in very neat handwriting, her name signed without flourish.
‘A lot of people wouldn’t write at all, I don’t reckon. You’re lucky, KJ,’ Taylor says with a sigh.
‘Stop calling me that!’ I stalk out into the living area, where Mum smiles at me tentatively from the wicker couch, where she’s watching the Christmas movie marathon.
‘I heard paper ripping earlier. Have you opened the letters?’
I cross my arms, not ready to tell her that I’ve opened every single one. ‘Why does everyone keep hassling me about them?’
‘You don’t have to open them,’ Mum says quickly. ‘In fact, I can keep them for you. Until you’re ready.’
I frown. ‘No.’
‘Alright.’
‘And I’m probably going to try to meet her.’
Mum’s breath catches. For a moment, she’s absolutely still with her head bowed down. She takes a deep breath and then snaps back into action, her voice too high and fast. ‘I wouldn’t worry about anything like that just yet. It’s a big thing for anyone to do. And you’re seventeen and it’s brand-new news.’
‘I can do it.’
‘You don’t have to do any of this if you don’t want to.’
‘I know. But I need to. I’ll always wonder, otherwise.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ She brushes my hair from my face and I let her. ‘It’s all such bad timing.’
‘I know.’
‘Are . . .’
‘What?’
‘Are you going to tell her? About living here?’ There’s an edge of worry in her voice that I don’t understand.
‘I don’t know.’ I pause. ‘I’ll have to have a good think about it. If it feels right, I will.’
Mum squeezes my hand. ‘It probably won’t come up,’ she says. ‘Probably no need to say anything about Fairyland.’
I can see Taylor watching from the bedroom. It’s strange if you think about it. It’s like Mum and I share something that Taylor’s completely excluded from. And a part of me is glad – I need it. This closeness. This attention. But the other part of me just feels sad. Things will never be the way they were. There’ll be shifts in power, now. Tiny little quakes that ripple through our family.
‘Does Dad know about the letters?’ I ask.
Mum shakes her head. ‘I haven’t told him.’
My parents used to tell each other everything. When I was young, I’d thought they could communicate without words. Mind to mind. Taylor and I practised, but it always ended with her getting impatient and knocking me down.
‘Do you want me to tell him?’ Mum finally asks.
‘I don’t know!’
I’ve been so preoccupied with Kelly and Mum that I’ve forgotten about Dad. Reaching up for my necklace, I give the charm a squeeze as I suddenly think about my biological father. Who is he? And does he know about me?
***
Dad walks to the vet each day to visit Jube. He’s been researching snakes on the laptop, things about anti-venom and recovery rates. ‘It’s lucky I found him when I did,’ Dad says. ‘It’s really lucky.’
‘You did good, love,’ Mum says and squeezes his shoulder.
‘He can stay here,’ Dad says. ‘If he needs to. When the vet thinks he’s ready to leave.’
‘Thought you hated dogs,’ says Taylor without looking up at him.
I grit my teeth, wondering how she doesn’t get it. It isn’t about Jube. Not really. Or maybe she does get it and just doesn’t care. With Taylor, it’s always impossible to tell.
***
That night, there is the sound of yelling and things thudding and I think of ignoring it, but I don’t. I think of all the kids racing around on their bikes and playing in the pool and how the place changes at night. All places do, I suppose.
I go outside to see if there’s anything I can do to help. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. But there’s nothing to do. Except to listen, except to be awake and ready, just in case.
Eventually, I go back inside to bed. Next to me, Taylor mumbles about Adam and the moon and Christmas elves, and I can hear Mum snoring in the next room. I suppose I’ll start sleeping through it, but I hope that doesn’t happen. The sound of Fairyland in chaos; in conflict. Sooner or later, it’ll just be what home sounds like.
***
The feeling of the phone against my ear makes me feel nauseous. I close my eyes, imagining myself far away. I focus on the sound of the river. The trees nearby. Even the sound of those that are distant. I focus on my breathing. On counting each breath as it leaves my lungs.
Then I see Clem walking down the road, being followed by a sparklingly clean ute with a nervous driver inside the locked cab. I end the call, my heart thudding.
‘Clem? What the hell?’
‘I ordered you guys fruit trees!’ he says, pointing at the tray of the ute. There’s a forest of trees swaying as the ute makes its way over the rutted gravel.
‘What’s all this?’ Taylor asks, coming out of the annex. ‘Plants? Did Clem get us plants?’
Trisha comes out of her cabin, looking dazed. ‘Are those . . . peaches?’
‘Clem, you can’t just . . .’
‘Can’t what? Where do you want them?’
‘Anywhere,’ Trisha says. ‘Oh, wait until Richard sees this! He’s going to lose his—’
‘Clem!’ I say. ‘You can’t just do this!’
‘Do what?’
‘Just . . . this!’
‘What’s wrong with it? I used the birthday money from my parents that you wouldn’t take.’ He stares at me. ‘I thought you’d like it.’