The Minnow (20 page)

Okay. Glad that's sorted. Something like pain fills my chest.

‘Would it kill you to admit she's happy?' I ask.

‘Kill me. Very pithy.'

There's no listing for pithy in the mini-reference thesaurus. I can't say I'm surprised.

‘She knows you're here,' I continue, ignoring his tone, ‘and you know she loves you. She just can't stay
in
love with a dead man.'

‘Always on point, Tom.'

‘I'm sorry, Papa.'

‘It's okay, sport,' says Papa, but his words are empty.

Neither of us can think of what to say, so we sit in silence until we hear the Minnow cry.

‘Someone's hungry,' I say, getting to my feet. ‘And, by the way, here comes Betsy Groot.'

‘I'm going for a walk,' says Papa.

The faintest waft of honeysuckle gives Mum away. It hovers reassuringly around the bassinette. I'm certain the Minnow can see her. I catch her following someone with her eyes, and sometimes she giggles and pulls her knees up as though she is being tickled. I was sad at first. A few times I actually got angry, even jealous. But I don't worry about it anymore.

But it's hard.

I miss her.

‘I won't keep her out too late,' Annabel says to Jonah.

Annabel is taking me night snorkelling. I slip my hand in hers and we walk in silence, only the sound of the gravel in our ears. We reach the pier and a shiver runs along my spine. So much Bill stuff.

‘You're safe with me,' says Annabel.

I know I am. I have never felt so safe. And yet the fear grows.

‘I can take you back if you like,' she says, ‘we can try again tomorrow.'

This is about the hundredth time she has walked me here. I have never known anyone so patient. I begin to cry. She catches my tears in her hand and rubs them through her hair. It's the strangest thing.

Rumbly has taken to sleeping with the Minnow. I'm sure there are rules about guinea pigs in bed with babies, but they look so sweet together I don't have the heart to separate them. He always starts off with me, curled up in his beanie next to my pillow. But sometime between the two o'clock feed and dawn, he makes his way into the bassinette, and I usually find them snuggled together. Once they were spooning, although he is so little it looked more like a baby cuddling a soft toy. I really need a camera.

I can feel Jonah's impatience as I undo the chain and remove the little gold sinker. I realise it is no coincidence that it's heavy.

‘I wish it was just from me,' says Jonah.

‘Me, too,' I reply.

We're standing on the edge of the pontoon. Jonah has spent the day with me at Bill's boatshed, rummaging around. We didn't find anything of interest, but that wasn't the point.

‘What would I do without you?'

‘Oh, I don't know,' he says. ‘Get bored, drop out of school…I can keep going.'

‘Ha ha. Jonah the funny man. Who would have guessed?'

It is the last of the day. Tiny bits of light are flickering on the water. I give the sinker a gentle squeeze. I can feel it sitting in the middle of my palm, contemplating its fate.

‘C'mon Tom, I'm growing old.'

‘Sorry.' I reach down into the tinny for the FishMaster. I have a line prepared and I attach the little gold sinker just above the hook.

‘Cabbage or worm?'

‘Cabbage,' answers Jonah, handing me a small leafy blob.

‘Maybe we should row out,' I say, ‘so I can drop it gently overboard.'

‘Get in then,' says Jonah. ‘I'll row.'

We climb into the tinny, and Jonah takes us out into the middle. The sky is pink. A tiny breeze has picked up.

‘I love you, Jonah.'

‘I love you too, Tom. Now get on with it.'

I look over the side. It's a bit too dark to see any fish. I was kind of hoping to see Sarah. Then it hits me. I don't want to catch a fish with the Bill sinker; I just want to let it go. I grab the scaling knife.

‘What are you doing now?' asks Jonah, an edge of frustration in his voice.

‘Letting go,' I answer as I toss the little gold weight into Jessops Creek.

Annabel has
The Secret Language of Birthdays
: an enormous book that describes the characteristics of someone according to the day they were born. The Minnow, December twenty-sixth, is the Day of the Indomitable One. No kidding. I wish I'd known about this book when I was pregnant. I never would have doubted her prediction for a second.

‘Annabel is a Piscean,' I tell Jonah. I have borrowed the book, and it is taking up most of the available space on our kitchen table.

‘She is February twenty-sixth: the Day of Arousal.'

‘So?'

‘It says, “People born on this day have a great capacity to arouse others both emotionally and mentally.”'

‘So?'

‘Seriously, Jonah, don't you think it's uncanny?'

‘Only if yours is the Day of the Sucked-In Loser.'

‘Nup. All yours.'

‘I won't keep her out too late,' Annabel says to Jonah as we leave the house for the umpteenth time and walk through the dark to the inlet. The moon is almost full.

‘You're different,' she says.

She's right. Something has shifted.

‘I know. I can feel it too.'

‘We're still going to take it slow,' she says. ‘At any point you just tell me when you've had enough.' Annabel turns and leads me to the end of the pier. Then she hands me a snorkel and mask.

In my dream I stand on the end of the pier and, instead of diving in, I push off into the breeze and fly low over the water. My arms are out in front, palms together making a point, and every now and then my fingers skim the surface. Strangely, I'm travelling incredibly slow.

After the initial shock, the water is warm, amniotic. There's a rushing sensation as the air leaves my lungs and my skin takes over, extracting oxygen in a seamless motion. As I slip deeper into the dark, my eyes adjust.

The debris comes as a surprise. The creek floor is littered with wreckage. The closer I swim the more I recognise: a sign from the post office, a rusting rodent cage from Fielder's Pets and Supplies, an old tyre, a scooter.

My father's truck.

I glide closer. I try to open the door, but it is stuck fast. I swim around the other side, careful not to look through the windscreen. The passenger door is the same. The handle breaks off in my hand. I'm not sure what to do with it.

I realise there is nothing for me here.

‘You may never find out how they died,' says Papa.

‘Can't you tell me?' I plead.

‘Death doesn't give me access to the truth, Tom. You know that.'

‘But can't you go and check?'

‘It was a dream, Tom. You're asking me to search for a truck in a dream.'

‘Couldn't you try?'

‘No, Tom. I wouldn't know where to start.

Martha and I have volunteered to clear the boxes from the op shop shed. The Minnow is asleep in her pram, and I figure I've got at least two hours before she wakes. It's a warm sunny day, and Martha has dragged each box onto the lawn. We've actually got a system; we go through each box one at a time. Crap in one pile, things for the Minnow in another, saleable goods in the third. The Minnow pile is looking a bit healthy.

Clare arrives. I have never seen her outside the pet shop. She looks pretty. ‘Hi, Clare,' I say. ‘Clare, this is Martha. Martha, Clare.'

Martha stands up and holds out his hand.

‘Hi, Clare,' he says. ‘Please call me Will.'

‘Hi, Will,' she says, shaking his hand.

‘Will,' I say. It suits him.

‘Yes, Tom,' he says.

‘Please call me Holly,' I say. ‘But just for this afternoon. I want to see if it fits.'

I never saw Sarah again. But Papa says I probably did her a favour; that as hard as it was for her to find me, the pull to stay would have been enormous. Papa explained that even though he loves being here with Nana, it takes a lot of strength.

I thought about it, and I think I know what he means.

It's sad though. If I had known that was going to be it, I would have taken my time, dragged it out. I keep going over the conversation in my mind, trying to figure out what sent her away. Why would she swear and carry on as usual, then get all huffy and disappear just because I got impatient with her?

Papa says the disappearance thing might have taken her by surprise too, and that I shouldn't place so much emphasis on the actual events.

I'm so lucky to have Papa. Being dead gives him a completely different perspective.

‘Oscar,' I say. ‘Is that you?'

‘Wait right there,' he says, and he swims out of sight.

I have been night swimming a dozen times since that first time with Annabel. This evening I'm on my own. The days are cooling; you can feel autumn is just around the corner, but the water is still warm. I've brought the FishMaster with me and the plan is to have a quick dip then catch something for an early dinner. Jonah is at home minding the Minnow. He's besotted with her. You should see the two of them.

School starts in two days.

I'm really nervous. After the flood, I missed most of year nine and all of year ten. The kids from my old class will be going into year eleven, but I've had to sit an exam to assure the Board that I'm able to cope with year ten. Thanks to James Wo, I won't have to repeat year nine. But it'll be weird. I always felt sorry for kids who had to repeat a year, even though, technically, I'm not repeating.

Jonah is going into year twelve. He was always one year ahead of me, now he'll be two. He says I shouldn't worry so much, that I'll be fine. But it's Jonah who'll be fine. When I asked him how he planned on juggling school with a baby, he just shrugged and said, ‘Life is just one day at a time.'

Jonah is a machine. He can cook breakfast, have a conversation with me and rock the pram with his foot. He'll probably learn to burp the Minnow while he's studying. Me? I can't multitask. I have no idea how I'll cope.