‘You’ll be needing some clothes,’ he says. ‘I’ve left a few bits and pieces on the bed in there. Stuff I got from the op shop at the church. Took a punt on your size.’
I hadn’t really given much thought to what I’d need when I got out. All the basics were taken care of in Croxley. You got what you were given, and that went for the company as well. Boys would come and boys would go, and each new day would be slightly different from the one before.
‘So, how does this work, then?’ I say.
Mick swallows a mouthful of Korma.
‘How does what work?’
‘This,’ I say. ‘You and me. Us. Everything.’
‘Well, we take it a day at a time, I s’pose. Work it out as we go along. That’s if you hang around, of course.’
I’m not sure why I didn’t notice it when I first arrived or if it was even there, but when I turn my head slightly I see a photo of two teenagers on the side table. The girl’s hair is wet. She’s wearing a bikini and she’s sitting on the jetty, smiling, with her arm around the boy. Their blue eyes are happy. It takes a moment to sink in but, when it does, I’m shocked. It’s my mum and Mick.
I’m not ready to see her like that, here, in this place, so I look away. I look down at my food but I can feel her pulling me back, like she’s wanting me to look. I raise my head up and my eyes find her freckled face and lock onto it. I try to smile back. I try to miss her and remember what was good, but that familiar ache is there, the one that comes with knowing she’s gone, the one that comes with knowing I’ll never see her again. It’s anger and guilt, a whole lot of stuff rolled into one, and I feel the ache rise up in my throat. I place my knife and fork down and push my plastic tray forward.
‘I’m not feeling good,’ I say.
Mick leans forward a little and eyes my food suspiciously.
‘Is it okay if I sleep in the boathouse?’ I ask.
Mick looks up. He seems surprised.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘It’s just … you reminded me of your mum, just then.’
‘My mum?’
‘When she was little, I mean. She was always asking if she could sleep in the boathouse. Can I, can I, can I? God, she used to drive everyone mad. Even when Dad said no, she’d sneak out her bedroom window and we’d –’
‘Don’t,’ I say.
Mick looks up. ‘Don’t what?’ he says.
‘Don’t talk about her like you knew her.’
‘I did know her.’
I’m surprised at how quickly the anger comes back. I force myself to look at him, at the stranger in front of me, and I think about my mum, about everything she endured.
‘Really?’ I say. ‘What night did she have book club, then?’
Mick looks at me blankly.
‘No? Okay, what was her best friend’s name?’
‘Nate, come on.’
‘No, no … How many shifts a week did she do at the hospital, Mick? What was her favourite drink? Where did she hide our leftover money? Where did she take me when he got pissed and started lashing out? You didn’t fucking know her. You didn’t know anything about her. And you didn’t know me either. It’s easy to call yourself an uncle, but calling yourself an uncle doesn’t make you one.’
Mick’s not smiling anymore. His eyes shift away to something behind me.
‘You’ll need some blankets,’ he says. ‘There’s some in the cupboard, just there. I think there’s a torch as well. And mozzie spray.’
I’m not sure I can do this with Mick. I grew up not knowing anything about him. Had I bumped into him on the street, I wouldn’t have even known who he was. Seeing him in the photo with Mum, seeing them together, has changed things, made things real. And I’m not sure what to make of that.
I get slowly to my feet and push the chair back in under the table. I stand there for a moment and try to think of something to say. But there’s nothing to say. Not tonight, anyway.
I grab my backpack and the bag of clothes and head down the gentle slope towards the river again. Barry comes with me and seems excited by the change in his evening routine. I don’t need the torch on my walk down. The moon is full and its milky light is enough to guide me to the boathouse.
When I get there, I open up the double doors. I push them out as wide as they’ll go, then step inside and set things up. It only takes a few minutes. I lie down on the bed and when I rest my head against the musty pillow, Barry comes over and wants to know what’s going on.
‘Goodnight, Barry,’ I say. ‘You can go now.’
But Barry doesn’t go. He trots over to the double doors, then drops himself down and gazes out into the night. I look out too. I look up at the sky and all I can see are stars, millions of glittering stars. I’ve never seen so many. I lie there, quiet and still, and I start to hear noises in the night. I hear the rustle of leaves and the kissing sound the boat makes with its gentle bobbing in the water.
I reach for my backpack and pull out my mum’s copy of The Old Man and the Sea. I don’t know why I chose to keep the book and nothing else. I don’t even know if Mum liked it, but it was in her handbag the day of the accident, the day she died. Knowing she was reading it made it special.
I open the book and see her name written on the first page. I sink my head into the pillow, rest the book on my chest and look out at the stars again.
I pick one out, a bright and twinkling star on its own, away from the others. I take a deep breath and taste the cool of the river in my mouth. I fill my lungs with it again and I wonder if my mum lay on this very bed and did the same thing. I let myself think of her and for a moment it’s the two of us, together, like it was before.
SIX
I don’t know where I am when I open my eyes. I wake up hard against a wall and when I roll onto my back, things aren’t where they should be. The silver toilet in the corner, the sink and tap and the white kettle are gone. Instead I see a canoe and a paddle board and a strange-looking boy standing in the doorway with a dog by his side.
‘What the fuck?’
When I sit up, the boy takes a step back.
‘You sweared,’ he says.
He’s a scruffy-looking kid, about eight years old, with fair skin, crazy hair and darting eyes. My senses are dull, still foggy with sleep, so I wipe my eyes and see he’s holding something in his right hand.
‘Have you been going through my shit?’ I say.
‘You sweared again,’ says the boy.
‘Yeah, and I’ll keep swearing too. That’s my book.’
‘It was on the ground,’ says the boy. ‘I was only looking.’
‘Yeah, well don’t. It’s my stuff. It’s private.’
At least I’m wearing boxer shorts. After slinging the blankets off, I haul myself up, walk over to the boy and snatch my mum’s book from his hand. I toss it back onto the bed and start rifling through the bag of clothes. There’s not a lot to choose from so I decide on a pair of faded denim jeans and a black Billabong t-shirt. I’m not sure surfing gear is my thing but, for an older bloke, Mick’s done surprisingly well at the church store and it feels good to be out of my old clothes. There’s even a twenty-dollar note in an envelope that has my name on it.