Mum taps me on the shoulder.

‘Sweetie,’ she whispers, ‘time to get up for school.’

I’m already awake, but I roll over and moan and stretch.

I open my eyes and Dr Patek is looking at me from the foot of the bed.

‘It was too much for you, Tom, and you upped and left,’ she explains.

‘I know,’ I answer.

‘Have you seen the Minnow?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘She’s beautiful.’

‘I think so too,’ I say. The room is still. I try to move but everything hurts.

‘Have you been out of bed yet?’ she asks.

‘I’m not sure. Everything is a bit of a blur.’

‘That’s okay, Tom, you’ve been through quite an ordeal.’ She is clasping a folder against her chest. She takes a step closer, so that she’s standing to the side of my bed. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ she says, alternately patting and smoothing the hospital blanket, ‘and I’ll talk to the nurse about getting you up and moving around.’

They’re keeping the Minnow under observation for another twenty-four hours. Papa is probably at the nursery, staring at her.

My curtains are closed but the room isn’t dark. I have no idea if it’s day or night. I should have asked Dr Patek the time. And the date.

The Minnow looks like Dad. She has his dark olive skin and his eyes. I’m glad about that. I didn’t want her to look like Bill.

Everyone says she has my mouth. I keep holding her up to the mirror and there it is: my mouth, in miniature. It’s weird seeing a feature you’re so familiar with on someone else.

We stayed at West Wrestler for most of January. Dr Patek wanted to make sure we were okay before we went home. There were a few complications. I’m not really sure what they were; it was just too much information. They tell you all this stuff when you’re half shot with pain killers and hooked up to a drip. God knows how you’re supposed to take it all in. But suffice to say we’re fine now. Suffice to say; don’t you love that? I got it from one of the tea ladies. Helen. Heavenly Helen, I called her. She had lots of quaint expressions. She fell in love with the Minnow and cried when we left. I promised to send her updates. I told her I would send a photo every month. I’m really hoping Nana buys me a camera.

Jonathan has done everything. I think I want to adopt him, but I don’t have the heart to tell Papa. ‘Jonathan, you’re amazing,’ I say, trying not to cry. He has filled my room at Jonah’s with baby stuff: a bassinette, a change table, a beautiful baby wardrobe.

‘Jonathan, you’re amazing,’ I repeat, this time with added emphasis.

‘It’s your grandmother,’ he says. ‘She wrote lists, and I just followed orders.’

‘Don’t be so modest, Jonathan Whiting. You’re the kindest man I know.’ I place the Minnow in her bassinette and give Jonathan a hug. I realise I haven’t hugged him before. You’ve got to hand it to the Minnow; she changes everything.

‘Oh my god!’ I shout as I realise the tiny cot that was Jonah’s old bed has morphed into a double. ‘Are you serious?’ I let go of the hug and leap onto the bed.

‘The bed was my idea,’ says Jonathan, looking a bit embarrassed.

‘Well, I think it’s an excellent choice,’ I say, mimicking Heavenly Helen, and Jonathan laughs.

‘Come on, Tom. Your grandmother will be counting the minutes.’

‘Oh, darling, bring her here,’ says Nana, arms outstretched, eyes focused on her grandchild. Nana is in bed. Ever since her stint in the nursing wing, she spends most mornings in bed, sometimes not rising till after lunch. She hated it at first, said it made her feel old. But it seems to be doing her good. She looks rested.

‘Oh, she’s beautiful,’ Nana says, cuddling the Minnow. ‘And the spitting image of your mother.’

‘Nana,’ I say, ‘she is nothing like Mum and you know it.’

‘But she has your mouth, and I’m sure you got that from my Angie.’

Nana is holding the Minnow so close to her face, it’s a wonder she can actually focus. ‘I’m so happy I could bust a gut,’ she says, pushing her nose into the Minnow’s neck. I’ve never seen Nana so happy.

‘Isn’t she just the most perfect child, Jono?’

‘Yes, Valerie, she most certainly is,’ says Jonathan.

‘I’m going outside for a bit, Nana. Can I leave her with you?’

‘Of course, darling, take as long as you like.’

I lean forward and kiss the Minnow’s forehead, then I kiss Nana’s cheek. As I move out of the way, Jonathan moves in and sits on the edge of the bed.

I find Papa on the veranda. I take the seat beside him.

‘She’s beautiful,’ says Papa.

‘The Minnow? Or are you talking about Nana?’

His face crumples. ‘I love her more than anything, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘I can’t let go.’

‘Then don’t,’ I say. ‘Anyway, what’s the point? There’s nowhere you’d rather be.’

Old Mrs Beakle shuffles past. ‘Hello, Seth,’ she says. She ignores me.

‘Poor old thing,’ says Papa.

‘Don’t change the subject.’

Papa takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly. For the first time I realise how strange it is to hear a dead man breathing.

‘Jonathan is a good man.’

‘He’s amazing,’ I agree. But I’ve said it a little too quickly and with way too much emphasis. An imaginary baby mobile has filled the space between us. Mini speech bubbles are bobbing on strings, filled with words to describe Jonathan: Amazing. Good. Clever. Thoughtful. Kind. Lovable. Alive.

I hope Papa can’t see it.

‘You know he can never replace you in my heart,’ I say.

‘Thanks, sport, but this isn’t about you and me.’

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.