20.

I’m wrapped in a thin duvet that smells like lilies and lavender. Half-pulling and half-shoving, they manage to drag me up a storm ladder, somewhere past the rhododendron gardens. I’m stumbling across the grass, almost pushed up the crooked paths, completely blind under the duvet. Even when we enter the house they leave the bedcover on, until my feet feel a thick rug and Stella’s mum says, ‘Sit here’.

I bend down and my hands grab soft fabric. For a second I want to stay under here, a place without Stella’s mum, Celeste or the sun. And then, someone pulls off the duvet.

When I look up from the floor, everything’s dark. Closed blinds block out daylight and I’m staring at a worn couch, books and random shoes, scattered across the floor. I smell wood polish and sugar wrapped in dust — someone’s dropped lollies behind the couch. Stella’s mum sighs. My head follows her direction and I’m gazing at grass-stained sneakers, wet clover clinging to plastic soles. Looking up, I realise they’re attached to her feet.

She drops onto her sofa. Staring at me, she shakes her head. ‘If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would never believe it. A stone boy.’

Pulling myself off the ground, I move backwards, putting the coffee table between us. Connor bounces on a leather seat, rocking it backwards and forwards with his body, chanting, ‘I told you so, I told you so …’

A phrase I’ve heard again and again, from underneath the duvet.

Connor’s mother frowns, looking at his wet clothes and the graze on Stella’s arm. ‘We need to get that sorted.’ Her eyes move back to me. ‘Well? Who are you?’

‘I’m Seth.’ I look at her face, lines running between her eyes like the pages of a closed book. ‘What’s your name?’

She blinks, but only once. ‘I’m Mrs Walker.’ She folds her arms. ‘And?’

‘And what?’

She lets out a short breath like I’m trying to be difficult, but I don’t know where to start. ‘And what are you?’

I can’t answer, the words scramble inside my head. I just shrug. Stella doesn’t say a word, either.

Mrs Walker fixes me with a stare, like she’s trying to see into my head. ‘Did you … is it true you saved Stella and Connor from that thing in the river?’

She doesn’t give Celeste a name, because she doesn’t understand what she’s seen. I nod, but my eyes are on Stella and she takes the hint.

‘Mum,’ interrupts Stella, ‘you can’t say anything in front of Seth, okay?’

She blinks. ‘Excuse me?’

I step towards Stella, about to suggest they talk somewhere else, when Mrs Walker flinches. ‘Stay where you are.’

I stop in my tracks, one foot in front of the other. I don’t want to scare her. She could call the police, a news crew … anyone. I’m stuck in this living room, at her mercy.

Mrs Walker folds her arms. ‘Stella, tell me everything.’ She frowns and pulls her shoulders back, tilting her chin up. It’s an assertive move. I don’t think she likes knowing less than her daughter.

‘You don’t get it, I can’t. Not while he’s listening.’ Patting her hair again, Stella’s hand unconsciously searches for the missing hair clip. The real Stella is back and she likes everything under control, including her curls. ‘Seth, do you mind?’

I shake my head. Stella grabs her mother’s hand. ‘Look, he’ll wait here. We’ll go down the end of the house where Seth can’t hear us. I’ll turn the telly up, just to be sure. He’s got ears like an elephant.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll explain everything. I promise.’

‘You’ve got two minutes.’ Mrs Walker stands up and then turns, looking at me. ‘As for you …’ She looks unsure of what to say, twisting her fingers together like she’s trying to wring words from her knuckles. ‘You look so … young. Do you need anything? Maybe something to eat?’

I almost laugh.

Stella grabs her mother’s arm. ‘Mum, I need to talk to you, right now. He can wait five minutes, okay?’

‘I guess so.’ She nods at Connor. ‘But you’re coming with us. We’ll find you a dry T-shirt and pants.’

‘Awww, Mum. I wanted to stay …’

‘No, don’t argue. Stella, grab the first aid kit from under my bed. We’ll need to patch Connor up.’

Mrs Walker grips Connor’s hand as she pulls him from the room. Stella waits, stopping in the doorway to look back at me. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘She’ll let you stay here until dark.’

‘And then what?’

‘I don’t know. We’ll think of something.’ But her words sound light and empty, they don’t convince either of us. Stella bites her lip, then walks across the room and flicks on the telly. ‘I’ll be back in a second.’

I watch her go, wondering. How can it be okay? We can’t even stay in the same room. Everything inside me felt empty, but now it’s twisting. Knowing we won’t stay friends hurts, but not as bad as knowing my memories of her will fade. Soon I won’t care about anything. Not even her.

I’m staring at a woman who’s trying to sell me a machine that slices and dices avocados in fifteen ways. Noises echo around the edge of her high-pitched chatter; Stella’s murmuring and my stomach turns over trying not to imagine her words or Mrs Walker’s face. There’s also the swishing hum of a dishwasher, creaking floorboards growing louder and … floorboards?

Who’s there?

I jump off the sofa, ready to run. Feet creep up the hallway towards me, in the opposite direction from Stella and her mum, too heavy to be Connor’s footsteps. Who would look for me, here?

The living room door inches open. Where can I hide? My heart slams into my chest and then, falls back as a face looms around the corner. It’s Stella’s grandfather leaning on the door, wide-eyed and confused. He must’ve wandered away from his bedroom, forgotten in all the fuss.

Neither of us speak. Raising one hand, he scrubs his lips and mutters, ‘The man comes on Tuesdays.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘He’s coming to lay mulch on the gardens. I need to talk him through it, but I can’t find my gumboots.’

I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say.

Licking his dry mouth, he says, ‘I — I’ve got to get dressed, but they’ve hidden my clothes.’ He leans forward, still holding onto the door. ‘You know, I can’t go outside without my hat.’

‘Um, okay.’

He nods like we understand each other, but his wild eyes search every corner of the room. It’s weird, I don’t feel guilty about him like I did an hour ago. But I don’t feel right, either. My memories of the last few days haven’t left, and with them stays the uneasy feeling I’ve done something wrong.

Staring at the man’s confused eyes, I shake my head. He says, ‘I’ll make a run for it, you distract them … wait, is it time for tea? I’m parched. Where’s the kettle?’

‘Um, your family will be back in a second.’

He frowns, shuffling forward. ‘Are you making the tea?’

‘Uh, sure.’ I look back at the door. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

Stupid question. The man’s frown deepens, but he shuffles a few steps into the room and lowers himself onto the couch, his mouth opening and closing in a silent conversation. Of course he doesn’t know me, but I remember how shame burnt my insides like swallowed sunlight, and I say —

‘Look, Mr Walker, I need to tell you something. You’re not going to like it.’

‘You’ll need the kettle. I don’t like sugar.’

‘I took your memories away.’

‘Have we got biscuits?’

Can I do this? Will it work a second time? I stare past him at the wooden door where several worn flax bags hang off the handle. Along the walls run wooden shelves loaded with fading board games, books with broken spines and odd shaped containers full of pens and coins. It’s a real home, not a plinth under a bridge. Not an empty park.

I need to give this man back his family.

‘Um, I remember not liking myself. That memory makes me not like myself, now. It won’t last, so I need to fix things while I still can. Okay?’

He doesn’t answer, just stares and opens his mouth like he’s swallowing handfuls of air.

I did this to him. And then, because I cared and those memories press against my chest like hands, and because I like the way Stella’s hair curls in the rain and the bluntness of her voice, I say —

‘One time, right at the end of a cyclone, you were putting up a fence on the northern border. One of the under-gardeners came up to you and said the hospital had called. Your wife was having the baby …’

And it starts, his past flashing in this room of dead trees and woven flax. His memories pour over my sides, flooding from my mouth and washing everything away. My mistakes, lies and his past.

Soon I’ll be empty. Soon I won’t care. But not yet.