Toby seems to know something’s different, come Monday morning. You hear him galloping towards your bedroom even earlier than normal, at the first hint of daylight. He explodes through the door, pulls himself up on the bed and throws himself on you, forcing out your breath with a sudden ‘OOF’ and poking you in the eye as he tries to peel back the lid. He demands his book and you murmur a recitation, eyes closed, as he lies beside you turning the pages.
‘Gain! Gain!’
‘Go ask your brother.’
As Toby thunders out of the room Finn rolls over with a sleepy sigh and tries to draw you close. You twist your head to look at the bedside clock. ‘Don’t go all soft and cuddly. It’s time to get up.’
‘I’m a steampunk, remember,’ he murmurs in your neck. ‘Our best time is night. Like vampires.’
He’s been a hobby artist too long. You wonder if he knows what he’s in for, having to work to a deadline. Like you’ve had to for years. Has he really got it in him? Tough love is the way to go, you reckon.
‘Oh no you don’t, mister. Four days, remember? So get up, get the coffee on and get going.’
You shove him. It has no measurable impact on his bulk, but he sighs and rolls the other way.
‘Cruel,’ he says, stretching. ‘Cruel and unusual punishment.’
‘Yeah, well this is the price of success, mate. Your wife has to get up an hour earlier and get the household organised and take Toby to some unknown babysitter and go to work late, and she’s not used to it. Did you hear me say “coffee”?’
‘OK, OK!’ He swings his legs over the side and swivels into a sitting position. ‘I’ll remember this moment in my prize acceptance speech. I’d like to thank my wife for her utterly stinting support.’
The sound of Toby’s raised voice echoes down the hallway and you judge that Jarrah too has run out of reading patience. You throw back the sheet and get up. In truth, it isn’t much earlier than usual for you, but Finn’s been making the family breakfast and packing lunches since forever. All you’ve had to do is eat and walk out the door.
Today it’s you who’ll do breakfast and lunches and drop Toby off at the one child-care provider in Murwillumbah who can squeeze him in for three days until you find something more permanent. You’ll take the fourth day off and stay home to make sure Finn finishes by Thursday, and then you’ll make longer term plans. You check the time and decide you can trade off a hot shower for a quick dip to wake you up.
The pool is limpid and cool in the early morning, the air melodic with butcherbird song. You step into the water, gasping, dive under, and swim a couple of laps. Rinse off under the outdoor shower, throw on pants and shirt, and make your way to the kitchen. Finn has coaxed the coffee from his beloved Atomic and he hands you a cup, short and strong and dark, and heads upstairs for a shower. Jarrah, dressed for school, is playing with Toby on the floor. They both look up at you expectantly, and for a weird moment you don’t know what to do. You’ve come to rely almost completely on Finn for household matters. A kind of domestic uselessness, more typical in men than women, has crept up on you.
‘Earthlings, for breakfast, eat what do you?’
‘It’s not rocket science, Mum.’ Jarrah stands, lifts Toby into the highchair, heads to the cupboard. He pulls out Weet-Bix, brown sugar, bowls; grabs a banana. ‘I’ll make his cereal. Then he likes toast soldiers with Vegemite. Can you do that?’
‘Manage it, I can. You, what about?’
‘Same as Toby. Without the soldiers. Just a straight cut across the middle. No diagonals.’
Is Jarrah teasing? You smile and try to relax a little. ‘And lunch?’
‘Dad normally makes me a sandwich. Cheese and ham or something.’
‘Right. It’s not just me who’s getting spoiled.’ You open the fridge. ‘And the bread is where?’
‘In the freezer, Mum. Keeps it fresh.’
‘Cut me some slack, Jarr.’
He rewards you with a little smile, for which you are grateful. As you construct a sandwich and the boys start eating – Toby spreading most of his food around the corners of the highchair – you realise you’re not exactly sure how Jarrah gets to school. You, the early starter, always leave the house first. Does Finn drive him? Does he get a bus? Perhaps he rides his bike. Perhaps it’s a mix of all three depending on the day, such as if he has sport on. He used to do athletics in Hobart but for some reason he didn’t take it up after the move. He plays soccer at school, you know that, or at least he did earlier in the year. Is the season still going?
Do you qualify as a neglectful mother for not knowing these things?
Finn clomps through the kitchen, kisses you goodbye, and heads outside. ‘Work hard, Steampunk,’ you call after him.
‘Need a lift?’ you ask casually as Jarrah puts his bowl in the dishwasher.
‘Nup.’ He heads towards the door, slinging his pack over his shoulder. ‘Bye.’
You turn. ‘Kiss?’
He comes back for a quick peck on the cheek. He smells teenage – something sweet like hair gel, and underneath it rank growing boy. Has he even showered?
‘Might want some deodorant.’ You smile to take the sting out.
‘Thanks a million, Mum.’
‘Better to hear it from me. Just duck back in and slap it on. Take you a second.’
He trudges back towards the bathroom and you bustle with the plates and Toby’s toast, feeling you’ve passed some kind of test. Proper mothers don’t let their sons go to school reeking, do they? You’ll get the hang of this. It’s not too hard.
You hear the bathroom door slam and he is through the kitchen and clomping down the steps into the garden. You hear the faint click-click-click of the bike as he wheels it out of the shed, then the clang of the garden gate. One mystery down.
‘Weed it,’ Toby says from the highchair.
You turn to him. ‘Not till you’ve eaten more toast, buster. And let’s get that cereal out of your hair, eh?’
You advance on him with a cloth. He squirms as you wipe, and then rewards you with a smile as you release him, and you can’t help but smile back with that familiar yet somehow amazing rush of love.
Where did this kid come from? He’s bigger than the sum of your parts, far more beautiful than any genetic combination of you and Finn should be. It isn’t just a mother speaking: you didn’t have this same feeling of disbelief about Jarrah. Maybe it’s because you waited so long and nearly gave up, but you swear there’s something special about Toby. Strangers stop you in the street, turn to watch him pass, melt when he smiles at them.
‘He’ll be a heartbreaker,’ someone said just last week.
You hope not. You don’t think Toby’s beauty is the cruel kind. Some essential goodness shines through. If that’s not just a mother speaking.
Perhaps it’s not a bad thing, Finn’s breakthrough. You’ve missed a lot of Toby’s childhood. If Finn really is succeeding, maybe you can cut back on work a little, work from home or something. You’ve done the career thing for years now. Maybe you need a change.
‘Weed it?’
You glance at your watch. There’s still the clearing up to do, and you need to eat something yourself and dress for work, then get Toby dressed and pack a bag for day care, and you know from the size of the bulging thing Finn organises to accompany you on every outing that it’s no minor thing. The morning minutes have galloped away. You’d planned to make Finn a quick egg and bacon roll, normally a weekend treat, but time’s running out.
You clean Toby again and lift him out of the chair. ‘Go get your book,’ you tell him, and he thunders into the hallway. You stack the dishwasher until a frustrated squeal echoes down the stairs. You run up, locate the worn copy of his book in Jarrah’s bedroom and carry Toby back down. You plop him on the ground, spread the book in front of him and turn back to the sink. You can recite the book in your sleep and he’s an old hand at turning the pages himself.
Finn’s strong coffee has done its work, and by the time the dishwasher is stacked you need your morning trip to the toilet. God, you’d forgotten how the simplest adult act – taking a shower or a shit – is hard with a toddler around.
‘Stay there, Toby, and I’ll read to you from the bathroom.’
‘Weed it gain.’
‘Yes, yes, OK,’ you say.
You leave him sitting in the sunlight on the floor – which needs a sweep, you mentally note – and raise your voice in recitation as you head down the hall and into the bathroom, leaving the door open.
The sun streams in the bathroom window, promising a hot day. You try to hurry, cursing the timing of your digestive system, calling the words in Toby’s direction.
You flush the toilet, drag your pants up, button them, wash your hands. Glance into the mirror. Unmade-up and hair drying like a bird’s nest. Is there time to drag a comb through it before teeth cleaning?
You pause the story. ‘Teeth time, Toby.’
You grab the electric toothbrush, smear it with paste, rev it up, run it over your teeth. Spit. ‘Toby?’
You flick the thing off. Lorikeets squabble raucously over the scarlet stems of flowers on the umbrella tree just outside the kitchen, masking any sound from him. He won’t sit for long with his story interrupted. You flick the toothbrush on again, quickly finish your teeth. Grab his toothbrush and load it.
‘Toby? Teeth time.’
No answer. You put the toothpaste down and walk towards the kitchen. The birds are still racketing outside, their shrieks loud in your ears as you walk down the hall. Around the corner in the kitchen, his book is lying alone on the floor in the pool of sunlight.
Your belly lurches.
The garden is fully fenced from the road, the pool fully fenced from the garden. That’s why you chose this place. He must have wandered outside or upstairs, that’s all.
‘Toby!’ The shrill note of your voice should bring him scurrying.
You push the screen door open, step onto the verandah. To your left, the pool gate is firmly shut, Finn’s contraption of cogs and gears motionless against the wall. You cross to the top of the short flight of steps leading down into the garden. With a corner of your mind you notice the day is glorious, the colours so vivid it almost hurts to look at them. The lorikeets streak away with a racket, leaving the softer birds to fill the air with melodic chimes and chattering. You take a deep breath to calm the pounding in your chest. Is Toby suddenly old enough to play a game of hiding?
You scan the garden. ‘TOBY! COME HERE NOW!’ You try to keep the anger out of your voice, anger that he is frightening you, anger that you didn’t put him just outside the bathroom door where you could see him.
He isn’t in the garden, unless his hiding skills have ratcheted up lately. He must be back inside. Now you’re running, back through the living room and up the stairs, calling his name. You reach the doorway to his room, but it’s empty and your chest pounds hard. Something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong. He’s too little to hide like this and you run from room to room, searching frantically, and through your bedroom window something makes you notice the blue sparkle of the pool, a blue that’s brighter than the colour of your son’s eyes.