We’re waiting to cross the coast road opposite the shack when Brayden suggests we get takeaway fish and chips for dinner.
The mother in me nags that Seb shouldn’t eat from a jar two nights in a row, but I ignore her. ‘Sounds good. Tomorrow night I’m cooking, though.’
Another car towing a caravan rolls past and I raise my voice so Brayden can hear me over the noise. I can’t believe how busy the road is, it’s usually so quiet. ‘I thought I left the metropolis behind.’
‘It’s Friday night, Jenn. People check-in at the Caravan Park for the weekend. It’s always busier than normal this time on a Friday.’
Eventually, we sneak on to the beach house lawn, getting across in front of an older-model Landcruiser with surfboards strung to the roof-rack.
Brayden says he’ll wash his car and Seb can help, so while they do that, I unpack our stuff. When the Pajero engine starts — the diesel engine roars like a truck — I flick the curtain on the rear bedroom and look out. Seb sits on Brayden’s lap in the driver’s seat with the hugest grin. Brayden reverses, easily avoiding my car, then straightens. Seb’s little hands grip the wheel and Brayden’s knuckles are parked either side.
Those two are getting on great. I’m not sure how that makes me feel. The part of me that’s loyal to Jack feels bad he’s missing out on such a great day. But how can I be anything but happy when my son is enjoying himself so much?
Whatever crap is going on in my life it shouldn’t impact Seb.
The shack trembles as I walk around in it, erecting the portacot, unpacking what I can into the wardrobe. Even my quietest footsteps make the house vibrate and as I put Seb’s baby cutlery and bottles in the kitchen, glass doors rattle in the sideboard.
Pushing the screen door open, I stand on the porch, watching the car wash in full swing. Well, that’s what I tell myself I’m focussed on. Brayden’s shoulders are pretty impressive. His forearms bunch and ripple as he swipes the sponge across the windows.
Water trickles from the hose in Seb’s hand, filling a yellow bucket that is more suds than liquid.
‘Spray the tyres, mate,’ Brayden says. ‘Get all the soap off.’
‘I’ll help him,’ I say, taking the end of the hose to create better pressure, holding Seb’s finger under mine. Together, we squirt the black metal then the rubber, rinsing the suds to the lawn. Seb squeals as water splashes the tyre and sprays his feet.
Brayden’s back is towards me. It’s impossible to resist.
Lifting the hose a fraction, I tamp my finger more forcefully to block the flow, making it spray in an arc. The gush slaps Brayden in the middle of his shoulder blades.
‘Hey!’ He whirls to face us, dripping suds and water from the sponge.
‘Sebby!’ I scold gently, as Brayden’s face accuses me.
‘Yeah, that’d be right. Blame the toddler.’
Seb watches both of us with huge eyes. Brayden raises the sponge, takes two steps towards me.
‘You’ll waste the water,’ I say, dodging away, but I’m laughing so hard, my feint is useless.
‘Are you sorry?’ he asks me, laughing as his arms suppress my struggles.
‘Yes I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ I say it in a rush, giggling so hard my stomach hurts, twisting away, but not before Brayden shoves the wet sponge down my shirt.
I squeal and arch my lower body away from his hand. That sponge is bloody cold. ‘That’s not fair. I only squirted you a tiny bit.’
He squeezes the sponge, making a river in the small of my back.
By this time, I’m breathing hard and shallow, acutely aware of his wet arms slick on mine. I’m hugged so tight, I can’t budge.
‘Do you give up?’ Brayden says.
‘Yes.’ More giggles. ‘I give up.’
And he lets me go. Slowly though, and his hand lingers in mine to the last: wrist, palm, fingertips — fresh air. He’s gone, and I tingle all over.
I park myself on the step while the car wash resumes.
When I first saw it a few hours ago I though the Pajero was brand new, but looking closer it’s not pristine. The dust hides scratches.
‘Do you go four-wheel driving much?’ I call across to where Brayden lifts the windscreen-wipers off the glass.
‘A bit. Not as much as I’d like to, but yeah, when I get down this way.’
‘Are the tracks open where we used to go? Those surf tracks Pope knew?’
‘Some are. I was on Juniper Road yesterday, fishing in the holes in the reef at Guillotines. Kilcarnup track is rougher.’ He taps the fender, ‘This would get in and out easy enough. We could do that too, if you want. Tomorrow?’
He lifts Seb up, hose and all, to let him squirt the windscreen.
‘Ten years ago I would have said yes in a flash, but these days I think twice about doing stuff that might mean I spend half a day digging a car out of a bog.’
‘You’ve gone soft.’ He lowers Seb to the grass, lays the wipers flat.
‘I’m a mother. I’m supposed to be responsible.’
‘So what did you and…’ he stops before he says Jack, and changes tack. ‘What have you been doing for kicks if golf is off the menu?’
‘Well, chasing after Sebby keeps me busy.’
Brayden dunks the sponge, starts cleaning the flying ants that have glued themselves to the headlights.
‘I have my work. I work Tuesdays writing for Blain & Barrow — that means I get to check out some of Perth’s most amazing properties. I catch up with Emmy. I love my garden. I’ve spent the last couple of years renovating a house…’ Put like that, it makes a reasonable list. ‘Anyway. What about you?’
I really want to know if he’s seeing anyone. Anyone special. If he is, Emmy hasn’t said. Certainly he didn’t baulk when he offered for me to stay at the beach house for the weekend. I know Brayden — he wouldn’t have asked if he thought it would upset a girl he cared about. A girl he loves.
He flicks me a glance. ‘Still working. My life is work and airports, I told you. Five weeks on, two weeks off. I’m still at Newman.’
‘Working too hard by the look of you. What’s this extended leave about? You look exhausted.’
It isn’t quite true. He did look exhausted when we got here but right now, he looks incredible, like the sea air is working some kind of magic.
‘They sent me home a week early. I had some shit to work out.’ He’s finished washing the car and he stands back to admire his effort, but his mood has changed. ‘This year’s my last year. I’ve got enough saved, made some smart investments, sold at the right time.’
He squirts the hose at the headlights and his mouth sets. ‘Eight years is long enough in the mines I reckon. FIFO is a young man’s game.’ Then he turns off the hose.
‘I’m going for a drive, Jenn, dry the water off. Won’t be long. I’ll pick up something for dinner while I’m out.’
‘Can I give you some money?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ll get it this time. Back soon.’
***
After he goes, things deteriorate.
The big day of travel, an afternoon at the beach and the car wash have caught up with Seb. All through dinner, he’s rubbing his knuckles in his eyes. Twice he snatches at the spoon as I’m trying to feed him and Lamb Rogan Josh slops over the tablecloth. Lucky it’s plastic.
The tap groans and wheezes as I run a bath. Water trickles rather than flows. It takes forever to get it ankle deep.
Seb screams because he doesn’t want to get undressed, screams because he doesn’t want to get in. After the fastest scrub on record, I pull the plug, and then he screams because he doesn’t want to get out.
He doesn’t want his teeth brushed — all six of them — and he doesn’t want to be dried.
In the end, all I can do is grit my teeth. ‘You, little mate, are doing my head in.’
He’s lucky he’s cute.
Carrying him into the lounge, I give him my mobile phone to play with while I put on his nappy and pyjamas. I’m wrestling him into his sleeping bag when I hear Brayden’s car rumble up the driveway.
The house shudders as he climbs the rear steps, and then I’m drawn to the kitchen by the smell of fresh fish and chips.
‘Knives and forks or fingers?’ He asks.
‘Fingers.’
He lays the food — swaddled in butcher’s paper — on the table and I pull up a seat. We eat straight from the paper.
He’s bought tubs of tartare sauce and vinegar sachets. I squeeze lemon juice over my fish and vinegar over the portion of chips I squirrel to my side of the paper.
‘You still know how to ruin the perfect chip,’ he says.
‘Chips soggy. Tea strong. Toast soft. Cereal crunchy.’
‘Yeah, don’t worry, I remember.’ He shakes his head at me while he’s crunching.
Seb waddles through the doorway in his polka-dot sleeping bag.
I take another bite of the fish and get up to hunt for his bottle. The second I put it on the counter Seb spies it, holds up his hands, and lets out a wail.
In our microwave at Jack’s place, thirty seconds would heat 200mls perfectly. Here it doesn’t touch the sides, so I punch up a minute and steal a few more bites of fish before the timer beeps. This time, when I screw the teat and lid on the bottle and shake it, it’s so hot, milk spurts in an unbroken stream.
Seb cries louder.
‘The milk’s too hot, Seb.’ Opening the freezer, I shove the bottle against a packet of frozen peas, and slam the door. When Sebby sees his bottle disappear he flops flat on his back on the floor, kicking his legs like an Olympic swimmer.
‘He’s not normally like this,’ I apologise to Brayden who’s watching Seb’s melt-down with a blank face. ‘He’s over-tired. Don’t let your dinner go cold.’
I peel Seb from the carpet, and we walk. Round and round the kitchen counter.
Hush. Bounce. Shush. Rock.
Jack hates it when Seb cries. Usually he leaves the room. Sometimes he leaves the house.
Brayden hasn’t moved.
He has a chip in his hand and he stands, intercepts me as I’m about to circumnavigate the kitchen again. He offers Seb the hot chip.
‘Brayden, I just cleaned his teeth — ’
And I swallow my protest because Seb stops crying. He’s studying the sliver of crunchy potato chip very, very seriously. Then he puts it in his mouth.
Brayden takes Seb from my arms, and I feel a big sack of potatoes lighter.
Leaning back to pick up another chip or two and a piece of fish from the paper, he carries the food and my boy into the lounge. I hear him mutter, ‘I’d cry too, mate, if my mum made me wear purple polka-dots.’
I stand there when he’s gone, gripping the laminated edge of the kitchen countertop. The stress of the last few days threatens to bring me undone.
All it took was a bloody chip. Why don’t I know that by now? How does a total stranger know how to handle my boy better than me?
Seb likes Brayden better than he likes me.
I’m a terrible mother.
I’m a lousy girlfriend.
I can’t even have sex.
From the lounge, the sugary voice of a newsreader informs me sunrise will be at 5.22am, winds will be light westerlies, with a moderate swell. Fire danger is high.
I count slowly to ten.
Life goes on. Life goes on. Just keep swimming.
I take Seb’s bottle from the freezer and shake it. The glass is cool. I tip some milk on my wrist. Warm, but not hot.
‘Do you want to deliver His Majesty in here for me?’ I call out to the lounge. There’s a quiver in my voice but I think I’ve hidden most of it.
‘You’re up, mate.’ Brayden appears in the doorway, filling its frame, my son in his arms.
Seb’s hair is tousled, cheeks rosy, and he’s grinning — a huge, big, beautiful grin. He holds out his arms for me (and his milk), snuggles into my chest and makes my heart melt.
***
‘Thank God for that.’ I slump into one of the lounge chairs. Nothing short of an earthquake will get me on my feet again tonight.
It’s taken the bottle of milk and a back-patting marathon, but Seb is officially in bed for the night. The peace is so beautiful someone should paint it.
‘I’m impressed you’re still here,’ I tell Brayden. He’s in the single-seat club chair with his legs sprawled before him. Those legs almost take up half the lounge. ‘Most blokes would’ve booked a room at the pub by now.’
‘Tried that, it’s full. Holiday season, you know.’
I ping a cushion at him and he bats it away with his hand. ‘He’s a kid, Jenn. Kids cry. I put your fish in the oven. I wasn’t sure if you’d still be hungry.’
My legs twitch out straight to stand but he says, ‘You stay there, I’ll get it.’
‘You’re my hero. Thanks.’
Brayden heads for the kitchen. The oven door opens and closes, then the fridge door. A minute later he’s back. He has two glistening-cold bottles of Corona in one hand and what’s left of the fish plus a handful of chips on a plate in the other.
‘With a lemon wedge no less,’ I tease, taking one of the beers, then the fish. I poke the fruit with my finger so it falls through the neck of the bottle.
‘Sorry if it’s a bit dried out, I wasn’t sure how long you’d be.’ He clinks his bottle with mine, then sits.
That slurp of cold Corona over salty fish and chips is heaven in my throat. ‘I’m sorry about all that before. It’s been a long day. Kids are hopeless when they’re over-tired.’
He waves the apology away. ‘You’re doing an amazing job. He’s a great little boy.’
I shake my head. ‘Last night we were at Emmy’s. Tonight we’re in another strange place. Poor little bloke, his head must be spinning.’
‘Kids are resilient.’ He cracks a crooked smile. ‘That’s what Mum used to tell me when we had those foster kids staying with us. Some of them were really messed up. They had parents who were drug addicts and couldn’t cope with a child. There were kids from broken families and kids whose parents had gambled away the family home.’
I nod — what he says makes sense — but I wish I could regain the freedom I felt this morning when the sun shone in my car window and Cottesloe Beach sparkled. I thought I was right to take Seb away from Jack, away from everything he knows. Now, with the light fading outside, doubts smother me.
Sebby should be in his own bed, with his own toys. There’s his grandmother, too. I wonder if Jack’s told Amber I’ve gone. I bet if he hasn’t spoken with a lawyer yet, she has.
My parents never left Karratha. My sister has been in Melbourne since she finished her science degree. We’re a far-flung family and though any one of us would be there in a flash if we were needed, distance keeps us distant.
‘You’re not sure if you’ve done the right thing, are you?’ Brayden says, meeting my eyes.
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. ‘Yes. No.’ I wave the Corona bottle at him. ‘I don’t know. God, Brayden, taking him away from his father has got to be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.’
I fold the chips into the centre of the paper — I can’t chew them, they taste like rubber.
‘The best thing for any kid, surely, is for his mother to be happy,’ Brayden says.
‘Maybe, but I feel like crap right now.’
‘Give it time. Sleep on it. You don’t have to decide anything tonight.’
He hasn’t pulled the blinds. The porch light is on and insects dive-bomb the globe outside. Brayden turns off the television, which means the only light in the lounge comes from outside, and from the glow spilling from the kitchen.
I’m watching the bugs when my mobile phone shudders to life on the coffee table. I’m sure it’s Jack, and the thought of him on the end of the line leaves me cold.
‘If that’s Emmy, I’m not here,’ Brayden warns before I can say anything.
It surprises me. I don’t know why it’s such a secret that he’s here.
I stretch for the phone, pick it up and check the caller ID. Nathan Blain.
‘It’s my boss.’ I accept the call.
‘Jennifer,’ booms the bass voice. I’ve never been able to get Nathan to call me Jenn. ‘I’m sorry about interrupting your Friday night. Have you got a minute?’
‘Sure, Nathan, go ahead.’
‘I got your message that you would be in Busselton for a few days? Are you there now?’
‘Yes. We got here this afternoon.’
‘Good. I was talking with Kennett Pickering today — he’s the Principal at our Dunsborough branch — and he mentioned one of his sales guys is trying to get a new listing but the sellers are playing hard ball. I said to Kennett that you were holidaying in Busselton, and I said we might be able to get you along to the property while you’re there.
‘The agent is Carl Barron, and I told Kennett that if you went to the property with Carl to work up the marketing words — you know, so he can tell the sellers if they list with Blain & Barrow they get a professional freelance journalist on the job — it might get him the listing. Dunsborough branch would pay you the same rate as we do.’
This all comes out in a persuasive salesperson rush and finishes when Nathan says, almost apologetically, ‘I hope you don’t mind my putting your name forward?’
‘No, I don’t mind.’ I look at my watch which is crazy, because it’s too dark to see the clock face. ‘I’d be happy to do it. How do you want me to work it from here?’
He says he’ll text me Carl Barron’s mobile number and I should call Carl in the morning to set up a time. Then he wishes me a good weekend and a happy holiday, and hangs up.
I look at Brayden, a bit stunned. ‘I have a job tomorrow in Dunsborough.’
‘Yeah? Who with?’
‘The Dunsborough branch of Blain & Barrow.’
Brayden takes a slug of Corona, rubs his beard. ‘Do you think there’s an opening for the kind of work you do here? Every second shop in Busselton is a real estate agent.’
I think for a moment. ‘Maybe. Somebody’s probably already doing it. There aren’t many new ideas in the world anymore.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve got a foot in the door. You know the real estate business.’
‘Maybe,’ I say again. ‘But don’t worry about that now. I want to know why you being here is so top secret that I can’t tell Emmy?’
His gaze skips away. In the next second he picks up the TV remote and starts flicking through channels. It’s really not like Brayden to be evasive — he’s usually an open book.
The hairs on my neck stand.
He channel surfs again, and worse-case scenarios clatter in my head.
He’s sick. He’s got cancer.
‘Brayden? You’re scaring me.’
Giving up on the television, he flicks it off, tosses the remote to the seat. ‘You promise not to say anything to Em?’
‘Promise.’
His eyes lock with mine. ‘There was an accident at the mine last week.’
‘What kind of accident?’ My heart skips a beat. Someone got buried alive? A colleague lost a leg? But Brayden’s sitting there large as life, he looks fine. My heart beats again. ‘But you’re okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ He crosses his legs at the ankle and draws them slowly across the carpet until his heels hit the base of his chair. ‘I’m fine. But I might have killed someone.’