Brayden finds a movie on one of the digital channels. It’s Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck in Armageddon. I watch till the part where Ben starts singing Leaving On A Jet Plane and I start crying. Twenty-six times I must have seen this movie and I still need a box of tissues to get me to the end.
‘You know Bruce saves the world, don’t you?’ Brayden says, as I blow my nose again. ‘It’s a Hollywood ending, Jenn. A big, beautiful, happy Hollywood ending. Don’t cry.’
‘Bruce dies.’
‘Yes, but Ben and Liv live happily ever after.’
‘And on that note, I’m going to bed.’ I swing my legs to the floor and stand straight.
We wish each other goodnight and I head for the shower, then bed, moving quietly so I don’t wake Seb. A couple of times I kick the portacot by accident. Once, I hear him stir. Carefully, I lean over the cot. His forehead is warm to my touch. The blanket is tangled around his legs. It’s not cold, so I drape the rug over the side of the cot.
Once I get horizontal, I’m not tired at all. When I close my eyes, burned rubber, wrecked metal, and triangles of splattered white bread haunt me.
I think about what Brayden’s told me. It’s a long time since my journalism days but I’ve written about murders, rapes, robberies, gang killings, hit and runs. What Brayden’s described doesn’t seem so bad on a scale of one to ten in road accidents. He wasn’t drunk or drugged, he wasn’t speeding. It doesn’t seem like there’ll be witnesses who might testify he was driving erratically.
I tick off the list in my brain, and feel hopeful.
He stayed at the scene. He rendered assistance.
But I’m biased, and Brayden isn’t the victim here. There’s another family hurting.
So I toss and turn, turn and toss.
Behind the wall at my head the exhaust fan starts in the bathroom. Soon afterwards there’s the spray of the shower, then the slide as Brayden juggles the glass screen shut.
Years ago I’d lie in this room, listening to Emmy breathing deep and even from the single bed beside me. Brayden would be in the shower, and I’d fall asleep wishing I could be a soap bubble, slipping across his chest, curling from his hip, gliding the length of his leg.
I wonder if Emmy knew — when we met in year nine at Karratha — that I wanted to be her best friend because I thought that would get me close to her brother. If she did, she never let on.
By the end of that first school term it didn’t matter, I loved Emmy too.
***
Sebby’s cries send me scrambling out from under the quilt. I can’t see a clock, but it feels way earlier than usual. Poor little man, I’ve shot his routine to pieces. He’s in another strange room, in another strange house. No wonder he’s mewling like a frightened puppy.
‘I’m here. It’s okay.’
When I pick him up, he burrows his head in my chest. Heat radiates through my cotton nightgown. ‘Shush, buddy. It’s okay.’
Sliding the door as quietly as I can, I step out into the kitchen. Brayden has left a light on above the old pull-out rangehood and it’s enough for me to navigate by without blinding me.
I sit Seb on the countertop and get my first real look at him. Sweat plasters his hair flat where he’s been laying, the rest of his curls spike in a Mohawk. His cheeks are twin dots of red fire.
It’s not milk he wants. I think we’ve got teeth trouble again.
‘It’s okay mate.’ Leaning close, I pat his polka-dotted back and kiss his curls, trying to think what to do next.
There’s a bottle of Baby Panadol in the nappy bag in my room — I never leave home without it. But I can’t put Seb down while I get it or he’ll scream blue murder.
What to do?
‘Do you need a hand, Jenn?’
I almost jump out of my skin.
Brayden’s shoulders fill the doorframe, his chest golden and bare. He’s pulled a pair of dark tracksuit pants on in a rush, they’re twisted at his waist, doubled over, right where the line of crisp hair arrows down his abdomen and disappears. Yeah. Right there.
Stop staring and speak. ‘I’m sorry, Bray. Did we wake you?’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Concern is etched deep on his face. ‘Is everything okay?’
I jerk my gaze away. Perhaps my brain will work better if I don’t look at his body.
‘I think he’s cutting a tooth.’
Brayden winces. ‘Sounds painful.’
Seb gapes around my arm to peer at Brayden and his face splits in a huge, six-tooth grin. I can’t help but laugh and as I do, the tension falls from my shoulders.
‘He doesn’t look like there’s too much wrong with him,’ Brayden says, coming closer.
‘I should patent you. You show up and he’s all smiles — it sucks actually. I’m the one who puts in all the hard parenting yards and you get the glory.’
Brayden reaches past me to tweak Seb on the nose. There’s a moment where his shoulder grazes my skin. ‘What’s up, mate? You look like you’ve wrestled a croc in your sleep.’
I smooth Seb’s Mohawk. Brayden straightens a bang of his fringe, and our knuckles brush.
In the soft light, he’s a glorious mountain of man, all smooth muscle and supple skin. He smells of soap, toothpaste and crisp summer sheets. I could inhale him forever.
‘Cupcakes, hey?’ he says, looking sideways at me, letting his gaze flick to my feet.
Mid-thigh — pink with a pattern of cupcakes — my nightwear isn’t X-rated but it does hug my post-baby curves. Thin straps hold it to my shoulders, and from Brayden’s height, he’s probably getting a great view of the cleft between my boobs.
I can’t help the flush that warms my skin. ‘Would you prefer icecream cones? I’ve got the option.’
‘Now there’s a choice.’
It’s the middle of the bloody night, Jenn. Get the Panadol and put Seb back to bed.
I clear my throat. ‘Would you mind waiting here with him so he doesn’t fall? I have some Panadol in the bag in my room. I’ll give him that, then his milk. It should do the trick.’
‘No problem.’ He puts his hand in place of mine around Seb’s waist.
I step back to give him space. ‘No talking to him, either. I keep things boring at night.’
‘Shoulda thought of that before you told me about the icecream cones.’
My giggle slips out before I can stop it. ‘I’m serious. No talking.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Crossing the room, I look over my shoulder. It’s an image I’ll never forget.
Brayden picks up Seb’s little fist and waves it at me.
‘You guys are too cute for me to be grumpy.’ I wave. I keep waving until I duck through the door into my bedroom.
Safe in the dark, my knees melt and I sit on the bed. Hot all over.
Breathe, Jenn.
I find the bottle of medicine in the nappy bag and shake it for a few seconds to let the liquid thicken, then put the bottle to my forehead and roll it, so the glass can cool my skin.
Deep between my thighs there’s a tripping, tugging pulse — a sensation I haven’t felt in forever — and it’s welcome as an old friend.
At last, I’ve got proof there’s life in my dodgy vagina yet.
Hallelujah.
But first, I’m a mum, and there’s a little boy who needs me.