Chapter 26
the twenty sixth chapter
MARCO
It’s so much harder than I expected to end the call with Beth. She’s been my safe haven for more than a decade now.
Seeing that restaurant entrance, walking past the park bench where I once sat, has stirred memories long forgotten. But having Amos here with me is comforting beyond words.
When he walks beside me, my past and present overlap.
And as we drive away, I feel a magnetic pull back toward Longreach.
As though a harness is wrapping around me, begging me not to turn onto route seventy nine.
The narrow road unspools ahead of us in a thin ribbon of grey.
It’s barely wide enough for one vehicle.
Low saltbush.
Patches of red dirt.
A twisted tree clawing at the sky.
When you’re this far from the ocean, with no mountains or forest for shelter, the sun takes centre stage.
A fierce ball of heat, scorching everything in its path.
The ground shimmers in its wake.
Almost as if the world is still deciding whether to exist or dissolve.
One could be forgiven for thinking that this asphalt and Amos's truck are the only man-made things to exist for miles in every direction.
It’s not too far from the truth.
God, I hate this feeling.
I’ve spent so long trying to run from it.
Probably why my life now centres around comfort, luxury, connection and abundance.
Last time I was here, I honestly had no idea how far I was from civilisation.
I’d never ever been to the end of this road.
The entire world beyond Jundah was still some abstract notion.
And perhaps that was a good thing.
Because now that I’ve lived in the real world, walked along city streets for half a lifetime, and traveled endless days along that highway, the isolation of this region haunts me even more.
◆◆◆
Did Mum know how vast and wide this continent spread?
How far away we truly were from the rest of the world, from the help we needed?
Is that why she lets hope slip through her fingers?
And why she taught me to focus on the sky instead?
Driving back toward her, I see my old life from the outside looking in.
And what I see frightens me.
Because a loss of hope is the darkest prison cell.
A darkness that I’ve escaped, twice if you count losing Olsen, but one that she’s still trapped inside.
There are only two ways to survive it.
One, creating daily rituals for the sake of your sanity.
Preferably without numbing yourself.
And two, having the right people around you.
As a child, I only had rituals.
No one who held both power and good intentions at the same time.
But that was then. This is now.
My name isn’t Mark anymore.
◆◆◆
The steady hum of the tires feels ominous.
A soft rush of air through the vents.
My hand rests loose on the steering wheel.
My elbow is pressed against the window.
A large white sign to my left says:
Welcome to Barcoo Shire, heart of the channel country.
Jundah ninety seven kilometres, reads another.
It’s all too real now.
Too close, too soon.
This was a mistake, coming back here.
Dragging Amos out here.
Suddenly the truck feels too small, the land too wide.
My palms are slick with sweat, but I try to ignore it.
That slow, creeping awareness of panic thickens like storm clouds.
Control your breath, I tell myself.
But it’s too damn late for breathing exercises.
The seesaw has tipped.
The silence begins pressing in on me.
I swallow, but the motion feels strange.
I inhale, but the air feels shallow and thin.
A wave of dizziness rolls through me.
I shift in my seat.
I shouldn’t be driving right now.
Especially not at a hundred and three kilometres an hour.
My stomach tightens, nausea rising slowly at the back of my throat.
My fingers begin to tingle, then start going numb.
I flex them against my thigh, trying to shake the feeling away.
But the sensation spreads.
No, please no.
Not here.
I can still remember the smell of cigarettes.
The shirt I’d stolen from dad.
Bruised. Terrified.
Running for my life.
I feel like running now.
The memory reignites without warning.
A truck door slamming shut.
The stench of dust and engine oil.
A kind voice asking if I’m alright.
His faded orange vest.
The pie inside the bag.
Jundah, ninety seven kilometres.
I’m going the wrong way.
I need to turn around.
My body is warning me.
Danger, you fool. Stay away.
Heart pounding hard against my ribs.
My vision blurs at the edges.
Okay, that’s enough.
Don’t wanna end up in a ditch.
Pull over, I decide.
At least keep Amos safe.
“Bub,” he says quietly.
His voice sounds so far away.
“You okay?”
I try to answer, but the words won’t come.
My throat is tight.
The nausea swells, bile threatening to spill.
Veering onto the gravel, I brake too quickly.
Amos braces a hand against the dashboard.
Instinctively, he reaches across to protect me.
The ute skids and swerves along the grass.
He grabs the handbrake, jolting us to a stop.
◆◆◆
Pushing the door open, I tumble out.
But the heat feels worse, an oven of dry air and dust.
The vast silence of the outback is suffocating.
I stagger toward a shallow rut in the earth.
Closest thing to a bathroom.
Amos follows, his voice still distant and hollow.
My stomach heaves.
Bending forward, I brace my hands on my knees.
The world tilts on its side.
A dry retch tears through my gut.
But nothing comes up at first.
Just a bitter taste in my mouth.
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck.
My hands tremble uncontrollably.
Every inhale too shallow.
Every breath too small.
And then, a gentle hand on my back.
Grounding. Steady.
“We don’t have to do this,” Amos consoles me.
“Just say the word, and we can drive back to Longreach.”
Beth.
Safety.
Phone signal.
A slow inhale through my nose.
I nod weakly, still bent over, one hand in his.
“Yeah?”
“Longreach,” I whimper.
The name I spent my entire childhood clinging to like a raft.
“Okay, baby. You want me to drive?”
“Give me a minute,” I ask.
My body missed the memo.
Another wave of dread hits.
Somehow the tight enclosure of the truck seems to have shrunk.
Just as daunting as the wide open fields of nothingness.
Another dry retch rakes its fingers through me.
This time my breakfast makes a reappearance.
And I’m embarrassed that he saw.
I gather handfuls of grass to cover it.
That’s it.
Slow your breathing, Marco.
Sam whispers to me across the miles.
In then out.
In then out.
Sniff the flower.
Blow out the birthday candle.
Meditation feels fucking futile right now.
Like somebody handing me a feather instead of a sword.
Amos waits patiently, never rushing me.
“I need something cold,” I say. “I need to hold something... that's cold.”
He runs back to the truck, rummaging through the esky.
When he returns, my darling man is holding a melon.
“Here,” he offers.
I rest my cheek against it.
The chill is soothing, a welcome contrast to the heat.
The weight of it anchors me, a much needed tether.
“Thank you,” I mumble. “And sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, my love.”
◆◆◆
He leads me slowly back to the truck, out of the scorching sun.
We sit inside the cabin with all four doors open, claustrophobia still rising in waves.
If I keep my legs out the door, it seems to help.
Leaning into him, those strong arms are a comforting refuge.
I cradle the fruit as though it’s a child, one cheek still pressed close.
“I'm sorry,” I say once again. “I thought I could do it.”
“And you did, baby,” he grins. “You drove six hours further than last time.”
“I wasted your fuel. I'll pay you back.”
“Birthday boys aren't allowed to pay for fuel,” he shrugs. “It's a recently passed law. Ask any servo.”
“It's not my birthday yet.”
“Discount is valid all month,” he smiles.
“We're so far from home.” The tears spill as I say it. “Too far.”
“Hey... your home is right here.” He places my hand on his chest. “Doesn't matter where we are on the map. I'm your home. And you are your home. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And…” He melts me with that gorgeous smile. “I will happily sit on the side of the road with you and your emotional support melon, no matter where we go.”
◆◆◆
They say that love is stronger than fear.
They say that love is messy and imperfect.
I don’t know who the heck they is.
But there’s no doubt about it.
I love Amos Vale.
There, I said it.
Maybe not out loud yet.
He deserves to hear it in a more romantic setting.
Not here, when my breath is stinky and the flies are buzzing.
But… I love him.
Not just because I’m sitting in a ditch feeling scared.
And not because I need him, even though I do.
I love him with all his quirks and softness.
I love that he exists in this world.
I love who he is as a beautiful human soul.
So I will fight this fear for him, not just for me.
And if this is how deeply Broken Me loves him, Amos better brace himself for Healed Me.
◆◆◆
The tension in my body has eased, much calmer than before.
I think the wave has passed.
Holding his hand to my cheek, I kiss it tenderly.
“Shouldn't have dragged us all the way out here.”
“Nobody was dragged,” he insists. “And, I'd still love to meet Beth, if you're keen.”
“She's really looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.”
Beth. Hugs. Longreach.
Hopefully the motel has a room to spare until she gets back.
Stepping out of the truck, we close each door with a thud.
Amos holds the keys in his palm.
“I can drive if you're not feeling well,” he says.
“Sometimes it helps to drive,” I explain.
“You just wanna steal my truck again, don’t ya.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
I pull him close for a hug, then reach for the keys and turn them in the ignition.
Cool air flows through the vents once again.
My lips are parched.
The back of my neck is red from the sun.
I let the truck idle for a moment.
“Do you have any chapstick?” I ask.
“I do, somewhere.”
Amos slides his sketchbook out the duffel bag.
He delves a hand inside each compartment.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
I open the sketchbook to take a peek.