Chapter 29
the twenty ninth chapter
AMOS
Even before we reach the bridge, I feel a hand in mine.
He’s nervous. Not that I’m surprised.
I press his palm to my heart as a silent vow.
No matter what happens inside that house, I’ll be right by his side.
By now the sun has peaked, burning with vengeance.
Inland temperatures make the city we left behind feel almost arctic. I could never live here. I love the ocean too much.
Turning the vents to the lowest possible setting, I’m hoping it will soothe him.
An SUV approaches us from the right hand side of the road, waving as they pass.
Marco waves back.
“Someone you know?”
“Don't think so,” he shrugs. “But everyone waves in this town.”
They'll probably assume we're just campers, passing through.
And so far, we are.
“Let me show you my school,” he says.
Passing the store on our left, I can’t help taking another peek.
This is the humble corner where everything changed.
The trajectory of one life forever altered, leading us toward each other.
If he'd never had the courage to stand there, if that kindness hadn't been offered, where would my love be now? At the pub, or worse perhaps?
Without a safe loving home, there’s a desolate energy here.
I can feel it to my bones.
Not the town itself, exactly.
But the combination of isolation and abuse that Marco was dealt.
My admiration for him has never been stronger.
I wish I could put it into words.
I hope you feel it.
I hope you know.
◆◆◆
We continue straight onto Perkins.
Every house has been painted from the same monotonous colour palette.
Pale yellows and creams. Greys and browns.
It’s the power lines above us that capture my attention the most.
I look up at them, trying to imagine seeing them through the eyes of a child.
He tenses suddenly.
Breath held, as we cross the intersection of Miles Street.
Parched brown lawns, withering from years of brutal droughts.
Water tanks are visible on some properties.
Small satellite dishes or solar panels perch on a roof here or there. Self sufficiency.
Vegetable gardens netted to fend off kangaroos or other unwelcome furry critters.
It’s an entirely different world out here.
“See what I mean?” he sighs.
“Just like the travel brochure,” I tease. “Are we nearly at the mall?”
That gets a smile, at least.
“This is as far as it goes.”
“Four blocks?”
“Four blocks in each direction,” he nods. “That's the whole town.”
And not in a quaint scenic village way.
No leafy mountainous landscape to soften the vibe.
I do a double take.
The roads are completely empty, despite it being almost noon.
I see a curtain twitch in a window nearby.
Someone is watching us.
They can tell we’re not from around here.
Turning left onto Garrick, one home has three satellite dishes.
I try to keep the mood light.
“Three is a bit fancy. Must be a gamer.”
Marco laughs, despite his nerves.
He gestures for me to pull to the side.
I leave the engine idling to keep the air con cranked.
“Here's the school,” he announces.
At first, I don’t see it.
Then tucked behind the trees, I spot a small building with a yellow sign.
“How many...?”
“Ten or eleven kids, usually.”
“Until their thirteenth birthday?”
“Yep, then off to boarding school. But only if your parents have the money.”
And his didn’t.
“My mates all disappeared overnight. Didn't even have wifi to stay in touch.”
There’s so much sadness in that memory.
So Porter was your first friend in years, I realise.
It must have been lonely as hell.
“Loved reading though,” he smiles. “That was my favourite part about those years. I’d sneak books home in my bag and hide them under my bed. The teacher turned a blind eye.”
His gaze drifts for a moment.
“I think that immersion in books is the one reason I kept my head above water when I did my degree at uni. That, and sheer desperation to make something of myself.”
I kiss him on the hand.
“I know I keep saying it, but… I really am so proud of you.”
“Be proud of me if I make it to Beth's without losing my shit.”
He leans forward to pull the sketchbook from my bag.
Flipping to the scene of him and his mum wandering beneath the stars, he rests a hand on it.
And for the longest moment, we sit.
◆◆◆
“What if she's not even there?”
It seems as though the thought hasn’t even occurred to him until now.
“What if Mum had the courage to bail after I did, and just didn't know how to find me?”
“I guess it's possible,” I consider.
“I can’t decide if that heals my heart, or breaks it.”
His voice wavers.
“If she got out, she’s finally free. But also gone for good. I’ll never get to…”
“One way to find out.”
I squeeze his knee reassuringly.
Just then, my phone reminder chimes softly.
I slide it from my pocket and glance at the screen.
Find best watermelon in Queensland.
“We still have one left,” he says, patting the towel on the back seat.
I turn to smile at him.
“Know anyone in this town who likes eating watermelon on September third?”
“One woman in particular,” he says fondly.
◆◆◆
Closing the sketchbook, he fastens his seatbelt.
Curving back toward Miles Street, I slow to a crawl.
We park across the street from his former neighbour.
Marco is wearing my sunglasses again, keeping his eyes forward at all times.
He’s not ready to look at the house yet.
I’m sure seeing this street is hard enough.
So much pain. So many memories.
A crow caws abrasively from a lamp post, as if it’s been expecting us.
The house is much smaller than I anticipated.
Worn down and neglected, paint faded to a dull uneven hue.
One end of the rusted metal fence sags inward, loosely framing an overgrown yard.
Withered grass and weeds are almost tall enough to hide decades of hoarded debris.
I can see a cracked window pane next to the door.
Not an accident, I bet.
Torn curtains are closed shut.
No one would ever guess that the town handyman lives here.
Seems he only repairs things in exchange for drinking money.
I fight back the tears.
It’s all too easy to envision little Mark in a soiled nappy.
Locked outside that door during a thunderstorm.
The scars on his back were made under this roof.
The blood in my veins runs cold.
I’m more determined than ever to be the rock that he needs.
His shoulders are stiff, his face pale.
That anxiety is unmistakable.
Removing the glasses, he turns to survey the remnants of his former life.
“Home sweet home,” he mutters.
The words fall from his tongue like acid.
I imagine a bruised teenage boy running past us to the end of the street.
“I know that fear tries to tell you otherwise, but it’s his turn to be scared.”
“His turn?”
“He lost power over you the minute you hitched a ride north.”
“In some ways, he did. Not in others.”
“Bet that piece of trash has been shitting himself, wondering if you'll ever be back.”
“As he fucking should,” Marco says through gritted teeth.
“And maybe he was always scared of you. Even as a baby.”
“I guess.”
“But you’ve already kicked his ass by not becoming him.”
I hold him in my arms for a moment, feeling his body ease.
“I could knock on the door for you,” I offer. “Just to see who’s home.”
He considers this.
But no, it needs to be him.
I remind myself that this is not my shadow to face.
◆◆◆
A sweltering wave of heat affronts us the minute I step from the truck.
Melted tar and grit stick to the soles of my shoes.
I wipe them on the grass, hunting for a shadow to stand in.
This time of day, there are hardly any.
We wait by the curb.
He’s pacing slightly, trying to talk himself into it.
I talk about the weather for a minute, giving him a much needed distraction.
“It's like an oven,” I smile. “And winter is barely over.”
“Winter? What’s that?” he scoffs. “This is nothing. One time it hit forty six celsius.”
“Forty six?”
“The river dried up until it was more like a bunch of waterholes.”
“Jesus.”
“Me and my friend Asher fried an egg by holding a pan out the window.”
“Now I understand why the locals risk their nuts swimming in that murky water.”
“Gotta stay cool however you can,” he replies.
Must be why everyone has their curtains closed in the middle of the day.
Marco checks his hair in the reflection of the truck window.
A hairy huntsman spider the size of my hand scuttles across the windscreen.
Now it’s my turn to tense up.
I’ve never been a fan of spiders.
Especially that big.
He shoos it onto the grass with an old newspaper from the gutter.
“Must have hitched a ride from the river,” he guesses.
He holds back a smile as I side step his hairy friend.
“It won’t hurt you, baby. It’s harmless.”
I reach out to hug him, but he moves away.
He’s never ever done that before.
“Not here,” he warns. “Not in front of dad. Doesn’t take much to set him off.”
As we cross the street, I try not to be offended.
Because he has a point.
No need to add fuel to the fire.
Climbing the stairs, we pause.
He turns around, breath quickening, leaning against the wall.
I’m sure he must have stood out here a hundred times, afraid for his life.
“We can leave whenever you need to,” I whisper.
Yet somehow he finds the courage to knock.
◆◆◆
For a few seconds, nothing happens.
He knocks again. Still nothing.
Relief settles across his face.
“Nobody home,” he mutters.
But then, we hear an awkward shuffle as someone stumbles toward us.
They fumble with various chains and locks on the other side of the door.
I stand closer to him, but keep my hands at my side.
I’d give anything to hold him right now.
The door opens.
A small barefoot woman appears, dressing gown pulled tight across a stained t-shirt.
Two of her teeth are missing.
Her wrists and neck are visibly bruised.
Silver streaks weave through mousy grey hair.
Deep wrinkles line her face.
The kind of exhaustion that comes from years of quiet struggle.
But I’d recognise those eyes anywhere.
I’m trying not to stare, but I can’t help smiling when Marco smiles at her.
It’s his Mama.