Chapter Twenty-six – Andie
Chapter Twenty-six
ANDIE
T here’s splashing outside my window early this morning as the girls trial a new hangover cure. Between shrieks, Grace is passionately lecturing the others about the benefits of the Wim Hof method – ignoring the fact that it’s meant to involve two-degree ice water, not a balmy twenty-six-degree pool. I pretend to be asleep as she calls out for me to join them, remaining snuggled under my doona while I savour every last tasty morsel of my Jack sex-dream. In it, his scarred hands deftly shucked oysters before feeding them to me, his touch sending heat crawling over my skin as his lips trailed over my body.
I wait until the house settles into silence before finishing what dream-induced Jack started, eventually rising from bed and gliding down the stairs.
A neat brown package sits on the floor in front of the dog door. I’m grateful for a morning without insatiable thirst, a throbbing headache or dry mouth – thanks to my delayed drinking start and Jack’s wholesome thermos of hot chocolate.
I search for a message on the oily bag before tearing it open. Surprisingly, the absence of a note doesn’t disappoint me; instead, I smile at the memory of the text from Jack that was waiting on my phone as soon as I opened my eyes.
Looks like I’m crashing dinner tonight. x
Yet again, I’m astounded by how swiftly news travels on this island. We made loose plans with the boys when they departed around midnight last night. It all started as a joke about who the better cooks were – initiated by me after Richie complained again about Charlie’s dry burgers. I challenged him to do better, sparking a boys-versus-girls cooking competition in which we would each contribute a dish. So tonight, we’ll dine on a seven-course (likely of varying standards) meal. Perhaps eight, if Jack is coming. At this point, we’ve strayed so far away from my itinerary that I can’t even remember what I originally planned for day five’s activities. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Jack.
I finish my bap (it’s the most delicious one yet) and get ready for the day. Before leaving to meet Jack yesterday, I promised Hazel that I’d return in the morning to help her finish filming.
The girls have left me a note on the bench.
Gone fishing. Kinda, lol. Gone fishing for hot fishermen at Tin Boat Reserve.
We didn’t take keys, so leave the door unlocked if you go out. xx
It goes against every city instinct not to lock the door, so two seconds later, I rush back in and leave the set of house keys in the spot on the floor my bap normally occupies. I send a text to let them know.
Left keys in front of doggy door. Just stick your hand in. Hope you’re having fun. x
As I pull the locked door shut, I’m struck by a puzzling realisation: Moorings has a dog door, yet there are no dogs on the island.
My Storytime prompt bleeps at me as I make my way to Hazel’s house: If you could do one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?
We’ve answered that one before. I remember both of their responses. Dad was always willing to share his memories, but Mum needed some encouragement, only opening up when I pressed her.
‘Come on, Mum. Tell me the stories of your past. I will cherish them and learn from them, and ensure they’re remembered for eternity.’ I coached her like one of my kindergarteners, tears glistening in both of our eyes.
Her response to this one was simple: watch movies by the ocean.
Dad’s was even simpler: eat chocky Freddos .
He had always been a chocolate fiend, but his craving for it intensified as his dementia worsened. At first, we tried to restrict his chocolate intake, but he’d get so angry and agitated, throwing empty chocolate wrappers in our faces. That’s when Mum came up with the genius idea of switching to individually wrapped pieces, so he felt like he was getting more. Now, we let him eat all the chocolate he wants, smuggling in treat bags past the nurses.
I finally received a reply from Toby last night, just a brief message:
All good here. Enjoy.
I hope everything truly is fine.
I arrive at Hazel’s place and let myself in. As I enter the living room, it’s immediately apparent that something is amiss. Hazel is on the settee, positioned next to the yin–yang pearl artwork, but her body is slouched and turned away from the camera.
‘Is everything alright, Hazel?’ My gaze shifts to her hair, checking for any signs of a beauty emergency, but it looks salon-ready – and her lips are already stained rose red.
She shoots me a panicked look. ‘Oh, thank God you’re here, Andie-girl. I’m not sure that we’ve gone with the right angle for this documentary. I’m second-guessing everything! Are you sure that I shouldn’t talk more about our island’s avian residents instead? The island is home to rainbow lorikeets, sulphur-crested cockatoos, king parrots, galahs and eastern corellas . . .’ She trails off, struggling to catch her breath.
‘You don’t feel comfortable with what you shared yesterday?’ I approach her gently. ‘We can always edit those bits out.’ I’m doing my best to play catch-up here.
‘It’s just this documentary is really important.’
She looks at me, wide-eyed, and for the first time I notice how similar her eyes are to Jack’s. The green is so clear, it’s almost translucent.
I understand more than anyone the desire to capture something – or someone – so perfectly that it’s never lost to you.
‘I know,’ I tell her.
‘I take issue with centring my memories as facts.’ Hazel’s bottom lip protrudes. ‘It’s just my recollections of things; it doesn’t mean it actually happened that way.’
I smile faintly. ‘Of course. No one is after photo-accurate memories – we update our memories through the act of remembering, and our stories can be richer for it.’
That’s a concept I’ve had to come to terms with myself. You can take scissors to a traced shape and attempt to follow the lines, but each cut-out will invariably be different.
‘The wingspan of parrots. Now that’s something I can speak accurately on,’ Hazel says, determined.
I crouch on the floor next to her, sensing she needs some soft encouragement, like my students as they tentatively sound out individual letters until the full word suddenly comes together, like magic.
Retrieving my phone, I open the Storytime app. I’ve learned from my time completing the prompts with Mum and Dad that general, open-ended questions often lead to the best stories.
I choose a random prompt from the screen and read it aloud: ‘ What’s the one thing you’re most proud of? ’
‘Oh, Andie. Why would anyone be interested in that?’
‘Come on, please just give it a try,’ I coax delicately.
Selfishly, I want to hear another of her stories. The memories of the bathtub and Jack’s cake now live in my mind too.
She rubs her eyes, and I notice their red rims – the colour of her rose lipstick.
‘Alright,’ she agrees, ‘but only because I’m so fond of you, Andie-girl.’
She clears her throat and I slowly step out of shot, take my place at the camera and press record.
‘Well, of course the thing I’m most proud of is my precious son, Jack,’ she begins, casting a brief glance in my direction. I pretend to fiddle with the tripod.
‘But second to that it would have to be the purchase of this house. It wasn’t easy starting again after Peter passed.’ Her forehead creases. ‘He was my first husband – died in a freak accident with a welding machine. We’d just moved from the UK to Australia for Peter’s job, and suddenly I was left widowed with a three-month-old. The insurance payout was decent, but not amazing money – certainly not enough to purchase a city property and cover all the expenses that come with raising a baby. It was only a month or so after the funeral when I visited the island – a friend from back home was living here, and I came to stay for a couple of days to clear my head and work out my next move. The obvious thing to do would have been to return to the UK, but then I chanced across this house, and it was like it had been divinely delivered to me. To say it was a fixer-upper is an understatement, but it was priced just right, and I knew I could take my time with it. So I made an offer the next day. Of course, everyone thought I was crazy, but now, almost thirty-two years later, I’ve had the most wonderful life here – so I guess I’m the one who had the last laugh.’ She beams. ‘The best part of it all was Hannah. She was a single mum with two little ones who’d moved to the island a few months before me for the same reason – it was the only place she could afford – and we became inseparable, raising our kids together. My found family, as I always say. My Pearl family,’ she adds with a sad yet beautiful smile.
I already gleaned from the Moorings double-booking incident that Hannah was no longer with us, but now I’ve also learned that – presumably – Jack’s father was Peter, and not Billy as I’d assumed, and they have both passed.
Now that Hazel’s relaxed into her storytelling, I continue peppering her with gentle enquiries about life on the island for another hour or so until I seem to ask one too many follow-up questions and we agree to wrap for the day.
We’re feeling extra sticky from our hard work, so when Hazel suggests that we jump in the river to cool off, I agree enthusiastically, before remembering that I didn’t bring my one-piece with me.
‘You’ll wear one of my bathing suits,’ Hazel instructs. Her tone leaves no room for debate.
The beach in front of Hazel’s house is a wide smile of sand. It’s so expansive it looks as though it’s swallowed Moorings Beach and Pearl Cove in one blissful gulp.
‘Best beach on the island. One kilometre of utter perfection,’ Hazel boasts as we wade in. ‘The whitest sands and clearest waters. All-tide swimming and all-day shade.’
I hope the shade part is accurate as I’m not entirely sold on Hazel’s homemade sun cream, made from a concoction of coconut and almond oil, vitamin E, shea butter, beeswax and zinc.
‘I’m not lining Beryl’s pockets any more than necessary,’ Hazel remarks as I slip into a vibrant red retro halter-neck swimsuit. ‘I have it on good authority that she’s saving up for a golf cart – like we need another on the island!’
Hazel’s disapproval is clear as she recounts the island’s infamous golf-cart wars of the early noughties when surplus electric golf buggies from the Olympic village flooded the market and were snapped up by locals.
‘Thankfully, many turned out to be lemons and broke down on their own. Still, we had to dispose of a few ourselves by – ah – unorthodox methods,’ she admits, a mischievous glint in her eye – the same one that danced in Jack’s eyes as he wielded the leaf blower outside the window of the bucks’ rental.
I wish the camera was still rolling so I could capture Hazel as she describes her and Hannah’s late-night exploits pushing carts into the river. ‘I’d never pollute like that now, of course. It was a different time back then,’ she adds.
We paddle out into the water, staying close to the shore as the current is strong, but deep enough that we can no longer stand.
‘I swim here at dawn every morning,’ Hazel tells me as we tread water.
Treading water. Just like life recently , I think, as my legs egg-beat underneath me. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ I sigh. And it truly is. The water feels cool on my skin, and the tang of salt lingers on my tongue.
‘Sorry about my little tantrum earlier.’ Hazel flips gracefully onto her back. ‘I needed that extra push. I’ve gotten a little too set in my ways since Hannah died,’ she confesses, her words directed towards the vastness of the bright blue sky above.
‘No need to apologise,’ I murmur. ‘When did you lose her?’
‘A year ago now. She had MS but we ended up losing her to cancer.’
A strangled noise gurgles in my throat, the sound mostly muffled by the river.
‘Fuck cancer,’ I blurt out and plunge beneath the surface. It’s nice and quiet under here, the upstairs world muted by the seal of water. Seconds tick by, and I hold my breath for longer and longer, relishing the sense of anonymity and freedom.
When I eventually resurface, Hazel has flipped back over and is looking at me, her expression filled with sombre understanding. ‘Cancer can suck my dick,’ she announces.
We float on our backs and allow the current to sweep us further up the beach like stray leaves. I even close my eyes, trusting that Hazel knows how far we can push the river’s hospitality. My mind is almost wiped of all noise when a shrill cry for help startles me out of my meditative state. I roll back over onto my stomach to see a man floating nearby, his legs adorned with bulbous shapes strapped around his ankles.
‘Arthur! What on earth are you doing?’ Hazel cries, swimming towards him. He’s making all the noises of someone in distress, but with his arms neatly folded behind his head, he looks the very picture of relaxation.
‘I sewed myself into these new float shoes, and now my feet are too buoyant – I can’t get them down!’
‘Oh, Arthur,’ Hazel sighs, but I can tell she’s amused. ‘Let’s get you to shore.’ She grabs hold of his feet and, with determined strokes, begins towing him behind her. Why do I get the sense that this is not the first time Hazel has rescued Arthur?
I contemplate following her, but then decide against it. It’s just too heavenly out here.
‘I might stay in for a bit longer,’ I call – they’re already halfway to the beach.
‘Enjoy!’ Hazel sings back, her breathless voice carrying over the water.
As I bounce around, twisting and turning my body and revelling in the delicious weightlessness, Hazel’s oversized swimsuit fills with water, billowing around me like a sail.
I’m still acting like a juvenile dolphin on its first night out on the river when a splash sounds behind me, followed by a gravelly voice.
‘Watch out. I just spotted Woof going that way,’ the voice warns.
‘Tell me you’re joking,’ I squeal as I turn around, resisting the urge to immediately leap onto his paddleboard.
It’s a strange feeling, being shit-scared and elated, all in the same moment.
‘I am.’ Jack grins.
‘Thank God.’ I breathe out, my gaze drifting upwards, eyes drawn like a magnet to the sun bouncing off the droplets of water speckled over his contoured stomach. His wet board shorts are the perfect amount of tight, clinging to well-defined thighs. I’m suddenly conscious of the sea of Lycra swamping my cleavage and wonder how my boobs look from that angle.
‘Oh wait!’ Jack exclaims with faux panic. ‘You better jump up here!’ His eyes are so exaggeratedly wide that it’s comical.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I say, readjusting my halter strap while treading water and trying not to swallow any salt water.
‘No, seriously Andie, there’s a –’
A burning sensation erupts at my calf and I peer down into the water to see the tentacles of a mushroom-shaped jellyfish brushing against my leg.
‘Oh my God! Am I going to die?’ I screech, kicking hard as I pull my leg away from the monster.
‘It’s okay. They’re not poisonous,’ Jack reassures me, reaching down and pulling me up onto his board in one smooth motion. ‘Plenty of room up here. If only Rose had been so courteous with that door, perhaps her Jack wouldn’t have frozen to death.’
I appreciate his attempt to distract me, but I struggle to manage even a weak laugh – out of the water, my leg stings like crazy.
‘Ouch,’ I say, sucking air through my clenched teeth as I try to endure the pain.
‘Sit up there and hold on. Let’s get you back to shore,’ Jack directs.
Carefully, I manoeuvre myself to the front of the board, being mindful not to knock my injured leg.
As Jack’s paddle glides confidently through the water, I see that we’re surrounded by a bloom of jellyfish hovering around his board like an ominous cloud. ‘Sorry, my red board probably attracted them. Not exactly subtle.’ He chuckles. ‘They love bright colours. Curious little things.’ He pauses as he glances at the water and lets out a low whistle. ‘Actually, strike that. Not little things at all. These are some big units.’
‘Are there normally this many?’ I ask, trembling slightly and one eye on my reddening calf.
‘Unfortunately, yes. There’s so much jelly blubber in the river over summer we joke you could almost walk across it – forget Arthur’s fence-post shoes. Sorry that I didn’t warn you. For some reason, they’re not usually at Pearl Cove.’
‘I’m pretty sure Arthur’s fence-post shoes are last season, replaced by a new line of floating shoes. Your mum just had to rescue him from the water because they malfunctioned.’
The board wobbles as Jack belly-laughs.
‘Sounds like you’re starting to come good. How’s the leg feeling?’
‘It’s itchy.’ I fight the urge to scratch at the irritated spot. I don’t want to accidentally tip us over.
‘Ah. You’ll have to excuse the next step of treatment – it’s, ah, a little unsavoury,’ he says, loosening the cord holding up his board shorts.
Horror washes over me. ‘Oh no!’ I exclaim. ‘You’re not peeing on me. I forbid it.’
Jack smirks. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘You’re not serious, are you?’
He laughs. ‘Of course not. That’s an old wives’ tale. In fact, urine can actually aggravate the sting. Plain cold water should do the trick.’
‘We’re here,’ Jack announces as he jumps into the knee-deep water and proceeds to pull the board, with me on it, onto the sand, as if he’s a seasoned medic handling his patient’s stretcher.
I don’t know if I want to hit or hug him – what if I’d agreed to the pee?
He helps me up off the board and keeps a steady arm around me as I limp up the beach. I think we’re headed to Hazel’s, but instead, we stop at the public shower.
‘Stick your leg under,’ Jack instructs, rotating the tap.
I follow his instructions and a shock of cold water hits my skin.
I wince. ‘It’s stinging again.’
‘Trust me. It’ll feel better in a bit.’
‘Trust the boy who cried Woof?’ I half laugh through a stream of tears.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Jack says. ‘It was just meant to be a bit of banter; I didn’t mean for –’
‘I know, I know,’ I interject, wiping my tears away. I don’t want him to think that I blame him. In fact, I weirdly enjoyed my ride on Jack’s paddleboard – especially now that I’m back on solid ground.
‘Let’s see how it’s looking.’ Jack bends down to inspect my calf.
‘We’re quite a pair, aren’t we? Constant first aid required. Although a bandaid is preferable to your pee.’ I’m aware that I’m babbling due to his mouth’s proximity to my skin. He places a hand just above the sting, and a delicious tingly feeling eclipses the last of the pain.
‘It’s not looking as red anymore,’ he says.
‘Really?’ I bend down as Jack rises and our heads nearly collide. We pause, our eyes locking as time grinds to a slow stop – a repeat of our encounter over the oysters – until Jack finally blinks, breaking the spell, and we both straighten up.
He swallows. ‘Ah, I wasn’t going to kiss you, if that’s what you were thinking.’
My stomach flutters with disappointment. ‘Oh. You weren’t?’ Have I read this all wrong?
‘Unless you wanted me to?’ he asks, his tone unmistakably hopeful.
A coy smile creeps across my face. ‘That’s up to you.’
‘Up to you, as in, you’d like me to?’
‘If you’d like to, I’d like you to.’
His brow furrows. ‘Okay, I’m confused now and –’
‘I want you to,’ I interrupt.
My confirmation is all Jack needs to lower his head and meet my lips.
Our kiss starts agonisingly tentative, but soon, there is no space between us and we are underneath the stream of water.
My body barely registers the cold. One hand is in Jack’s hair, pulling at damp, salty strands, while the other explores his slick chest, running up and down before skimming the band of his shorts. We breathe heavily as we test and tease, lips needy.
When we eventually break apart, I’m giddy as I nuzzle into his neck, drinking in his tangy citrus scent. We stay this way for a few moments, still against each other, Jack tracing slow circles on my back. Then, he snaps and presses me against the shower’s brick wall.
His warm weight shields me from the cold lashings of water and an involuntary low sound escapes my lips. My heart bangs against my chest as he kisses me.
‘Holy shit, you’re sexy, Andie,’ Jack growls in my ear when we come up for air again, his glowering eyes fluttering down to my breasts. I feel like I’ve been stung by a thousand jellyfish.
I’m about to curl back into him when his expression shifts to something I can’t quite decipher.
‘Umm, Andie?’ he asks. His voice is no longer a gravelly growl.
‘Yes?’ I say, breathless.
‘Are you wearing my mother’s bathers?’