Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Jules
R iley skips between us as we pick our way along the path to my mother’s front door. It’s the third of four red brick units. A broken doll, toy trucks and a cricket ball are just a few of the items littering the ground thanks to the kids in unit one. At first glance, it might appear to be a dump, but love fills every crack, rusty nail and faded wall within.
There’s no judgement here. Not like at Mick’s parents’ house. His father is a delight, but his mother is a two-faced nightmare. She’s never forgiven me for getting ‘knocked up’ and ‘tricking’ Mick into marrying me. Her only saving grace is she dotes on Riley.
Mum’s neighbour from unit four sits on the steps in front of his place, puffing away on a cigarette. His usual can of beer is absent, but I’d doubt for very long.
I wave. “Hey, Bob.”
He grins, revealing a mouth full of black and yellow teeth. “Ah, my two favourite girls.”
Riley runs over to him. “I have a present for you, Mr Moore.”
His smile widens as she hands him a drawing of his unit. At least, that’s what she said it was. As with all her drawings, you need to view them through a creative lens to figure out what they are. “Why, thank you.” He clutches it to his chest like it’s a collector’s item. “I’ll put this on my fridge with the others.”
“You look well,” says Mick. It’s a lie. Bob has more shades of red on his face than Riley does in her drawings.
Bob’s eyebrows scrunch together, and he flashes those rotting teeth again. “I’m watching you, Williams.”
Mick stiffens and shoves his hands into his jean pockets.
Riley’s face scrunches up. “What do you mean?”
Ever since Mick first rocked up on my doorstep six years ago, Bob’s made it his business to play the protective father role. It’s cute, and Mick hates it. I curl my hand around Riley’s. “He’s being silly.” I wave my finger at Bob. “Behave.”
He chuckles, then breaks into a hacking cough as I knock on the door.
Mick whispers in my ear. “I really wish Bob and your mum would accept our help.”
I bite my tongue, something I’ve been doing all too frequently since we met with the counsellor. Mick means well, but there’s a note of condescension in his voice that gets my back up. “They have their pride.”
Coming from a wealthy middle-class background, Mick doesn’t know what it’s like to struggle from pay cheque to pay cheque. Bob lost his wife to cancer ten years ago and never got over it, drowning himself in alcohol instead. We’ve offered to cover the cost of rehab, but Bob refuses to consider it.
As for Mum’s husband, my so-called dad, he abandoned her for a younger woman when I was two years old. When the authorities finally caught up with my father, they forced him to pay alimony, but the wily bastard did a lot of cash work, so the amount Mum actually received paid for my school uniform and little else .
The door swings open. “Right on time.” Mum’s eyes twinkle. We all know that if it was left to me, we’d be late.
Mick pulls out the charm. “You’re looking well, Lucia.” This time, Mick isn’t lying. My mother is an expert at hiding her chronic pain and goes to extra lengths to look unaffected by it.
She tucks tendrils of hair behind her ear. “I try my best.”
Riley launches herself at her grandmother. Fortunately, Mick is quicker and gives Mum a steadying hand to stop her from stumbling or, worse, falling. She’s only fifty-eight, but a freak accident at the beach two years ago has left her with a permanently damaged spine.
As we move inside, the spicy aroma of chillies and cumin and freshly cooked tortillas wraps around me like a cosy blanket. Mexican dishes were a staple growing up and are still one of my favourite cuisines. Italian is a close second because, well … carbs! Money may have been tight, but my mother made beans and rice go a long way. Our bellies were always filled with tasty food.
The beige carpet is worn but clean, and the walls are plastered with family photos. A new, black-and-white picture crammed in between one of me and Mick on our wedding day and another of Riley’s christening catches my eye. It takes me a few seconds to recognise the man in the photo. My heart does a little belly flop in my chest—it’s a shot of Mick in a police uniform, and he’s hot. Smoking!
“Mick, look at this.” I point to the wall. “Where did you get the picture, Mum?”
She beams. “My friend Sophie bought herself a new house and came across a bunch of faded newspapers buried in the garage. They were only fifteen years old, but even so, it’s always fascinating to see what was making news in the past.” She waves her finger at Mick. “You’ve been holding out on us, mister. ”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “You knew Mick was a police officer.”
“True. But I didn’t know he was a hero.”
I swivel to find Mick’s cheeks turning a ruddy shade of red.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing.” Mum points to a newspaper article on the table. “His quick thinking saved five people from a hostage situation at a service station. He talked the man down and disarmed him, all by the time reinforcements arrived.” She pats Mick between the shoulder blades. “The police commissioner presented him with a bravery award.”
My gaze flits from Mick to the article and back again. “Why don’t you have the medal on display at home?”
He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s not important. I was just doing my job. Any other cop would have done the same thing.”
Mum shakes her head. “You’re far too modest. One year out of the academy and you showed nerves of steel in a volatile situation.” She points at the article. “That’s what the commissioner says here. And he goes on to say you were a rising star and had a promising future ahead of you.”
Riley pipes up, obviously listening intently to the conversation. “Why’d you stop being a policeman, Daddy?”
Mick’s jaw tightens. He’s clearly uncomfortable, which has me questioning, as I do from time to time, what happened to him all those years ago. He loved the police force, but something went down while he was undercover. Something that changed him. But what? It’s like a seed of grass in your sock that itches with every movement. The blasted thing is there, but when you go searching, you can never find it.
He ruffles Riley’s hair. “I discovered I like numbers more.”
I call bullshit and from my mother’s expression, so does she.
“I like drawing,” says Riley, accepting his answer at face value. She tugs on Mum’s hand. “Can I play with the Lego, Grandma?”
“Of course. Let me get it out of the cupboard for you.” Mum disappears into the spare bedroom with Riley trailing behind.
I pick up the newspaper clipping. A second photo shows the commissioner pinning a badge onto Mick’s shirt. “Do you miss being at the police?”
Mick rubs his temples. “Nope. It was a mistake, fuelled by too much testosterone.”
“But you were good at it.”
“Being good at something doesn’t always mean you should do it. Policing isn’t all glamour and medals.” He snatches the article off me. The fragile paper rips through the middle of the photo. “There’s a seedy side to it, and I realised if I wanted a family, I couldn’t be a part of it.”
That pulls me up. Did he also sacrifice the job he loved to give Riley a stable home? Surely, he didn’t need to do that. “Jake’s a cop and a father.”
Mick goes rigid, his jaw so tight it wouldn’t surprise me if it cracked. “I’m not Jake.” His voice is low and measured but with a hint of steel that says the conversation is over. He places the paper back onto the table, smoothing the two pieces together.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re not Jake, the same as I’m not Claire. If working at the tax office makes you happy, then that’s all that matters.”
Except I’m not so sure he is happy. Obsessed more like it with the way he stares at spreadsheets all day. At least, that’s what I imagine from what I’ve seen him doing when he works at home on the weekends. I can’t help but wonder if he has regrets too.
He caresses my cheek. “I wouldn’t have my life any other way. I love you and Riley.”
Butterflies churn in my stomach at the certainty of his words. I miss the closeness we once shared. I miss him. Mick lowers his head, and my hands rest on his shoulders as I tilt my face to meet him halfway.
Riley’s giggles jerk us apart.
“They almost kissed, Grandma.”
“That they did,” says Mum.
“I don’t like it when they fight.”
Goddammit. Why did Riley have to say that? My gaze snaps to Mum’s. Hers flits from mine to Mick’s, those light brown eyes glittering with intelligence. I can see her mind working overtime. There’s no sign of the haze of prescription drugs today. But I’m not discussing our marital problems with her, especially not with Mick and Riley present.
“Could you help Riley with the Lego while Mum and I get lunch ready, Mick?”
“Sure.” He takes the box of Lego, and he and Riley kneel on the large rug. I follow my mother into the kitchen. Heat and the rich tomato and garlic aroma blast me as I enter the room.
Mum dons mitts and bends to pull a dish out of the oven. She yelps, then clutches her lower back. “Argh!” Colour drains from her face. She winces and gulps in a breath. “It’s just a spasm. It’ll pass.”
Mum’s stoic to the extent she borders on being a martyr. Sciatica and backache are her constant friends since the accident, and despite our offers to pay for treatment, she refuses to see a physiotherapist or a chiropractor. Says they’re a waste of time and money.
“How about I get the chilli con carne out for you?” I take the oven mitts from her and remove the dish. The top is crusty, and it smells divine. No wonder I can’t shift the excess weight. I love food too much.
Mum opens a drawer and washes down a couple of pills—Valium and codeine—with a glass of water.
I pull salads out of the fridge, all the while conscious that she stands quietly, her fingers curled around the bench top, tears flooding her eyes. It’s so unfair.
“Why won’t you see a specialist, Mum? Maybe surgery can fix the pain?”
“Julieta, we’ve been through this before. I’m on a waiting list at the public hospital.”
I cringe at her use of my full name. “For twelve months and you still haven’t heard from them.” The doctors told her to give the discs time to heal on their own before considering surgery. All it’s done is prolong the agony. “I don’t understand why you won’t let us help.”
She raises her hand, which is her cue to say the conversation is over. “Would you mind setting the table while I go to the bathroom?”
“Of course. But if you’re not out in ten minutes, I’m coming in.”
“I’ll be fine. You worry about your husband and daughter. I can take care of myself.” With stiff legs, she shuffles down the hallway.
A quick scan of the lounge room confirms Mick and Riley are engrossed in the Lego. Good. After my doctor refused to prescribe me Valium, I tried three other clinics. They all turned me down because I wasn’t a regular patient. So, my choices are limited. When the black moments hit, there isn’t enough alcohol to quieten the noise in my head and let me function. Or at least pretend to function.
I open the drawer, pull out the Valium bottle and shake half a dozen pills onto my hand. Yes, it’s wrong. I know that. But it’s not like Mum keeps track of how many she takes. She won’t notice any missing. I slip the tablets into a small zip-lock bag, fold it up and shove it into the front pocket of my jeans.