CHAPTER 53
‘Mill!’ exclaims Dad as he opens the door. He’s wearing a tattered old Cronulla Sharks polo with a hole in the shoulder. The collar is so crumpled it’s pointing to his chin. ‘Are you in the area for work?’
His words tug at my chest. My own father can’t fathom me paying him a spontaneous visit; my every movement for the last six years has been work-related. I shake my head. ‘I got you something,’ I say, passing him a cardboard bag with ribbon handles.
Dad peers inside, curious, and pulls out a tissue-wrapped polo shirt. He holds it up. ‘Well, now,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that nice?’
I smile miserably. He would say that if I bought him two left shoes. ‘I thought you might need it,’ I say. ‘You know, for a date.’
Dad’s eyes dart to me, confused, then surprised, and then—a wave of understanding. He pulls me to his chest and wraps me in his arms. ‘Oh, Mill,’ he sighs. ‘Thank you. Really, thank you.’
‘Sssnothing,’ I mumble, closing my eyes against his chest. ‘You deserve to be happy, Dad. You really do. And I like Alex. She seems cool.’ I press my cheek to his threadbare polo and feel his warmth envelop me.
There’s the smell of him—as cosy and comforting as a warm doona—and that other scent too: Mum’s favourite laundry powder.
I hug him tighter, my fingers gripping his shirt.
For so long, we blocked out the pain to the point that it blinkered us.
We lost sight of the world and what it could be.
We were so focused on a distant, pain-free spot on the horizon that we forgot to look around.
We couldn’t see what was right under our noses: new hobbies, friends, love, a reading nook.
As we stand here, next to the living-room door—which is now chocked open with an old thong—it occurs to me that maybe surviving doesn’t have to be hard.
Yes, it’s awkward and painful leaving the past behind, but maybe it can free us too.
We don’t have to lock up rooms and feelings.
We can explore them. We can leave the past behind, while we find ways to fit it into our future.
We can put the tennis on the TV all day during summer, we can flick the ears of our siblings just because we love them, we can tell old stories, we can tell old jokes, we can make up new ones, and we can buy the same laundry powder for another twenty years because there’s a tiny part of us that thinks Mum will haunt us if we don’t.
Maybe everything we do is a chance to move on and a chance to remember. We don’t have to choose between them. We can have both.
If I can remember the good stuff—Mum’s laugh the first time I beat her at tennis, Dad’s voice when he’s surprised, Maxy headlocking me in a hug, my sister twirling through a field, Remi flopping on my bed, Archie grinning like he knows the exact words I’m thinking—I know I’ll be okay.
I can carry the memories like amulets, close to my heart.
They can protect me, guide me and reassure me.
Everything good is a glimpse of what else lies out there.
There’s already so much to be thankful for; imagine what else I can find if I slow down and open my eyes.
Even if I don’t have a job anymore, even if Archie won’t speak to me, even if I never have an excuse to buy another pie at Fatima’s, I know now that I’ll survive. It’s what I do.
When Dad shifts away from me, his hands still holding my shoulders, there’s a tiny tear in the crease of his eye. He looks between the carboard bag and his own scruffy polo. ‘You don’t like the Sharkies top?’
‘Dad,’ I laugh quietly. ‘You look like ScoMo.’
Dad chuckles, wipes the moisture from his eyes. ‘You’re a winkipop, Mill.’
I smile. ‘So are you,’ I reply. My voice is wobbling with happiness and sadness all at once. Gratitude, loss, contentment and fear. I feel everything.
Dad puts his arm around my shoulder and we start walking towards the kitchen, where I know we’ll have an arrowroot biscuit and a cup of tea in a mug from the secret drawer.
I won’t mention anything about The Daily Mail and their preposterously long and often inaccurate headlines because Dad will love me regardless.
We wander down the hallway, past the wedding photos, past the holiday snaps, past Maxy’s framed pre-school drawing that makes us all look like penis-heads.
I laugh quietly to myself. I’m so mind-blowingly grateful my family are such winkipops.
‘So what actually does bring you to the area?’ Dad asks as we emerge into the kitchen.
The light is streaming in from the deck. The folded tea towel on the oven handle is as tattered as his polo shirt.
For the first time in ages, the reply comes easily. There’s only one answer. ‘You,’ I say.