Page 11 of Rough Stock

Then, on their treks into town, Izzy would happily greet all his past flings by bluntly asking them for the dirt on him. Of course, they’d run away and avoid him after that. Not that he minded that part.

Then Izzy took over the conversation on his hospital visits. She got chummy with his physiotherapist, getting detailed instructions so she could be on his back at home, and she was on a first-name basis with the owners of the local hardware store, stocking up on supplies to fix their house.

Most of all, he’d learned fast not to complain because she’d make him pay for it in ways only a fiendish female could.

Oh how she took pleasure in his pain, doing the smallest things that created the biggest impact, like leaving the plastic on the cheese for his sandwiches, or only cutting the top half of the bread, making a mess of the rest.

‘I got distracted,’ she’d say.

Izzy did get distracted, because her brain did dance in different ways. The problem was he didn’t know if it was truly her disorder or just her need to give him hell.

Like when she took all the remotes and made him read a book, making him lie flat on his camp bed, under a fan with his sore leg elevated to rest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book. Admittedly, the book was so good that he got sucked into the crime story, but then when he turned to read the last three pages to find out whodunit—they were missing. All he found was a smiley face on a yellow sticky note.

‘IZZY!’ He ripped out the yellow note, tossing the book onto the kitchen counter. The paperback slid across the clean bench to rest beside the vase of native bottlebrushes that made the house smell like honeyed nectar. He peered out the clean windows that gave a great view of the landscape.

The whole place was all sparkly and clean, with that fresh honey and eucalyptus smell. But it was also silent.

‘Izzy?’ These days he only needed one crutch to hobble around, but he had to wear thongs because the horrible house guest had hidden his boots somewhere.

Across the now clutter-free verandah, he found Izzy on the far side of the house, gardening.

Izzy had truly lived up to her nickname, Busy Izzy. Like a worker bee, she’d work all hours both day and night, then collapse and sleep, only to wake with a start. She had this mantra,exhaust the body to tame the mind.

But now, as he thought about it, Izzy only cleaned like this when something was on her mind.

Craig had taken on the job of noting down the dates and times for appointments, adding them to the calendar on the fridge. Otherwise, Izzy would forget. Another trick he remembered.

He also knew she needed her specific morning routines again, and soon, to help her cope or she’d burn out fast. ‘Izzy?’

She was busily planting something in the vegetable garden, to make it look more homely for the potential house buyers who’d love the idea of a flourishing garden. So she said. But deep down, he remembered she’d always wanted to try making one, they just never got the chance. Would she be here for the harvest?

Craig still hadn’t agreed to selling the house. But he wasn’t complaining about her cleaning spree—especially not at the risk of her torturing him in some creative way.

His shadow came over her, catching her attention. ‘Izzy?’

‘Hey…’ She stood, pulling out her earphones. Classical music blared through the tiny speakers—listening to classical music helped her mind to focus, another trick he remembered.

‘Why are you looking at me like that? You’re giving off some serious serial killer vibes, you know.’

‘Why did you take the last three pages from the book? I don’t know who did it.’ He held up her sticky note.

She laughed. He used to like that laugh, now he kinda hated it.

‘I didn’t think you’d read that far.’

‘You hid the TV remote and left me no choice.’

‘You only have old movies to re-watch for the thousandth time.’

‘I stream stuff, too.’

‘Probably rodeos.’

‘So?’ He liked rodeos. ‘What do you watch when you’re on your laptop at night?’ He’d caught her a few times, in the middle of the night, huddled at the dining table, chewing on her thumbnail. Izzy only did that when she was worried, and something big must be bothering her to have her working so hard.

‘I’m reading.’

No, it was more than that. Something wasn’t right.

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