Page 109 of Power Moves
‘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 aboutThe Daily Mailand 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.
CHAPTER 54
It’s been three days since the story broke and I still haven’t been brave enough to read the news. I’m too scared to open my phone. The drizzle outside is obscuring the view from my window but it’s not enough to disguise the silver sedan that has been parked there all day, with an overweight man snoozing at the dash. If I wasn’t so averse to gambling, I’d put money on him being a pap.
What does one do to pass the time when one is not working or exercising? I think Plato would say:One scrolls one’s phone. Alas, that would require a peace of mind I currently lack. Thoughts are careening haphazardly through my brain without pattern or reason. Can I afford rent? I’m hungry. Can I make it up to Archie? I wonder how Rahul is going. And good god! My eyebrows. Why did Jessie not tell me?
I’m peeping covertly through the rain-dotted window when there’s a loud knock at the door. I stumble backwards at thenoise and trip over the couch, bumping my head on the coffee table on the way down.
There’s more thumping. ‘Millsy? Are you okay?’
Oh shit.
I quickly stand up and race for the door as I untuck my trackies from my socks. Just the sound of his voice makes me consider irrational things (contouring of makeup, escaping via drainpipe, rapid baking of guest-worthy treats).
I open the door and my stomach drops. ‘What the hell, Archie?’ He’s holding a microphone in his left hand. ‘Are you here to interview me?’
‘God, no,’ says Archie. He slides past me to get inside. The shoulders of his suit are sheened with mist. ‘It’s a prop. I thought if any paps saw me they wouldn’t be bothered getting pics because they’d think I was getting a scoop.’
‘Deceptive,’ I mutter, shutting the door behind him.
‘I brought you the papers,’ says Archie, pulling four folded newspapers from under his suit jacket.
I feel a sudden pressure at the back of my throat. Pure news. Long-form journalism. The rustle of the printed page; stories that exist without half-hourly updates and keyboard-warrior comments. I might actually cry. This man knows me so well.
‘What are they saying?’ I wince.
Archie hangs his jacket over the armrest of my couch. ‘Petria’s doing her best, but Harcourt is coming across pretty badly. Did you hear him on Lush FM?’
‘A trainwreck,’ I nod gravely.
Archie shrugs. ‘He had it coming.’
