Page 25 of Power Moves
‘Birdhouse, I know. Jessie told me.’
‘No, that’s already finished,’ says Dad proudly. ‘Now, I’m on to a footstool.’
He swings his camera around to show me but the screen is eighty per cent thumb. I coo in appreciation anyway.
‘Our facilitator, Alex, reckons I’m a natural,’ he adds. ‘Says I should try a chair next, and apparently that’s really advanced.’
‘Oh, Dad that’s great,’ I say earnestly. Us three kids grew up playing tennis alongside Mum, with Dad umpiring on the sidelines. I’ve always thought Dad needed a hobby of his own, especially now that he doesn’t have Mum keeping him busy anymore.
As soon as I think it, more guilt spikes me in the chest.
‘Should we try for another family barbeque next Friday?’ Dad asks.
‘I can’t, I’m in Wagga.’
‘The Friday after that?’
‘I can’t, I’m at a business conference, and then the next Friday is the election debate.’
‘The Friday after?’
We go on like this until we finally land a date that’s free in my calendar. It’ll be so close to the election by then that I’ll probably have to cancel that too, but right now I can’t bear to crush the hope in Dad’s eyes.
‘Lock it in,’ says Dad, brightening. ‘I’ll make it super special for you.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I say miserably.
As Dad hangs up, his face is replaced by my lock-screen photo—the five of us at Wet’n’Wild on my tenth birthday. Big toothy grins, neon swimmers, blue skies in the background and Mum’s and Dad’s arms around three dripping-wet kids. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I swipe the photo away to find I’ve received three texts during my phone call with Dad.
Kendra (ABC):Can we get Minister on live at 8.10 tomorrow AM? Let me know
Bryan:Crazy idea. Sushi tonight? I have something to ask you x
Petria:You’re sure you don’t need any help?
I fire off my responses.
Sure!
Sure!
Sure!
I’m a yes person. It’s an innate response—until I realise what I’ve said to Bryan and have to quickly backtrack:Sorry, Bryan. Sent wrong message to wrong person. Was doing too many things at once (story of my life! LOL). (I still do not understand why, when texting Bryan, I seem to become a one-hundred-year-old person who writes LOL.)
I hammer out part two of the text:Sushi sounds good but unfort can’t do tonight. Too much on at work. Will be in touch soon. Hope you’re well!
I listen to the message swoosh into the wide blue yonder and put my phone face-down on the desk. With a weary sigh, I bury my head in my hands. Through the windows I can see people filing like ants from their grey office buildings,marching to train stations and pubs, ready for their weekends. The anticipatory hum of Friday night is in the air. The light outside is golden and warm but it’ll be espresso-dark by the time I get out of here.
I still have so much to do.
CHAPTER 13
Remi:On a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you love me?
Me:11 obvs (up from a hard 6 during your vegan era—nojudgement re saving animals, but dude, the farts)
