The Soulmate(26)

The fourth time I used my arms to paddle, like he’d showed me. Given the effort he was making, the least I could do was go through the motions, I reasoned.

The fifth time, the wave was more powerful, and I rode it all the way to the shore. Gabe cheered so hard I felt something come undone inside.

He put me on the board again and again, until his lips were blue and his teeth were chattering. After forty-five minutes he suggested I try to stand and, more for his sake than mine, I did. And as the wave propelled the board forward, I found my footing – a lucky accident – and I rode that wave all the way to the shore. The feeling was visceral. Sensual. It was flying.

Gabe lost his mind. He cheered so hard people on the beach all looked to see what the commotion was about. For the first time in a very long while, I smiled.

‘Again?’ he said.

I nodded. That was the thing about Gabe. Yes, he could hurt me. But he was the only one who could make me fly.





23


PIPPA

NOW



I spot my parents from the end of our driveway. They are sitting side by side on the bench on our front porch, next to the boot rack where the girls’ tiny pink gumboots sit beside Gabe’s and my larger ones. I don’t remember them saying they were coming for a visit, but it’s not unusual for them to show up unannounced. They’re at our house a lot, even when we’re not having a crisis. Part of it, I think, is guilt, because last time they’d failed to realise the extent of what had been going on with Gabe until it was too late. Now, I think they are determined to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

Unfortunately, it’s too late.

Mum waves wildly at the sight of us, but Dad continues looking at his folded newspaper; he is almost certainly completing the crossword. His glasses are perched on his nose, and he holds the newspaper in an outstretched arm, both for more effective pondering and to see it better. Mum jabs him with her elbow, presumably to tell him that we’re approaching, but he ignores her.

‘Nana!’ Asha cries, dropping her scooter to launch herself at Mum.

I feel an overwhelming urge to do the same, to feel the soft warm comfort of her, for my problem to be of a size and shape that my mother can fix with a hug. I killed a woman, Mum. Not directly, but indirectly. Do you still love me?

Freya takes the time to return her scooter to the shed before greeting her grandmother.

By the time Gabe and I reach the house, both girls are sitting in Mum’s lap, interrupting each other as they talk about preschool, about how it was their friend Liam’s birthday today, about how their friend Isla burned her hand on the stove at home and you should never touch things that are hot. Mum appears riveted by each new subject as she toggles back and forth between the girls.

‘Conspicuously and tastelessly indecent,’ Dad says without looking up. ‘Six letters.’

‘Vulgar,’ Gabe replies. He’s always been freakishly good at things like crosswords.

Dad frowns at the newspaper a moment, then nods and starts pencilling it in. ‘Good man.’

When he finally looks up, he’s smiling. But immediately his grin falls away. ‘Are you feeling all right, Pip?’

Mum, Gabe and Dad look. I do, in fact, feel unwell. Clammy and cold. My stomach feels off. ‘I don’t feel the best actually.’

Mum stands, letting the girls slide off her lap. She puts a hand to my head. ‘You’re not warm. But there is something going around at the moment. Off to bed with you. We’ll look after the girls.’

I have nothing like the strength to fight her. She is right: I need sleep. I am tired. Bone-tired.

She follows me into the bedroom, turning on the lamps and pulling down the blinds. She kisses my forehead. Then she leaves.

I change into my pyjamas and climb into bed. But sleep doesn’t come.

I wrap the doona around myself more tightly. I am wearing a T-shirt, pyjama pants, underwear and socks, but I feel cold. I wonder if I might really be coming down with something. I feel ill – not in my stomach or my throat or my head; it’s more of a full body ache, an overwhelming heaviness that pins me to the bed, renders me unable to lift so much as a finger.

How many times have I been thrust into this kind of situation? Well, not exactly this kind, but a situation that felt impossible, like something I’d never get beyond. Each time felt acute and breathtaking and, without a doubt, like things couldn’t possibly get worse. But this time it was true.

The walls in the house are thinner than I’d realised. As I lie in bed, I hear the familiar domestic noises with startling clarity – arguments between the girls, negotiations between Mum and Asha about what healthy food she must consume before she’s allowed to eat one of the Freddo frogs that Mum always keeps in her handbag. (At first, those Freddo frogs used to be accepted with delight and gratitude, but now they’d become a noose around her neck. Recently Mum had called me while I was at the supermarket, and when I asked if she needed anything she said, ‘Better get a bag of Freddo frogs to leave in your house. I live in fear of Asha’s wrath if I arrive without one.’) Dad and Gabe are still doing the crossword. It’s soothing to listen to.

‘Edmund Hillary’s sherpa, seven letters,’ Dad says.

Silence. I imagine them pondering it.

Tenzing, I think.

‘Tenzing,’ Gabe says.