The Minnow (19 page)

Once when I was small, Dad took me skiing. I was only three. He and Paul Bunter had an army mate who owned a small cabin in the Southern Highlands, about an hour's drive from the snowfields. Mum and Sarah stayed behind; I'm not sure why, but I think it was because I was jealous of Sarah. Mum probably wanted some time to bond, without me interfering.

It was freezing outside, but the cabin was warm. It had sets of bunk-beds along one wall and an enormous fireplace along the other, which Dad and Paul kept stoked with huge logs, day and night. There wasn't much of a kitchen, just an old sink and a small table. We cooked sausages on the coals, and sometimes Dad made stew. We wrapped potatoes in foil and cooked them in the ashes. We ate in front of the fire, the three of us squeezed into the only sofa. Sometimes I sat on the rug. I would inch closer and closer to the hearth, until Dad said my face was so red I was in danger of getting a tan.

During the day, Dad and Paul went skiing. Sometimes I went with them, strapped to Dad's back. He held his ski jacket upside down and I put my legs through the sleeves. He buttoned the waistband of the jacket around his neck and tied the sleeves around his waist. I was snug-as-a-bug and I loved it. The air was icy-cold on my face, especially when we were flying down a hill. Once, when Dad and Paul wanted to trek further up the mountain, they left me guarding the pile of ski jackets. I must have snuggled in and fallen asleep, because I have a clear memory of waking up as they pulled their jackets out from under me.

No one warns you about childbirth. No one tells you that no matter how hard you try to stop it, it is happening with or without your consent. I went to the classes. Jonah and I did all the panting and hand-holding and counting. I listened to the mothers who had done it all before. I watched a disgusting movie. None of it helped. None of it prepared me.

‘Annabel? What are you doing at West Wrestler?'

‘Tom?'

‘Yes,' I say.

‘Hi,' she says, beaming at me.

I can't think what to say. Her beauty has me tongue-tied.

Suddenly we're standing at the end of the pier. The sky is cloudy and the water is choppy and dark. ‘Hold my hand,' she says.

‘What are you going to do?' I ask.

She doesn't answer. She has a firm hold of my wrist. ‘No!' I shout, as I realise what's happening. But it is too late.

My body twists as it hits the water. A sharp pain shoots up my legs and across my back. I reach around, frantically searching the gloom, but Annabel has disappeared. Fear grips my heart. My lungs are filling. My body is being pulled under the pier. It is dark and foreboding. Dark green sedge-weed brushes against my face.

Sarah has her arms around my neck. She is holding tight—too tight—and her weight is dragging me further from the house. I can see small fish and bits of rubbish, but the water is so murky that it's difficult to tell if the fish are alive. My hair catches on something. The water is rushing past, but my tangled hair keeps me fastened to the spot. Something large hits us, a log maybe, or a fencepost. The impact loosens Sarah's grip and the floodwater pulls her away. I feel around for her. I try to call her. Sarah! Sarah! But I'm being pulled underwater, and the sound echoes in my ears.

The water is cold. Too cold. My body is shivering. I'm unable to get my breath, unable to focus. The current is relentless. My hair feels like it's being ripped from my head. Branches are flying past, things are banging into me. I'm gripped by a panic so fierce that, for the briefest moment, I almost succumb. Suddenly I feel something hard, solid, a rock maybe, and I push against it. I use the momentum to pull my hair free, wrench myself to the surface and take a gulp of air.

Pain is pulling at my body. I wish it would stop.

I open my eyes. I've been transferred to the birthing suite.

The room is not what I expected; just a bed and an adjoining room with a bath. There is a chair in the corner, one of those ugly recliner types. At the moment Papa is sitting in it. Soft music is playing; something wishy-washy, no doubt calming, but I think I'd rather something loud and unforgiving.

A nurse enters. She seems oblivious to my pain.

‘How are we doing?' she asks, not looking at me. She lifts my wrist and feels my pulse. My pyjamas are soaked. My hair is wet. Bits of sedge-weed are dangling from my sleeve.

‘I think I'd like to get in the bath,' I say.

‘Okey-dokey,' she says, ‘I'll get that started.'

She swans past Papa and into the bathroom and turns on the taps. She pulls towels and different bits and pieces out of a cupboard and places everything on a bench that runs along the wall. When she's done, she walks back over to me and places her hand on my arm. I imagine she thinks she's being comforting.

‘Don't try getting in by yourself,' she says, patting me like I'm a puppy. ‘I'll be back in a minute with the midwife.'

‘I'll be off then,' says Papa, standing up and straightening the chair.

‘Great.' My tone is sarcastic and I want to say more, but a contraction is building.

‘I'm sorry, Tom, but this really isn't my thing.'

I try to answer, but I'm doubled over. Noise fills my head. I manage to sit up only to see that the bath is overflowing, water is halfway up the sides of the bed. I reach for the call button, press it again and again.

‘Please, Mum,' I say, in case she's listening, ‘I can't do this on my own.'

Someone takes my hand. ‘It's okay,' says a woman's voice, ‘you're safe with me.' I try to see who it is, but my eyes won't focus.

‘I can't do this,' says my voice in a whisper.

‘Yes, you can,' she soothes. ‘Just relax and let your body remember.'

‘No one's coming,' I say, handing her the call button.

The room is swaying. The bed is soaked. I can't get my breath.

Softly, and without much effort, I feel myself slipping away. I have the vaguest feeling that I might actually be drowning.

The bath was filling nicely by the time the midwife arrived. She took one look at me and called the nurse. When neither of them could reach me, they called Dr Patek.

They cut me open. I have a scar along my belly.

Mum taps me on the shoulder.

‘Sweetie,' she whispers, ‘time to get up for school.'

I'm already awake, but I roll over and moan and stretch.

I open my eyes and Dr Patek is looking at me from the foot of the bed.

‘It was too much for you, Tom, and you upped and left,' she explains.

‘I know,' I answer.

‘Have you seen the Minnow?' she asks.

‘Yes.'

‘She's beautiful.'

‘I think so too,' I say. The room is still. I try to move but everything hurts.

‘Have you been out of bed yet?' she asks.

‘I'm not sure. Everything is a bit of a blur.'

‘That's okay, Tom, you've been through quite an ordeal.' She is clasping a folder against her chest. She takes a step closer, so that she's standing to the side of my bed. ‘I'll be back tomorrow,' she says, alternately patting and smoothing the hospital blanket, ‘and I'll talk to the nurse about getting you up and moving around.'

They're keeping the Minnow under observation for another twenty-four hours. Papa is probably at the nursery, staring at her.

My curtains are closed but the room isn't dark. I have no idea if it's day or night. I should have asked Dr Patek the time. And the date.

The Minnow looks like Dad. She has his dark olive skin and his eyes. I'm glad about that. I didn't want her to look like Bill.

Everyone says she has my mouth. I keep holding her up to the mirror and there it is: my mouth, in miniature. It's weird seeing a feature you're so familiar with on someone else.

We stayed at West Wrestler for most of January. Dr Patek wanted to make sure we were okay before we went home. There were a few complications. I'm not really sure what they were; it was just too much information. They tell you all this stuff when you're half shot with pain killers and hooked up to a drip. God knows how you're supposed to take it all in. But suffice to say we're fine now. Suffice to say; don't you love that? I got it from one of the tea ladies. Helen. Heavenly Helen, I called her. She had lots of quaint expressions. She fell in love with the Minnow and cried when we left. I promised to send her updates. I told her I would send a photo every month. I'm really hoping Nana buys me a camera.

Jonathan has done everything. I think I want to adopt him, but I don't have the heart to tell Papa. ‘Jonathan, you're amazing,' I say, trying not to cry. He has filled my room at Jonah's with baby stuff: a bassinette, a change table, a beautiful baby wardrobe.

‘Jonathan, you're
amazing
,' I repeat, this time with added emphasis.

‘It's your grandmother,' he says. ‘She wrote lists, and I just followed orders.'

‘Don't be so modest, Jonathan Whiting. You're the kindest man I know.' I place the Minnow in her bassinette and give Jonathan a hug. I realise I haven't hugged him before. You've got to hand it to the Minnow; she changes everything.

‘Oh my god!' I shout as I realise the tiny cot that was Jonah's old bed has morphed into a double. ‘Are you serious?' I let go of the hug and leap onto the bed.

‘The bed was my idea,' says Jonathan, looking a bit embarrassed.

‘Well, I think it's an excellent choice,' I say, mimicking Heavenly Helen, and Jonathan laughs.

‘Come on, Tom. Your grandmother will be counting the minutes.'

‘Oh, darling, bring her here,' says Nana, arms outstretched, eyes focused on her grandchild. Nana is in bed. Ever since her stint in the nursing wing, she spends most mornings in bed, sometimes not rising till after lunch. She hated it at first, said it made her feel old. But it seems to be doing her good. She looks rested.

‘Oh, she's beautiful,' Nana says, cuddling the Minnow. ‘And the spitting image of your mother.'

‘Nana,' I say, ‘she is nothing like Mum and you know it.'

‘But she has your mouth, and I'm sure you got that from my Angie.'

Nana is holding the Minnow so close to her face, it's a wonder she can actually focus. ‘I'm so happy I could bust a gut,' she says, pushing her nose into the Minnow's neck. I've never seen Nana so happy.

‘Isn't she just the most perfect child, Jono?'

‘Yes, Valerie, she most certainly is,' says Jonathan.

‘I'm going outside for a bit, Nana. Can I leave her with you?'

‘Of course, darling, take as long as you like.'

I lean forward and kiss the Minnow's forehead, then I kiss Nana's cheek. As I move out of the way, Jonathan moves in and sits on the edge of the bed.

I find Papa on the veranda. I take the seat beside him.

‘She's beautiful,' says Papa.

‘The Minnow? Or are you talking about Nana?'

His face crumples. ‘I love her more than anything, you know.'

‘I know.'

‘I can't let go.'

‘Then don't,' I say. ‘Anyway, what's the point? There's nowhere you'd rather be.'

Old Mrs Beakle shuffles past. ‘Hello, Seth,' she says. She ignores me.

‘Poor old thing,' says Papa.

‘Don't change the subject.'

Papa takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly. For the first time I realise how strange it is to hear a dead man breathing.

‘Jonathan is a good man.'

‘He's
amazing
,' I agree. But I've said it a little too quickly and with way too much emphasis. An imaginary baby mobile has filled the space between us. Mini speech bubbles are bobbing on strings, filled with words to describe Jonathan: Amazing. Good. Clever. Thoughtful. Kind. Lovable. Alive.

I hope Papa can't see it.

‘You know he can never replace you in my heart,' I say.

‘Thanks, sport, but this isn't about you and me.'