October 20, 2017

Dear Bella,

It’s been so long—nearly two years since you died.

And you know what the fucked up thing is?

The fucked up thing is that they said the pain would stop. They said I’d stop missing you so goddamn much—but I haven’t.

I miss you when I get home from work and you’re not here.

I miss you when something funny happens, and I want to tell you—but you can no longer laugh.

I miss you when I think of your body in that white bikini, when want calls to me … and I let it come. I welcome the torture, let it swamp my body like a murky ocean, one without relief.

Only that’s a goddamn lie.

A little less than eighteen months ago, I wasn’t strong enough to withstand my need. I let that want consume me.

I made a mistake. A mistake I only realised the true extent of today.

Bile churned in my throat. I stopped writing, staring out at the marina from the table on the balcony. Water lapped at the bows of the boats resting in the water. A helicopter clapped its blades overhead, taking a pilot in from the sea. I breathed deep. Relax.

The ocean was always able to calm me like that. And after the phone call I’d received earlier today, I sure needed calming.

The woman I was with—for just one short moment, I could pretend she was you. And I missed you, and that doesn’t make it right, but it was the day our baby was supposed to be born and I just—I made a mistake. I slept with her, even though all I knew about her was the fact that her hair reminded me of yours, that her smile was kind of the same.

I hate myself for that.

I’ve hated myself for that for the last seventeen and a half months, but not as much as I do now.

She called today. She’s called before, asking for money, threatening to go to the press and tell them how I called your name while we—

My hand stopped. While we’d what? Fucked? That was all it had been, but in my mind, she’d been my dead wife. I’d made love to a ghost.

She’s blackmailed me ever since. Used the media’s fascination with me as an excuse to get coin for whatever the hell she wants.

But now, she doesn’t want money.

Now, she wants me to look after her child for three long months while she goes to jail for drug possession.

Sounds simple, right? I should just say no. Or I should let her go to the local papers, the breakfast television shows and tell them all how I betrayed the memory of my wife, the memory of our son, with someone who turned out to be little more than a hooker, using that one night to rob me again and again and again.

Only, that wasn’t the only bombshell Giselle dropped.

I took a deep breath, glancing inside past the dining table at the bottle on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Whiskey. Just one drink …

No. I didn’t do that anymore. Not since back then.

Back then, I’d used alcohol to numb my pain. I’d locked myself in my apartment, unwilling to see the light of day.

Now, I treated my body like a temple. Life was too short to fuck it up.

But somehow, I’d managed to do that anyway.

When Giselle had asked me to look after her daughter, I’d laughed. “Giselle, be serious. How could you trust me with your child? You don’t even know me.” Was she out of her mind?

“I know enough.” Giselle’s voice wavered. “I know you have money. You’re kind. And you’re a good … good role model.”

I was sure she’d meant to stop at money. “Huh.”

“Look, she’s just an infant, Cameron. And the only other person in my life I trust is Rita, and—”

“Quit saying I’m in your life.”

“And she’s a stripper. She works nights. She can’t look after a kid.”

“Giselle, get off whatever crack you’ve been smoking and leave me the hell alone.” I couldn’t believe she was trying to pull this crap with me again. “I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. And even if I did, my apartment isn’t really the place for a small child.”

“It was going to be.” Her voice was quiet.

Quiet, but it hit me louder than the roar of a lion.

It was going to be.

Now, as I looked at the letter, that familiar dread rolled in my gut once more.

What if this is your chance to make up for it all?

It was a quiet voice, but the words shouted their message, loud and clear.

I didn’t know that I could ignore them.

I didn’t know that I could let this chance go.

My pen hovered over the paper. How was I going to write this? How could I put this new hell into words?

I have long-service leave due. Somehow, Giselle knew that. Or, maybe she didn’t. Maybe she just thought I’d figure something out.

I don’t want to say yes, Bella. Not when if things were right, we’d have a kid who was nearly one and a half by now. You’d be pushing him on the swing. I’d be throwing him in the air as we played in the rock pools at the beach. We’d be one of those picture-perfect families you see in photo frames at Target.

But then Giselle told me the kicker. The real guts of her argument.

My phone buzzed from its spot on the counter.

I jumped, the sound too loud in the quiet of the room.

As I stood to get it, I balled up the piece of paper and threw it in the trashcan, just like I did every letter I tried to write my wife.

The therapist had said it would be good for me, but I always seemed to find myself stuck. I always struggled to find words just like some days, I struggled to find air to breathe.

I checked the name on the phone before picking it up. Mack.

“Hey.”

“Hey, man. How you doing after … what happened?” He’d been with me when Giselle had called. He knew what she’d had to say.

“You know …” I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see.

“Because I have an idea,” he said. “Meet me out the front of your joint in half an hour.”

The call ended, and I placed the phone back on the counter, headed to the shower.

That letter never left my mind.

Not as I towelled myself off.

Not as I tugged a shirt over my head.

Not as I grabbed my wallet and keys, shoving them in my pockets before walking out the door.

Because this time, I knew what I should have written next—I just didn’t have the balls to do it. I didn’t have the guts to put pen to paper and tell the great love of my life why I was considering Giselle’s bizarre request.

Because I’m the baby’s father.

* * *

“You’re not going to regret this.”

I glanced across the car to Mack. A wicked grin lit his round face, his red beard glinting in the afternoon sun. “You think?”

“Mate, I am sure of it.” He slapped the wheel as the vehicle began a steep descent down a hill. Houses towered on either side of us, red tiles poking out amongst spots of green, and in front—ocean. Ocean, blue and glorious and forever, stretching across the horizon. It felt like we were driving right into it.

When we reached the beach, Mack turned left and then left again, taking us down a street that meandered this way and that with no seeming rhyme or reason until he pulled up out front of a small cottage. A wooden verandah stretched across the front of whitewashed walls and blue-framed windows.

“Wow.” I shook my head. “It’s—”

“Exactly the same as when we were kids, right?” Mack clapped my shoulder as the car shuddered to a stop. “Mum and Dad said the holiday renters all take pretty good care of it.”

“Clearly.” I opened the door and got out of the car. The fresh sea breeze reached my nose, and I breathed it in. Summers at the beach with Mack and his family—they’d been some of the best of my life.

Maybe this one could be the same.

The thought seemed almost laughable.

I followed Mack inside. His shoulders seemed to touch either side of the doorway.

The living room was tiny, with a blue couch and a small coffee table, and a television hanging on one gaily painted yellow wall. I ran my hand over the soft suede material of the armchair in the corner. It was funny how time did that—made your memories larger than life.

“The third bedroom has room for a crib, if you wanted to grab one of those portable ones on the way down. And everything’s nice and childproof—no glass coffee tables for a kid to hit its head on. No bottles of whiskey for it to drink.” Mack narrowed his blue eyes.

I glared at him. “You know I’ve got past that.”

“I know. I just … just making sure.” He nodded. “Anyway, I know Giselle said if you take the child you should stay at her place, but I thought things might be nicer for you here. Nearer the beach. Nearer to home.”

“Nearer for you to come check in on me?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Nearer for your buddy Mack here to help you out if you ever need a baby break.” He winked.

It wasn’t the worst idea. Being closer to him, closer to home—closer to Bella.

That was important to me. That was what was right.

And I always tried to do what was right.

“Mack …?”

“Hmm?” He opened the fridge door, letting loose a low whistle. “I really should clean this out …”

“Do you think I should take the kid?” I asked.

His face turned serious. “Mate, I think you gotta do what’s right for you. I can’t make that call for you.”

I nodded. I knew he couldn’t.

But some decisions were so damn hard to make.

“Why don’t you go for a walk down the road? Go check the surf, think about the good ol’ days while I tidy the place up a bit? You know, in case you decide to look after her and want to stay here.” Mack nodded to the windows, the beach out there beyond them.

“Sounds good,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. Air. I needed air.

Now.

The walk to the ocean took just eight short minutes. Each one gave me time to reminisce. Time to reflect on all the things in my life that were changing. A baby. I had … a baby. I was someone’s father.

My phone beeped from my pocket and I pulled it out.

Mack: Wanna grab some beer while you’re down there? Cleaning’s thirsty work.

I typed out a quick reply, then started the short walk to the bottle shop. A group of women stood out the front, congregated around a van. I turned my head, staring at the ocean again to avoid their gazes. Still, their whispers reached me.

“Is that him?”

“I think that’s him.”

“Poor guy. I can’t imagine …”

I shoved the door to the shop open, the bell above it not ringing loud enough.

Always, I heard those whispers. Always.

My eyes ran over the coloured bottles of beers in the fridge. Which one would I get? Pale ale? Lager? Will you look after your child while Giselle’s in jail?

“Well I’m telling you, Bentley, that you don’t get to tell me how I live my life. You don’t get to tell me anything!”

I turned my head.

Whoa.

A woman walked into the bottle shop, her phone pressed to her ear. Fury lit her stormy blue eyes, and her golden–brown hair was wild around her shoulders.

Even in her rage, she was beautiful.

Or maybe she was beautiful because of it.

I shook my head, turning back to the beer. How she looked had nothing to do with me. I was in love with Bella. I only had eyes for Bella.

And yet, as I handed over the money at the counter, as I looped my fingers through the cardboard neck of the six-pack of beer, I couldn’t help looking back. Couldn’t help seeing her one more time.

There was something about her—so full of energy. So full of life.

She was wild, out of control, where I was slow and measured. She was—wow.

I’d been given a second chance at life. Should I have been more like that? Throwing caution to the wind? Living with no regrets, all in, all the time?

“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath. I couldn’t be that guy. Not when I still missed Bella so, so much.

But as the woman shoved her phone in her pocket, mumbling about men and how useless they were, I managed a smile, my first in a very long time.

Life.

It was a gift I’d been given after that piece-of-shit day.

And now, it was a gift I had to offer someone else.