NINE
Jess pulls away from the kerb, her taillights fading as I open the door to Kath’s townhouse, right into what appears to be one of the episodes Dad described. The sun has set, night creeping in fast. My guess is the lack of sleep is to blame for the current state of the household.
“Calm down, Trudy,” Dad pleads, hands raised to placate Mum as she cries in the hallway. “Give him space to work through it.”
“What’s going on?” I drop my bag beside the stairs and look up to where the agonised wails of Briar drift down.
“He refused to have a bath,” Mum explains, tears fresh on her cheeks.
“So?” What does it matter? One day isn’t going to be the end of him. “Is he ready for bed?”
“He keeps taking his pyjamas off,” Dad says. “I tried to help, but he just screamed at me.”
Shit. “Let me try.”
Mum protests as I start up the stairs, but one look at her explains why Briar is so worked up: he mirrors her behaviour. Kids are pretty simple when you break it down—the more you can stay calm, the more they will as well.
Easier said than done, most days, I get that. But isn’t this why we have family, friends, support? So when it gets too much you can tap out?
His cries stutter, his breaths coming short and hard in his distress. I step through Briar’s bedroom doorway, and kick my shoes off. He watches me, tears wet on his chest, his nose a bubbling mess of snot.
“Aunty Mimi?”
“Yeah, buddy?” I soothe, lowering myself to my knees.
“I don’t want to go to bed.”
I nod, making sure he understands that I understand. “I know, but you’ll get tired if you stay up, right?”
He nods, sniffing although it does nothing to clear his nose. At least the tears have subsided.
“How about we deal with this first, huh?” I tap him on the end of the nose, and he stares at me, shocked at the contact.
Step too far? I offer a smile and scoot through to the toilet to get a few squares of paper. He follows me down the hall, surprising me, so I squat down right there and clutch the folded paper to his nose the way I remember Mum doing when we were kids.
“Blow.”
He sniffs.
Dammit. “You have to push it out, mate.”
He frowns, inhales hard, and then manages to sniff again.
Ugh. “Can you do this?” I snort a few times, hoping he gets the picture.
He sniffs three times.
Seriously? Who would have picked this would be the most difficult part of looking after a kid.
“Okay, we’ll do something different.” I squish his nose between the paper and my fingers, pushing what I can out of his nostrils.
Not quite as clear as I’d hoped, but at least it’s not tracking down his face anymore.
“So,” I try, “where are your pyjamas, buddy?”
He frowns, the fight evident in the hard set of his shoulders.
“Hey, even if you don’t go to bed, you gotta keep warm, right?” I rub his cold arm to make my point.
He appears to think my logic over, and then abruptly starts back toward his bedroom. Mum hesitates at the head of the stairs, her look silently asking if everything’s okay. I give her a thumbs up and turn into Briar’s room behind him.
“Which ones are you wearing tonight?”
He pushes things around in his drawer, and comes up with a matching set emblazoned with monster trucks. “These ones.”
“Cool, buddy.”
“Mummy got me these.”
I’ve got no doubt she bought all his pyjamas, and yet, the sentiment has me choked up. “Well, let’s get you wrapped up warm in them.”
He struts across to his bed and climbs on top to wrestle the clothes on. I help him untangle his head hole from his armholes, and then straighten the shirt.
“Perfect.”
Briar steals a yawn, and then hops off to collect a book from his shelves. “Can we read this one?”
I smile as he shows me Fox in Socks, and nod. “Sure.”
Ten very tongue-tied minutes later, I pull the covers up to his waist, and tuck his favourite cuddly toy in beside him. He nestles down into the pillow that absolutely dwarfs his little head and stares up at me with big eyes.
“What’s the matter, buddy?”
He doesn’t have to say anything; I can see it. No matter how tired he is, he’s fighting sleep, and I don’t know why.
“I don’t like going to sleep.”
“Why, though?”
He shrugs, probably unable to find the words for it. “Today was bad.”
Fuck that lump in my throat. “Yeah, buddy. It was.” No point lying about it.
“Will tomorrow be bad too?”
God, how I want to say no. I want nothing more than to stroke his forehead and tell him that today was as bad as it’ll get. But it’s not. He’s got the funeral, the wake if Mum and Dad choose to have one, and the weeks that follow.
First day back at school without Kath there to drop him off and pick him up.
Meals without Kath.
Weekends without Kath.
Car rides without Kath.
Learning how to tie his damn shoes without Kath.
Every goddamn thing without Kath.
“It won’t always be bad,” I say, “but when it is hard, you’ve got me to help you, okay?”
He nods, burying his face into the toy lion.
“Night, Briar.”
I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands as I turn away and step out of his room, pulling the door to so our noise downstairs doesn’t disturb him. Mum looks up from her spot next to Dad on the sofa as I enter the living room. He balances a laptop on their legs, typing something as he concentrates on the screen.
“He settled?”
“Yeah. He’ll be asleep soon.” I gesture to the laptop with my chin. “What are you doing?”
“Your father’s seeing what he can find out about custody rights.”
I frown, the idea that Briar’s father would even show up to contest it not seeming a real possibility. “Has his father made contact?”
Dad shakes his head. “And I doubt he will either. But,” he points to the screen even though I can’t see it, “because he was listed on the birth certificate, it means he has guardianship of Briar. If we wanted to take him back to Australia with us permanently, we’d need to consult his father first.”
“You guys want to take him back to Australia?” Something else I hadn’t even considered, but I guess it makes sense. “Could you handle that?”
Dad’s health is on the decline, as much as he tries to deny it, and Mum isn’t the spring chicken she used to be. A young kid is hard work, and they’re both in their fifties. They can’t be expected to provide for Briar into their sixties, maybe even seventies. What happened to a stress-free retirement?
“What other option is there, Amelia?” Mum snaps. “I’m not having that child put into the courts’ care.”
God no. Neither would I. “Why would he have to be?” He has family all around him. What reason could there be for him to go into the foster system?
“His father was recently incarcerated,” Dad explains. “He might contest for day-to-day care, and although I doubt he’d be granted it, the court might put Briar into the system while the dispute is resolved.”
“That’s such bullshit,” I snap, pacing. “How could they do that to him when he has us?”
“We’re doing our best to avoid any possible dispute by getting ahead now,” Mum says, gesturing to the computer. “If we’re proactive we might have a shot at resolving this before it even gets tabled for discussion.”
“If Briar can’t go with you,” I say, “then why doesn’t he stay with me?” They stare at me as though I’ve asked permission to sell him on the black market. “At least until we work through our options,” I try to appease.
Although we all know the reality is there’s nothing better than what I’ve offered. They’re unable to have him, his father clearly wants nothing to do with him—or Kath made it that way—and he has no other immediate family that we know of.
“I don’t know,” Mum says carefully. “Do you think you’d be up to that?”
“I have to be,” I say simply. “It’s what’s best for him, isn’t it?”
She exchanges a look I can’t decipher with Dad before facing me once more. “Take the next few days to think it over.”
“What did her will say?” I ask. Wouldn’t she have put her preference there? “Who did she want caring for him?”
“She doesn’t have a will,” Dad explains. “We phoned around, enquired today while you were at home, and she didn’t make any provisions.”
So unlike Kath. Then again, who plans on dying at thirty and leaving a kid behind? Most people associate wills with being old and retired—I know I do.
“So Briar stays with me then. Sorted. What now?”
“We plan a funeral,” Mum answers.