I’m so nervous I keep wiping my palms on my jeans. Somewhere up ahead is my brother. I can’t see him, but I hear him call out in his easy way: “Got your fishing license, mate?”
I tap my foot impatiently. Here he is. Cotton shorts because he hates jeans, oversized hoodie that looks warm, dark blue with theDeep Sea Fishinglogo.
“Got your—” Heath glances up at me and freezes, mouth falling slightly open.
“Hey,” I blurt eagerly. I want to step forward and throw my arms around him, but something tells me not to. I wait instead, wiping my palms on my jeans again. God, what if I’m wrong? What if my brother doesn’t want me here? How many times has he saved me over the years? And look at me now, running straight back to him, hoping he’ll save me once again.
It’s been a few years since I’ve seen Heath. I came back four years ago for Jonah’s birth, sat rigid on the waiting room chair, thinkingabout the new addition. We don’t add to the Greenwood name. We subtract. Mum. Dad. Me, in a way. Heath extended the bloodline when I wanted it to drip down to nothing. But my nephew arrived, squalling like a winter wind, and it was right.
Heath’s a father now, but to me, he’ll always be that overburdened teenager, drowning in slow motion. He stepped up without being asked, skipped meals so I wouldn’t have to, blocked my bedroom door with the dining room chair when Dad came home drunk and vicious.
It made Heath serious beyond his years. He doesn’t laugh or trust easily, and he’s slow to let his own needs show.
He’s forty-one now, and although he doesn’t look older, he looks harder somehow. His neck, chest, and shoulders are solid, and his face has that weathered look that only men who work on the sea seem to get.
The little boy in front gives us a curious look, and I can feel the man behind me becoming impatient. But Heath doesn’t notice. Or care. His eyes soften, filling with tears, and I exhale with relief. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he wraps his arms around me, his left hand cradling the back of my head. This is Heath. An open palm to my father’s fist.
He slowly pulls back. Neither of us know what to say. There’s a lot of blood under this bridge.
“Got your fishin’ license?” he finally asks, smiling.
“I’m not fishin’,” I tell him. “I just wanted to see you.”
I step forward until my shoe touches his boot. “I might need to stay with you for a bit…”
He nods once, places a hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward our family boat.
He does not ask why I’m back. Of course he doesn’t.
We’re good at keeping secrets.
—
I climb aboard theDeep Sea,teeth clenched. Dad’s been gone for over twenty years, yet my body still watches for him. Everywhere. Trauma lingers.
This boat, like his fishing knife, wasn’t just his possession. It was part of him.
Heath welcomes the tourists aboard. “Ya gonna catch a big one today, mate?” He smiles over his shoulder to the blond kid, who nods eagerly.
How different things are now. Dad tolerated the tourists, though most never booked with us twice. Sometimes they’d pose proudly with their catch, and he’d snatch the fish up, plunge his knife through its belly, and rip the guts out with his bare hands. I’ll never forget the horrified looks on their faces. He always did enjoy taking what was rightfully yours.
Other times he’d hang around the railing, telling inappropriate jokes to the pretty women while their uneasy partners looked on, wondering if they should say something.
I stand behind the captain’s seat, breathing in all these time-machine scents. Water. Brine. Blood. Every now and then, Heath’s anxious gaze falls on me. I give him a tight smile, and I know he understands. The secret language of siblings.
When Dad owned this boat, it was blood-splattered, smeared with fish innards and squid ink. He painted it in rough coats of navy and black until the boat looked like a giant oil stain on the ocean.
But then he shot through, or got himself killed, depending on what you believe, and all we were left with was the mortgage payments and this goddamn boat. I urged Heath to sell it and pay off a good chunk of the mortgage, but he wanted to keep it. He makes his living off the sea, like our father, and his before him. One day, Jonah will usher tourists aboard this boat, hatefully or happily, I’m not sure yet.
“Surprised you’re going out tonight,” I tell him. “Thought you weren’t doing the night charters anymore.”
“I’m not,” he says softly, nodding at the tourists. “But it’s nearing the end of the school holidays and…” He hesitates, lowering his voice. “It was hard to say no.”
What he means is, the money was hard to turn down. My brother’s no fool; if there’s money on the table, he’s taking a seat.
I hesitate before asking carefully, “How’s Jonah? Tara?”
“Good, good.” Heath’s reply is automatic, his smile tight. “They’re up in New South for a bit.”
