Daisy screams again.Ella groans.‘Okay.I gotta go.I’ll call you once I know more, okay?’
‘Yeah.Sounds good.’
I hang up and walk back into the gym where Issy and June are now deep in a spirited argument about Greg.June is calling him a man-child.Issy is defending him.I sit down on the plastic bench beside them, silent, knee bouncing, brain spinning.
Issy shoots me a look that says,Can you please take Mum out of here before I lose it?
June’s about to launch a new round of complaints when I shoot to my feet and grab my keys.‘I’ve gotta go.’
If I stay one more second in this room – full of yelling kids and old wounds – I might break in half.And I need what’s left of me intact.
NINETEEN
Ella hands me a fresh swaddle.‘She’s colicky, so just wrap her up like I showed you and rock side-to-side.’
I wrestle the screaming baby into a blanket burrito and gently start rocking her.‘You’re lucky you’re cute,’ I mutter, but it’s hopeless.Daisy’s voice is strong and surprisingly acoustic.She kicks her legs in response, and I take that as a thank you.
It’s day three of this trip, and I’m not sure if I’m dehydrated or just slowly losing my mind, but somehow being back here feels … weirdly okay.
Which is annoying, because I’m not supposed to like it.The dirt is too red, the sun too aggressive, and the location too isolating.Yet there’s something about the vastness of it all – the way the land stretches out endlessly, untouched by skyscrapers and bustling traffic.It’s the kind of remoteness that lets me sleep better but also drives me insane from the lack of reception.
Around us, the living room is chaos.Suit bag, nappy bags, a forgotten sock on the coffee table, and Darcy muttering something about losing his belt.
‘It’s in the nappy bag,’ Ella calls without looking up.
‘I already checked—’
‘Check again.’
He sighs and rummages deeper in the bag, eventually pulling out the belt with the sheepish expression of a man caught doubting his wife.
Ella hands me a spare swaddle and crouches next to the suitcase.‘Okay, nappies are packed.Wipes.Toys.Sanity.Have we forgotten anything?’
Darcy looks at her, face full of affection.‘We’re good to go.’
‘And your parents definitely have the spare bassinet in their car?’
‘Yep.Mum called me just before to say the bassinet is set up in the spare room, and she and Dad are helping Luke get the house ready now.’
‘Right.’She stands and brushes her hands together.To me, she says, ‘You’re still okay to follow in your rental car?Just in case Daisy has a meltdown and we have to leave earlier.Then Darcy can stay back if he wants.’
‘Yep.’I nod and pretend that I’m not internally freaking out about the fact that I really should’ve rescheduled this weekend visit and that Luke might genuinely hate my guts.And not in a flirty ‘I secretly want you’ way – in a ‘Please leave before I call the police’ kind of way.And what if this …plan– this uninvited, babysitting crashing of a funeral – turns out to be not just insane, but also wildly inappropriate?What if I get there and someone asks, ‘How did you know the deceased?’and I have to say, ‘I had emotionally complicated sex with his son.’
Oblivious, Ella gives me grateful smile and takes the crying baby off my hands.‘You’re a gem.’
We make the two-hour drive to Luke’s farm with no signal, no bars and no hope.
I drive slowly behind Ella and Darcy, eyes scanning the dusty stretch of dirt for anything remotely gate-like.There’s only bush.Endless, barb-wired, anxiety-inducing bush.I’m about five secondsfrom throwing the whole plan out the window when I see it.A modest gate.A small, handpainted sign nailed to a post:Wirra Station.
My stomach drops.I stop the car and watch Ella get out and open the gate.Both cars cross the cattle grid before Ella closes the gate behind me and climbs back into her car.It’s a whole process, made longer by the pounding in my chest and the faint whisper of ‘You’re not invited’ crawling under my skin.Which shouldn’t bother me as much as it does.But what if I want to be here?
I shake the thought and keep driving.
The dirt road winds through the landscape, soft and dry and full of existential dread.Every bend, every tree stump, makes me reconsider.
Then – finally – I see it.
A house.Modest and charming.Single storey, white timber with a wide wraparound porch that sags in the middle, tired from too many years of holding up grief and weather.Several cars are parked neatly out front – the quiet, respectful funeral kind of parking that screams that no one’s talking above a whisper right now.
