Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,15

a bush curlew’s shrill birdcall pierces the darkness. Over and over it cries, like somebody screaming my name.

* * *

I sleep later than intended on Saturday morning.

I’m not exactly sure what time I managed to drift off last night, but it wasn’t before I’d created a new detailed list in my Notes app titled Incidents. I listed every strange thing that had happened in the eight or so hours since I’d arrived: the broken window, Mason’s lie, Mason and Rina’s argument, Sabeen and Raf talking about me and Henry, and the figure in the field. Are any of them connected? It certainly kept me awake trying to figure that out.

Now, as I drag myself out of bed, I realise I’ve missed the motel’s continental breakfast service. We usually like to have it delivered to rooms by seven-thirty and it’s now almost nine. My head is woolly with snatches of dreams I can’t quite remember, frustrations I’m not able to place. What I saw in the field last night now seems vague and half-formed. The more I try to picture it, the less certain I am there was anything there at all.

Luisa’s on the computer in the front office when I surface after my shower. She’s wearing a blue and green blouse patterned with peacocks, her chestnut hair bundled high in a messy bun. She offers me a bright smile as she draws a breath. I’m learning that Luisa doesn’t ease into small talk – she launches into things mid-conversation, as though we’ve already been chatting for an hour.

‘I don’t know why the carpet layer thinks I have his invoice when he didn’t send it,’ she says, shaking her head. Dangly earrings dance around her neck, catching the light. ‘Him and that roofing guy, huh? They make so much money from this town after that storm.’

Through the new window pane I spy Dad across the motel forecourt, heading into Room Three with a paint tin in his hand. The ceilings leaked in five rooms that night and Dad’s still working his way through the knock-on effect: warped plasterboard, stained walls, mouldy carpet, damaged wiring. It’s a big hit for a motel that was already struggling.

As though reading my thoughts, Luisa sighs. ‘Your dad says we just have to horsey up the cash and keep moving.’

A smile finds its way to my lips. ‘I think maybe you mean pony up the cash?’

‘Pony, horsey …’ She wiggles her hand in a same-same gesture, then tilts her head. ‘Remember when you and Rina played My Little Ponies? The little horsies with the brushes and ribbons? You made up those funny names for them. Bowtie? Bo-something?’

‘I can’t remember,’ I admit. ‘It was a long time ago.’

Luisa stares wistfully into the distance before her focus shifts back to me. ‘I told Rina you’re here for the holidays, so maybe you girls can catch up for lunch or something?’

There’s a hint of hope in her question, but something tells me her daughter won’t be interested. My childhood bond with Rina was formed around jazz ballet and Disney movies, and once we grew out of those things we sort of grew out of each other, too. While the foundations of our friendship had gradually weakened in the years since I moved back to Sydney, it was what happened a few months ago that prompted the eventual collapse: Rina was upset with me for confronting her boyfriend about what happened at the reservoir. I have no doubt there’s still some ill feeling simmering under the surface.

I lift one shoulder in a half shrug and give Luisa a weak smile. She seems pleased enough with that response.

‘Sorry about missing the breakfast service,’ I tell her. ‘Can I help you out with something else?’

‘Obrigada. I appreciate it.’ She seems pleasantly surprised by my offer. ‘I have today’s room cleaning all covered. But you could post these for me?’ She reaches into a document tray for a small stack of envelopes. ‘And check the post office box? David always forgets.’

She hands me the pile of letters along with a silver key. I slip them into my tote bag.

‘Chloe?’ Luisa says as I’m heading for the door. ‘Did you have a restless night? You look a little washed up.’

This time I don’t correct her gaffe; anyone who can speak two languages fluently is impressive in my book.

‘I’m okay,’ I assure her. ‘I always have a bit of trouble sleeping on my first night back in town.’

‘Ah. Maybe it’s too quiet for you, yes?