Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,17

end up playing whichever old board game had been donated to the shop that week. It became second nature to include Henry in most things, even though Mason didn’t seem thrilled about his little brother tagging along.

Yet, Ivy still didn’t trust me. I was starting to understand it was less about me and more about what I knew.

Henry confided in me. I knew all about the accidents and the arguments, the lean weeks when they could barely afford milk and bread. I was aware of the smashed glassware and missed birthdays, how their power was cut the same week Ivy bought a fancy display cabinet for her collectable plates. It’s why she’s never invited me in any further than her doorstep, why she never holds eye contact with me.

Her gaze drifts away from me now, back to the brick wall.

‘Is there any news about Henry?’

She takes a long drag of her cigarette before answering. ‘No.’

‘I got some new flyers printed. I could drop some off at your house if you need more.’

Ivy shoots me an impatient glance, her red lips pressed thin. She’s always worn red lipstick and matching nail polish like those actresses from the fifties. Uncle Bernie says she was known as ‘a looker’ when she was young; he showed me an old glossy photo of his son – Tom’s dad – with a group of classmates, all dressed up for their Year Ten formal. The girls had big hair and wore pastel taffeta, the boys in matching cummerbunds and rental tuxes. Ivy was the petite blonde in a poufy pink dress with her mouth open wide in laughter, her hand clutching the arm of a square-jawed boy with a mullet. I didn’t have to ask Bernie if that guy was Mason’s father. He had the same broody demeanour, his attention off-camera as though there was somewhere else he’d rather be.

A bald man in paint-splattered overalls peers around the corner of the pub.

‘You’d better get back in here, darl,’ he says to Ivy. ‘Jonesy’s threatening to steal your pokie.’

Ivy pushes herself off the wall, dropping her cigarette and grinding it with the toe of her boot. ‘He won’t if he knows what’s good for him. That’s my lucky machine. There’s a win coming and I’m bloody well owed.’

She almost knocks into me as she passes. The bald man disappears back inside the pub.

‘Should I bring over some flyers?’ I ask quickly.

‘Do what you like,’ Ivy mutters.

‘I thought maybe—’

She jerks around so quickly my words dissolve in my throat.

‘You thought what?’ she says. ‘Got another opinion, have you?’

I take a subtle step back.

‘Sitting up there on your high horse with your nose in everybody’s business. You’re the one who put ideas in Henry’s head.’

‘I—’

‘Ever since he was little. Always droning on about Sydney like the grass is greener. Telling him one day he could get away from here.’

‘I just meant—’

‘How is it any of your business?’ Ivy says. ‘You drift in and out of town with your bossy little opinions, making waves.’

My skin grows hot with shame. I’ve never been told off by any of my friends’ parents before. I feel offended and tiny and mortified all at once.

Ivy points a finger at me, her red nail slicing the air like a tiny dagger. ‘You don’t get to tell me what I should do about my son.’ She turns to leave, cutting me down with a final glare. ‘It’s your fault he’s gone.’

Ten weeks before the storm

It was almost 11 pm when Mason pulled the car up in front of Rina’s place on Railway Parade. He kept thinking of it as the car instead of his car because it didn’t feel like it really belonged to him. At least, not yet. He’d only been working for Stu Macleod for a couple of weeks, but Stu insisted Mason start driving the Subaru wagon around. ‘Need more space in the workshop,’ he’d said as he handed over the keys. ‘You’ll be doing me a favour by getting it out of the way.’ They’d made some loose arrangements about when the paperwork would get signed over, but for now Stu wanted Mason to get a feel for it and make sure it was the right car for him.

Mason had almost laughed when Stu said that. Any car was the right car for Mason if it put distance between himself and that cage his mother called home.

‘I like the fluffy dice,’ Rina said, batting the two foam cubes dangling from the rear-view mirror.