Deep Wate - Sarah Epstein Page 0,8
erased.
But since I can’t think of a convincing reason to turn Sabeen down, I reply with a smiley face and tell her I’ll be there at six-thirty. She’ll only grill me if I make excuses, and I struggle to keep things from Sabeen. As soon as I see her face I’m like a Catholic in a confession booth, spilling it all and begging for forgiveness. It’s amazing I’ve managed to avoid fessing up about where I was on the night of that storm.
I lay low for an hour until it’s time to head down to the pizzeria, the last gasp of daylight savings encouraging me to walk instead of waiting for a ride from Dad. The hangover from January’s storm is still present in boarded-up windows and hail-damaged cars, in random woodpiles dotted here and there from decades-old trees being chainsawed where they lay. An extreme weather event, meteorologists called it, an effect of our changing climate, as if The Shallows hadn’t already suffered enough with drought and bushfires in the last couple of years. When I spot the string of coloured lightbulbs along the shopfront of The Shallows Pizzeria I’m reminded that things could have been much worse. The Nolans’ family business made it through that wild storm intact. Those blinking lights are a reminder this battling town still has a pulse.
As I pass Shallow Vintage Wares on the town’s main street, I peer inside one of the windows. The shop is full to bursting with old armchairs and table lamps, a labyrinth of tall bookcases heaving with yellowed paperbacks and faded crockery. As kids we’d slip in here and hide under the tables, flicking through comic books and racing wind-up robots down the passageways. Tom’s grandpa, affectionately known to us all as Uncle Bernie, would enlist us to clean the silver and brass trinkets, then treat us all to milkshakes at the bakery across the street.
I nudge open the door and a small bell jingles. I know Tom will be here, organising or tinkering or shifting things around. He told me he was coming home for Easter, and university holidays started today. As if on cue, a lanky figure leans out from behind a filing cabinet. Tom nudges his glasses to the bridge of his nose and squints.
‘Whoa, I almost didn’t recognise you,’ he says. ‘I thought you were a customer.’
Glancing around at the empty aisles, I realise that’s the one thing this shop doesn’t appear to have.
‘Howdy, stranger.’ I grin. ‘Long time no see.’
Tom and I first met here when I was six years old, while my mum was hunting for bedside tables. I wandered to the back of the store where the second-hand toys and children’s books were crammed into a poky corner, and found Tom curled up in a rocking chair reading Harry Potter. He was a watchful kid, two years older than me with pale skin and a thick crop of curly brown hair. As he explained the inner workings of Hogwarts to me, I decided he was the smartest boy I’d ever met.
Tom closes the filing cabinet now and lopes over to me, wiping his hands against his chequered shirt. ‘A week ago you still had hair.’
‘This is the part where you tell me you like it.’
‘It looks awesome,’ he says, holding out his arms for a hug. Just like last week, my arms easily link around his torso with room to spare.
‘You’ve got to let Sally and Liv give you a good feed while you’re here,’ I tell him. ‘You’re fading away since you started living on campus.’
I’m paranoid that everyone living in student accommodation exists on packet soups and two-minute noodles. Tom’s only a couple of months into his Economics degree, and Canberra’s too far away for us to check in and make sure he’s taking care of himself. We caught up for burgers in Sydney last week and he hardly ate anything.
‘It’s the reflux thing,’ he says, rubbing a hand over his chest. ‘Makes it uncomfortable to eat a whole lot.’
‘You promised you’d see a doctor about it.’
‘I will, Mum,’ he says, bugging his eyes at me. ‘Uni’s turning out to be a bit more stressful than I’d anticipated.’
Tom’s studying on a scholarship, so it’s understandable he’s feeling the pressure to do well. He’s expected to maintain a high standard with his marks and attendance, and I know he wants to make his grandparents proud after everything they’ve done for him. Their own son, Tom’s father, is currently serving a