The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,135

hers and lift it. I want to cradle her fingers in mine and warm them. I want to inject back into her all the vibrancy of life that has carried her these past seventy-seven years. Emotion curdles in my throat and for a moment I can’t talk. Then I collect myself.

‘Mum, you came down here to prepare yourself for this, didn’t you? You’ve been sending messages to Dad. Maybe you found him here. I guess I’ll never know. If he’s anywhere, I’m sure he’s with you.

‘You’ve been a tremendous mum, you know. Nobody could have been better. When I came back from Antarctica you had enough of your own strife, with Dad just gone, but you propped me up. I couldn’t have come ashore without you . . . And the way you never expected me to talk about things. That’s a gift. You’ve always accepted me the way I am . . .’

I try to press heat into her freezing fingers. ‘It was wonderful growing up at the lighthouse, Mum. You know how I loved it. Just like you did. I appreciate you giving us that opportunity. You were the rock of our family . . . I don’t know what I’ll do without you . . .

‘But you don’t have to worry, Mum. I’m going to be okay. I’ve been doing better lately. Things haven’t worked out with Emma, but I’m looking forward to things now. Not hiding away. I’m going to be all right. And Jan will be fine too. She’s got Jacinta. And you know Gary’s always good. He’s the solid one among us—in more ways than one . . .’ A sniffy gasp of a laugh escapes me.

‘I only wish I’d asked you more about Dad. That’s the only thing I regret.’ I bow my head and drip tears onto her hand. All those years I could have talked about this, and now it has to come surging out when Mum is gone. ‘I wish I knew more about him,’ I murmur. ‘I think he loved me, I’m sure he did. But he was a tough father, Mum. Not easy to love, not like you. I guess it’s hard being a kid. You don’t have the confidence to make things happen. If I’d been more relaxed, I could have spent more time with Dad like Gary did.’

I falter again and look down at Mum’s fingers. The best memory I have of Dad is when I was eight and he showed me how engines work. Over several afternoons he demonstrated how to pull generators apart and put them back together again. We didn’t talk much, but it was comfortable, just doing things with him. I suppose that was his way of teaching me about life. How to fix things.

He was a strange man, my father. So serious about weird things. I remember when we used to play Monopoly on windy cold days. He was so triumphant whenever he won, hotels on all his properties. That was one of the only times I recall him being truly happy, and also when we went fishing down at the cove. When I was small, he’d be pulling in lots of fish, and all I could catch was beach junk. Once we went fishing off the rocks and I kept snagging my line. He had to set up my tackle over and over, and we didn’t catch a thing. He came home so grumpy he didn’t talk all evening and went straight to bed after dinner.

My tears fall onto the sheets. Here I am with my dead mother, and I can’t stop thinking about my father. ‘Mum, there are so many good times I remember with you. Like wandering across to the heath to go birdwatching—all those tawny-crowned honeyeaters, they were my favourites. And sitting on the cliffs watching dolphins out herding fish. You had the wind in your hair, and you looked so smooth and peaceful, as if your heart was singing.

‘You’ve had a grand life, Mum. Not all happy, I don’t suppose. But nobody gets it all good. And it’s the hard stuff that makes you. I’ve been dodging all that for too long, haven’t I?—how to get on with life. But I won’t anymore. I’m going out there, Mum—in my own way. I’m getting into living. The way you’d want me to . . . I love you . . .’

My voice breaks and I give up talking. I linger, holding Mum’s hand, watching the still mask