Miracle In March (7 page)

Emma liked the appeal of city, country,
and
coast. She was flexible, though since moving back here the bay was starting to cast its spell on her. There was nothing like going to sleep and waking up to the constant hum of ocean waves, instead of tooting horns and ambulances. And, there was nothing like a lunchtime walk along the beach.

She grabbed her lunch bag and a towel, turned over the sign on the door that read ‘gone fishing, back at 2pm', and headed towards the beach.

She hooked her shoes under two fingers and stepped onto the soft, warm sand that was like a carpet of clouds. Being the middle of a school day, the beach was quiet, only a few holiday-goers and locals wandering about and enjoying the water. She laid down her towel on a raised patch of sand near some rocks, and sat cross-legged, tearing the wrapping off her homemade chicken and roast vegetable wrap, courtesy of last night's leftovers.

The breeze tickled her face and although pleasant, foretold of cooler weather coming in the next few weeks as autumn kicked in. She glanced up to the right at Tarrin, the natural rock formation that resembled a man's face. He gazed across the horizon just like her, and he'd adapted to the winds of change without falling down, just like her. He was the perfect example of strength and persistence, of staying true to yourself and facing challenges head on. His face, formed a long time ago from bursts of waves licking at his rocky skin, and years of saltwater spray sculpting every tiny detail, was probably still changing; morphing into a slightly different appearance, but you could never tell. Like a person you see every day, so you don't notice ageing, Tarrin would always be Tarrin: tall, strong, and proud of his homeland.

When Emma finished her wrap she got out her sketchbook and pencil, and smiled. Since taking up drawing again a few years ago, she'd remembered the joy it brought her. She'd cast it aside when childhood's transition into adulthood brought with it ideals of ‘doing better things with her time'. But now, more than ever, she knew that doing something purely for the joy of it was enough of a reason to do it. If not a damn good reason. Life was too short and precious not to use the gifts you'd been given.

She studied the incline of the headland that was home to Tarrin, and the shapes of the rock face surrounding him. She brushed the pencil across the paper in a sweeping motion, capturing the framework of the landscape. The sound of the pencil scratching across the paper brought back memories of silent moments with only her drawing material for company, when her heart would tell her hand how to move, what to draw, and how to create something to visually represent what she needed to express. If emotions were lines, or colours, or shapes, then she'd given birth to many over the past few years. It always surprised and delighted her what a blank piece of paper could turn into. One day she'd do something with all the drawings she'd filed away in desk drawers, but didn't know what.

As Tarrin grew to life on the page, she smiled at a seagull that had approached to steal a few crumbs from her lunch. It flew away, swooping through the sky, and she ached for that kind of freedom.

After a few more minutes of sketching she put her book and pencil away, promising to return to it another day, and stood, stretching her arms up high. She had time for a short walk before she'd have to get back to the office and await the afternoon check-ins.

Emma glanced across the beach to check if James was around. There was a man in the water, but not the same build as James, and there were no little boys Jackson's age. She tilted her replacement cap a little to the side to protect against the glare above the water, and walked along the shore, water lapping at her heels. A large beach umbrella was propped up on the sand ahead, bare feet crossed over each other beneath it. When she neared, she prepared a friendly smile, but then her smile twitched.

‘Oh, hi Lizzie. How's the book?'

Lizzie looked up from behind the open book and her smile flattened out. ‘It's fine. Thanks.' She returned her gaze to the pages.

She knows. James must have told her about me.

Awkwardness replacing the peace from her short break, she said, ‘I'll leave you to it', and walked forwards.

‘I hope it was a good reason,' Lizzie called after her.

Emma stopped, turned, backtracked a little. ‘Sorry?'

‘Why you left my brother in the lurch.'

If only she knew.

‘I…I did what I thought was right, at the time.' She scratched her cheek.

‘I? What about him? Why didn't you stop to think about what was right for him?'

I did, Lizzie, I did. That's exactly why I left him, it was for the best.

Emma adjusted the strap of her lunch bag across her chest and turned in the direction she'd come. ‘I'm sorry, I can't discuss this. I have to get back to the office.' Emma stepped forwards again, then added, ‘Enjoy your afternoon.'

Enjoy your afternoon? The woman had just had a go at her and she was adding pleasantries to an unpleasant conversation?

Emma's response was met with silence, and a smidgen of guilt rumbled in her belly. She hoped Lizzie's blood pressure wasn't climbing right now, she was supposed to be taking it easy. But in truth, her issues with James weren't Lizzie's concern. It was in the past, between her and him, and that's where it would stay. She shouldn't have to feel bullied into explaining something that had taken more guts to deal with than she'd ever thought she had.

So much for the beach walk.
She felt exposed out here now, like a lone seashell washed up on the shore. She wanted to return to the safety of routine and confinement in the office where no one could question or judge her past decisions. But she should have walked the outer perimeter of the park grounds instead of cutting through it, because before she had realised, her past was standing in front of her. Again. James stood on the sand, his back to her, trying to coax Jackson from the green grass and onto the crumbling sand. The boy stood rigid like Tarrin, unwilling to move.

‘Jackson, it's nice and warm. It will feel nice on your feet, and then we can make a sandcastle. Yeah?' He picked up a clump of sand and let it run through his fingers.

Jackson strained, his fists tight and his neck taut. Emma knew that kids on the autism spectrum often had heightened sensory sensitivities. Sand wasn't an uncommon phobia. The texture, the uncertainty of support underfoot. It was too unpredictable and different to solid ground.

‘C'mon mate, just for one second, then we can go back on the grass.'

Jackson took something from his pocket and pressed it, a scream emanating which made Emma flinch. James gave up and returned to the grass, patting his son on the back and saying, ‘It's okay, another time. It's okay.'

Emma knew she should walk straight past without him seeing her to avoid any further uncomfortable confrontations, but that need to help others weaved its way to the surface. ‘You could try putting his favourite toy on the sand,' she said.
Damn it, Emma!

James spun around at her voice. ‘Excuse me?'

‘To help him see that there's nothing to be afraid of. Or you could even get a tray and fill it with sand, keep it inside somewhere he'll get used to seeing it, so he can practise stepping in and out while still having his regular environment around him.'

James' eyebrows rose. ‘You're giving me parenting advice?' He planted his hands on his hips.

‘No, just offering some tips that might help. I've known kids like Jackson before.'

A big crease formed in James' forehead. ‘Don't even think you can begin to know anything about him. You met him a day ago. I've been raising him on my own for four and a half years. You don't know anything about him. Or me, anymore.'

Emma bit her lip, which she should have done before deciding to speak. ‘Sorry, I was only trying to help. I'll just go then, shall I?' She marched across the park. When she turned to the left to follow the path back to the office, she slid a glimpse towards the playground. James was now as still and rigid as Tarrin. But he was watching her. His eyes followed her, she was sure, all the way back, until she was out of sight.

Emma turned the sign on the door, sat behind the reception desk and checked for messages. Then she opened an internet window and found her favourite travel blog. She forced her interactions with Lizzie and James from her mind and focused on the beautiful pictures of Tuscan vineyards and Parisian moonlit streets. They held a magic she had yet to experience, a thrill she wanted to indulge. If she could, she would teleport to Europe right now and sit at a café eating local cuisine and sketching, pouring herself onto the page. But instead, she was sitting at work, behind a computer, trying her best to pour her grief and guilt back into the deep, dark pit where it belonged, so she never had to feel it again.

Emma had done her best to hide the following day. She stayed in the office as much as possible, and thankfully there were no extra towel requests from any of the Gallagher family. While checking a cabin up the end of the park near James' cabin, she spied them getting into a car; Jackson with his pink owl and her cap, and James with a backpack. She'd thought for a moment they might be leaving early on account of her, and felt a twinge of sadness and guilt. But later she'd seen Jackson playing in the garden near the playground, crouching down next to the bushes as if he was talking to the bright, dangly fuchsias that decorated the area. She could glimpse the playground from her window and occasionally cast a glance that way. Her insides twisted with contradictory urges — to seek him out, and to turn away from him. It had been a battle she'd dealt with in the past, but was now reenlisted in.

After finishing work, taking the washing off the line and putting everything away, she made her way over to her parents' house for dinner. Her mother looked thrilled to see her, no doubt needing the extra company and set of hands. ‘Come in, darling, I'm just serving up now.'

‘Thanks, Mum.' At her mother's insistence Emma sat at the table, pushing her brown hair off her shoulders. She hadn't had to do that in a long time, but now that she was growing her hair long again, she noticed the unfamiliarity of the simple gesture. She leaned towards her dad and gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you today?' she asked.

‘Same old, same old,' he said gruffly, shrugging. ‘At least I have a live-in nurse to care for me.' A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Barbara Brighton sighed. ‘I'm more than that, dear.'

‘I know, but you're not just my wife anymore. It's just the way it is.'

Emma was still getting used to her father's direct and honest remarks. He'd been nothing but courteous and respectful all his life, but now was less empathetic. It wasn't his fault, and they both knew to try not to let anything he said get to them.

‘Smells good.' Emma studied the bowl of chicken and mushroom risotto that her mother placed in front of her, speckled with herbs and pine nuts.

‘Eat up while it's warm,' Barbara said. She reached over to help her husband but he held out his good hand.

‘I've got it.' He picked up the spoon. Emma had given her mum a cookbook called
One Pot Wonders
, so she could make as many meals as possible that Don would be able to eat on his own with one hand. He had minor use of his left side, but it was too weak to be consistent.

‘Make sure you use your left a little too, give it a workout like the physio said. Otherwise it will weaken even further.'

‘Yeah, yeah,' he mumbled, spooning risotto into his mouth.

Barbara turned her attention back to Emma and plastered a smile that Emma knew was partly forced. ‘So, all going okay with you?'

‘Everything's under control.' She nodded. Except when it came to her personal life. ‘Bob's ahead of schedule too, with all the great weather we've had, so we can start thinking about a more concrete plan for selling the place soon. Maybe we should bring in some stylists to fancy up the cabins, plant some new shrubs along the pathway…' Ideas ran through her mind.

‘Yes, I guess so.' Barbara sighed again. ‘It seems like such an effort to think of all that right now, though.'

‘I know. It's okay, I'll come up with lists of what we need to accomplish and take it from there.' It'd be like working on her teaching schedule — a list of specific tasks to achieve a desired outcome. And the sooner the place was ready to sell, the sooner she could move on with her own life.

Clang!
Don's spoon fell to the floor. He went to lean over to get it but could only tilt as far as the wheelchair would let him.

‘I've got it, Dad.' Emma picked it up and wiped it with the napkin hanging from his collar.

He ripped the napkin off. ‘I don't need this wretched thing, I'm not a baby.'

‘I know, Dad, it's just…'

‘No,' he said, putting the napkin on the table.

‘Okay,' she said softly. She exchanged glances with her mother, knowing they were both thinking the same thing: he'd need to change his shirt by the end of the meal. His lopsided chewing made for lots of dribble and spills, but he was too stubborn to accept it yet. Understandably. He'd been an active man until the stroke, and it was bound to make him frustrated and upset.

Their prediction had proved correct by the time they'd finished eating, though he simply wiped at the glob of rice and oil on his shirt. He'd have to change into pyjamas soon anyway. Emma wondered how much longer her mother would cope, and whether they would need to finance some extra help in-house. A nursing home was out of the question at this stage, he wouldn't allow it, and he wasn't so disabled that it was a significant need. Maybe he would get better, maybe his mobility down the left side would improve with the physio. If he stuck to doing the exercises.