The Road Back
Authors: Di Morrissey
About
The Road Back
WITH MILLIONS OF COPIES SOLD, AUSTRALIA'S FAVOURITE STORYTELLER RETURNS WITH HER BEST NOVEL YET.
From the mountains to the valleys, from big cities to tiny towns, to the outback and the islands, Di Morrissey knows this country. She's been there.
In
The Road Back
, Di weaves a tale of reconnection and starting over. Journalist Chris Baxter is at a crossroads. Returning with his teenage daughter to his mother's house in the beautiful township of Neverend, Chris hopes to pick up the pieces after his life takes an unexpected turn.
Sometimes taking the road back is the start of a journey forward.
Dedication:
Peter B. Morrissey, US Peace Corps, Sumatra, Indonesia, 1963â65.
And our beautiful new granddaughter, Ulani Summer Devi Morrissey, who brings joy and laughter to us all.
Chris Baxter stood in
line, holding his boarding pass and listening to the Australian accents of the other passengers as they made their way towards the Qantas flight that would take them from Los Angeles to Sydney. As he moved through the business class boarding entrance on this last leg of his journey home, he felt a sense of loss and sadness at leaving behind a country he was only just beginning to understand.
He'd arrived in Washington DC three years ago from his previous assignment in London. He'd enjoyed his time in the British capital, especially living near his sister, Kate. Arriving in the States, he had expected to find familiarity and egalitarianism, but instead he'd
discovered a land of more complexity and contradiction than he could ever have imagined. From the silly
and superficial to the talented and brilliant, from the liberal and tolerant to conservative fundamentalist, from the generous and open-hearted to the tight-lipped and mean-spirited, from the poor, marginalised and uneducated to the bigots, bureaucrats and brains, America was the ultimate jigsaw puzzle, a land seemingly made up of dozens of different countries. He'd loved every moment of his assignment as a foreign correspondent and was disappointed that the Australian newspaper he worked for had decided not to extend his term.
He smiled at the flight attendant standing at the door of the plane and showed him his boarding pass.
âGood evening, Mr Baxter. Upstairs on your right. I like the jacket,' the flight attendant said, indicating Chris's well-worn Schott leather jacket.
âA souvenir,' Chris replied.
âAnd the Harley? Is it in the hold?'
âAfraid not,' replied Chris with a rueful smile.
âWell, you have got the look if not the accent,' said the flight attendant before turning to greet the next passenger.
Chris settled his lanky frame into his seat, hoping no one would sit beside him. It had been a long while since he'd flown business class. Trinity Press didn't stretch to such extravagances these days, but he'd used his frequent flyer points to upgrade for the long-haul flight.
âA drink, Mr Baxter?' asked an attractive flight attendant, pausing in the aisle beside him.
âI'll take the champagne, thanks.'
âHave you enjoyed your time in the US?'
âYes, I've been working there as a journalist for three years. I'm heading back home now for a bit of a break. Looking forward to spending time with my daughter. She's growing up so quickly.' The flight attendant nodded and smiled understandingly. She poured a glass of champagne and placed it neatly on a napkin in front of him.
âAnd then you'll be back?'
âActually, I've finished up in America.'
âThat's a pity. Are you going to stay in Australia?'
He shook his head. âI'm not sure. I might end up somewhere in Asia.'
âWell, enjoy your drink. Champagne always feels like a celebration, doesn't it? I'll be back with the dinner menu shortly.'
It didn't feel like a celebration. Chris sighed and ran his hand through his thick hair. While he was looking forward to seeing his daughter and his mother, he still thought about all that he was leaving behind. As Washington DC was the political hub of the world he had relished his political assignments. But he'd also had a knack for finding off-
beat stories and, whenever he'd had the chance, which was not as frequently as he would have liked, he'd headed out on the road in his five-year-old Lexus to track them down. Over time he had managed to cover conventions, rallies, quirky beauty pageants, agriculture events, rodeos, disasters, and life in city slums as well as rural and suburban small-town USA, which, for him, made up the fabric of modern America. He'd enjoyed the experiences, as they had given him a much deeper insight into the country and these stories had proved to be popular with Australian readers.
But even as he regretted leaving the States, Chris knew that no matter what sources he'd found and contacts he'd made there, he remained an outsider, for the foreign press corps never had the advantages of local media on home turf. And while he had made American friendships and socialised with his colleagues as well as members of the international press corps, his nomadic life had meant he hadn't fostered deep relationships. He guessed that some of the women in his circle had been attracted to him but his work had precluded his making any lasting connections. And after a painful and expensive divorce some years ago, he had no intention of leaping into another commitment any time soon.
Chris finished his champagne and kicked off his shoes, glad the seat beside him remained empty. In the oasis of the upstairs cabin he pulled out his book, but when a flight attendant came by with magazines and newspapers he put it aside and asked for a copy of
The Economist
and
The Wall Street Journal
.
He quickly became absorbed in a lengthy article on the continuing Middle East negotiations as the plane began to taxi along the runway, then he leaned back and closed his eyes as the lights of Los Angeles airport shrank below him.
As the plane began to level out, Chris's thoughts turned to his fourteen-year-old daughter, Megan, and he realised how much he was looking forward to spending time with her. He hadn't seen her since his last trip home nearly twelve months ago. He followed Megan on her Facebook page â where he learned more about her than in the emails they exchanged â and they Skyped each other as often as they could. As far as he could tell, Megan seemed to be going through a phase in which she swung between behaving like a ten-year-old one minute and a twenty-year-old the next. As much as he loved his daughter, he had some sympathy for his ex-wife, Jill. Living with a teenager would not be a stroll in the park. Megan was coming to stay with him a few days after he got back. He made up his mind that he would take Megan somewhere special, just the two of them. Smiling to himself, he returned to his magazine and the eternal problems of the Middle East.
He had nearly finished reading the magazines when the flight attendant put a linen placemat on his tray table and offered to top up his champagne.
âI think I'd like to switch to a good red. What
Australian wines do you have?' he asked.
She handed him the dinner menu. âWe have Coonawarra and Hunter Valley reds. The main course is lobster or duck.'
âHard choices,' he said, smiling. âThank you. I'll go for the Hunter Shiraz, and the duck sounds good.'
After the delicious meal, he leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the luxury of stretching out his long legs along the extended seat. Enjoy the next few hours in limboland, he told himself.
Although he had some leave up his sleeve, Chris was curious as to what plans Trinity Press had for him. He knew that when he returned to work, he'd probably hit the ground running. The Bangkok office was up for grabs, and he was fairly sure that it would be offered to him. He thought he'd like that, but he also knew that he wasn't fussy; as long as the destination was abroad, he'd go anywhere.
He slept well on the flight, in as near to a horizontal position as he could achieve with his long limbs and, refreshed and enjoying a coffee after breakfast, he watched the sunrise as the plane made its approach into Sydney. The sight of the morning light gleaming on the sails of the Opera House, and the arms of the two headlands embracing the magnificent harbour with its bridge connecting the two sides of the city, reminded him again what a seductive city Sydney was.
Once he had cleared customs and immigration, he caught a taxi to his tiny apartment, which was in a three-storey building on a narrow street in Neutral Bay, within walking distance of the Neutral Bay Wharf. The tenant, whose rent had helped pay the mortgage on the one-bedroom unit, had vacated it some days before, and the place looked clean, if somewhat impersonal.
A couple of hours later, after he'd unpacked his suitcases, he walked up to Military Road. He was pleased to see that some of his favourite shops were still in business and he went into the supermarket for some basic provisions. Shopping finished, he sat at an outdoor table of a small coffee shop which served excellent espresso. With the sun warming his back and a fresh light breeze ruffling his hair, he admitted to himself that he was glad to be home.
*
The following Saturday, Chris grinned broadly as Megan walked towards him from the Neutral Bay bus stop. He saw how she'd grown taller and realised that her body was filling out. She was carrying a large backpack and wearing baggy floral shorts and a midriff top, earphones around her neck, black lace canvas sneakers minus the laces and, as she got closer, he could see daisies glued to her fingernails. Her brown hair with its natural coppery highlights was twisted into a side French braid. She was wearing pale lip gloss and eye shadow. Megan had a slightly quirky look which was fresh and appealing. He held out his arms and she gave him a big hug. Chris held her tight and affectionately kissed the top of her head.
âHi, Dad,' said Megan, her bright eyes shining.
âHow's my girl?'
âGood. Are we going to have something to eat? I'm starving.'
âIf you like,' he said, taking her bag and guiding her down the street towards a café. âSorry that you had to get the bus to Neutral Bay. It's a bit of a long haul from Newport, but I haven't got a car yet. Once I get settled, maybe you could help me buy one.'
âThat would be cool, Dad,' said Megan as they stopped in front of the café.
âThis coffee shop is pretty good for food. Will it do?' Megan nodded and they went inside and ordered a coffee for Chris and some salmon sushi and a fruit smoothie for Megan. Taking a seat, Chris smiled again at his daughter. She had changed but she was still his little girl. Their orders arrived promptly and Megan tucked in with gusto.
âHave a piece of sushi, Dad, it's really good,' said Megan as her father sipped his coffee.
âOkay, thanks. I like your outfit. I'm a bit out of date with your taste in clothes these days. Does your mother buy things for you, or do you pick them out yourself?'
She wrinkled her nose. âNo, Mum hardly ever buys clothes for me. We have
veeery
different ideas. I shop with my girlfriends when I've saved enough pocket money. If Mum comes with me it usually ends up in an argument. I wouldn't be seen dead in some of the things she thinks are appropriate,' she said with an elaborate sigh.
Having put a toe in the water, Chris ventured in deeper. âSo how are you and your mum getting on? Have things calmed down since the wedding?'
Megan shrugged her shoulders and said wearily, âNo. Oscar and Ned drive me crazy. Mum is trying to be so nice to them, but I can tell they're driving her nuts, too. The boys are really messy, so Mum makes me keep my things tidy. She uses me as an example and makes a big show about how perfect my room is, but I hate them even looking in my space. The boys don't like me, and I feel the same about them. And I have to help clear up the kitchen and do other jobs to show them what they're supposed to do, but really they think cleaning is a girl thing. I don't think it's very fair.'
âWell, the twins are only, what? Eight? Ten? Doesn't their father insist they help? Put the rubbish out or something?' said Chris, frowning.
âNo way!' said Megan, taking another bite of sushi. âAnd would you believe Trevor has the cheek to ask me to fetch things for him? I'm not his servant. Dad, it's awful. I hate it.'
âWhoa, calm down,' said Chris, placing his hand on her arm. âLook, this is a big adjustment for all of you. I know it's not easy, sweetie, but if your mother is happy and this is what she's chosen for her life, you have to try to be happy for her. Support her.'
Megan stared at him as if he had just spoken in Swahili. âDad. C'mon. Think about it. Trevor Franks is a sitcom joke of a stepfather with two spoiled, stupid brat sons. It's a teenager's worst nightmare. My own horror show. This is Mum's new life. Not mine. I didn't get any say in it.'
