Wrath (26 page)

“You okay, Dad?”

“Couldn't be better, son. I was just thinking how strange this all must be for you. I thought there might be something you would like to do.” We turn abruptly off the highway, the traffic thins and we pass some huge pine trees and go over a hill . There it is, stretching out as far as I can see: the sea. We pull in, and Dad reaches for a couple of plastic bags in the back seat. He throws one at me, and I catch it awkwardly.

“Hope they fit,” Dad says. I tip the bag up, and out slides a pair of blue and yellow board shorts. “Feel like a swim?”

Suddenly, I don't care about all the people and cars or anything at all, and grinning at Dad, I open the door and head for the change rooms. Within five minutes, I'm on the beach, springing painfully across the hot sand, and then I'm in the water, under the waves, and I'm laughing and choking on salt water. Dad hurtles past me and hits the water with a roar. We dive under the waves, and I think back—so long ago!—to that day I spent body surfing with Karol. Another life. Another world. But the sea, the sea's always the same. I reckon when I get to be 90, if I can still dive into the sea, I'll feel just the same as when I was 10.

We swim for ages and then go up the street and buy a hamburger, and man, is that good! After we get dressed again, Dad drives around and points out where his parents live. “When you feel like it, the entire family wants to come over and see you. It's been a long time.”

Then we just drive. We wind the windows all the way down, and I feel what dogs must be feeling when they hang their heads out of cars.

At last, Dad says, “Well, Uma will be wondering where we are. She's been planning this meal for your first night home for days.” As we head for home, the sun is dipping below the horizon, and I drink in all those colours. God, I've missed the world.

*

We drive towards Fremantle, down the highway, onto the bridge near the old church and across the river. We drive by the harbour, clogged with ships, and then wind through the streets past the little old houses, and finally we pull into a driveway. The house is quite small, with a veranda out the front where four cane chairs cluster near a round table and ferns and palms nestle in the space between there and the little picket fence.

As we stop the car, a woman, carrying a little girl of about two or three, rises from one of the chairs. The woman is delicate-looking, Thai or Indonesian, and she is wrapped in a soft sarong, its colours like jewels against her skin. She smiles shyly as we walk towards her.

“Here he is at last, Uma,” Dad says. “Meet my son, Luca. Luca, my wife.”

Uma presses her hands together in front of her heart, the way Mr P used to do at the end of a meditation session, and bows slightly. “My son too, now. Welcome.” She smiles at me—her smile is infectious—and then Dad laughs.

“We've forgotten the boss of the house. This is Pearl, your little sister.” I smile at the little girl, but she buries her face in her mother's shoulder. “She's always shy for a while, but in a few days…” Dad opens the wire door, and exotic smells waft up the passage.

“You must be hungry,” Uma says in her soft voice, and I follow her, Dad behind me with my bag. The little girl raises her head over her mother's shoulder and her huge eyes, dark and fluid, lock onto mine. Her gaze is so intense and unwavering that I stop. Can she see straight through me? Does she see what I've done?

Then her arms reach to me, and her mother stops. Those little arms are around my neck, and I lift her into my arms and bury my head into her soft hair. She looks like she would smell of honey and cinnamon, but she smells just like Katy used to when she snuggled up to me.

I'm going to be all right.