He’s behind me. Mum in front. Me in the middle.
I don’t wish that they were going to get back together again or any of that soppy sitcom stuff. I can see why my parents aren’t meant to be together. It’s just that this moment, right now, is the best moment of my life so far. Nine days ago was the worst day of my life and this one is the best. And it’s not that I want it to last forever. I’m just so deeply in it that it feels like forever. That feeling flows through the three of us.
Magic waddle-runs up the path to greet us and I scruff her around the neck. She’s stayed with Mum for most of the time I’ve been in hospital. Dad has stayed a few nights in the Alpine Motor Inn on the highway. He leans down and Magic licks his face and puts her front paws up on his hands. Then Mum’s arm is around me and she kisses me on the side of the head.
‘Guess who’s here?’ she says.
Two figures appear behind Mum and I feel a grin roar across my face.
‘Surprise!’ Scarlet says. Her mother smiles and says hello. If it weren’t for them calling the police or for Scarlet’s phone, things would have turned out very differently.
My chair comes to rest at the front door and Scarlet bends down to hug me.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
‘Pretty good,’ I say. She stands up and I thank her and her mum. It’s kind of hard to show how grateful you are to someone who saved your life.
‘Well…’ says Dad. ‘I’d better go.’
I crane my neck to look up at him.
‘You be good,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder. ‘I hope you’ll take me up on that offer.’
‘I will,’ I say, gripping the letter tighter in my hand. I don’t want him to go. It’s quiet and a bit awkward for a moment.
‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’ Mum says quickly, as though it was a dare.
‘I’d better not,’ he says.
‘Why not?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, why not?’ I ask.
‘I just…’ He looks down at me.
I give him puppy dog eyes, my best Magic impersonation.
His shoulders drop. ‘Yeah, all right. Why not? Thanks, Lisa.’
Mum takes the front of my chair and Dad takes the back and they lift me up the front step.
Mum makes tea and I talk to Scarlet and my parents speak to one another and I feel like I’m floating over it all, watching it from above, drinking it all in. Three of these people saved my life and one gave birth to me in the first place.
After Dad finishes his three-bag tea I see him hand an envelope to Mum and mutter something to her while she’s stacking the dishwasher. Mum brushes him off but he keeps at her. From the way they speak I get the feeling it might be money. I don’t imagine it’s nine years’ back payment but maybe it’s a start. She puts it in the cupboard with the bills and stuff next to the fridge and Dad comes to shake my hand.
‘Not this weekend but the weekend after,’ he says.
‘Deal.’
‘Your mum and I have arranged for you to take care of Magic for a bit,’ he says.
‘Really?’
‘Just until I can sneak her into my new apartment. The real estate agent’s not a big dog fan. But Magic looks like she’s lost weight. Make sure you don’t starve her.’
‘I think Mum might have been feeding her actual dog food rather than Thai chicken pizza and choc-chip biscuits,’ I say.
We shake hands, he says goodbye and he’s off up the path.
Scarlet and her mum leave soon after. Back to the apartment building. Scarlet says she’s not scared though. Mick Kelly is in jail awaiting trial and they reckon he won’t be out for a while. The Hills came back early from their trip after hearing what happened in their apartment. Scarlet says she’ll come visit when I stay at Dad’s new place. She’s older and taller and smarter so I know she doesn’t have to, but she says she wants to, which is cool.
Then it’s just me and Mum again. Back to normal, with the house creaking and expanding around us in the afternoon sun. Only it’s not normal. I died and came back to life. Literally died. Something in the universe has shifted now, something major. This is what it took for me to not be angry any more. It’s almost funny.
‘What would you like for dinner?’ Mum asks.
‘I’m cooking,’ I say.
‘What?’ she asks, like she doesn’t understand the words I said.
‘Spaghetti à la Garner.’
She snorts. ‘You?’
‘Don’t laugh. I had to cook at Dad’s one night and all he had was an old pack of spaghetti, a couple of random vegetables and a slightly rusty can of whole peeled tomatoes.’
‘Wow. Sounds delicious,’ she says.
‘It’ll be good. Seriously. I’m a chef.’
‘Okay. It’ll be a bit difficult in the chair.’
‘I’ll be fine. You relax. Read a book or something.’
She arches her brows.
I wheel my chair around the big island bench that divides the lounge room from the kitchen. Mum sits tentatively on the edge of the couch.
‘Read!’ I say.
She picks her book up off the side table, a John D MacDonald novel that she started reading about a year ago, and starts to flick through the pages to find her spot. I wheel over to the pantry and stare up at the vast array of ingredients. It’s so strange to see a kitchen cupboard with more than five items in it.
‘Mum, where do we keep the spaghetti?’ I ask.
She helps me find everything. We even have stuff like garlic and basil for flavour. It’s incredible. She puts the pot of hot water on the stove to boil and helps me up out of my wheelchair onto a stool at the kitchen bench so that I can chop things and reach the stove.
I send her back to the couch and she starts to read her book again. She looks nervous at first, the way someone does when they think you may be about to burn down their house or poison them. These are both strong possibilities so I understand her concern.
When we finally sit down to eat, the sauce tastes weird and the spaghetti has stuck together, making it like gluey rope. But Mum demolishes hers and says it’s the best thing she’s eaten in ages. This has to be a lie but she kind of looks like she means it. For me, it’s strange to eat a dinner at home that hasn’t been frozen with a Post-it note on the lid.
While we eat I ask her about a few things I’ve been wondering. Just little things like, ‘Why do people die?’ and ‘What is justice?’ and ‘Do you think Dad really means it when he says I can stay at his place?’ and ‘When I catch a plane will the staples in my knee set off the metal detector?’ and ‘If even senior police officers can make such bad mistakes, what hope is there for the rest of us?’ and ‘Why do people cry and laugh at funerals?’ and ‘Is being an adult harder or easier than being a teenager?’ and ‘What do you want for dessert?’ and a few other things. Mum does the best she can but I get the feeling I’m going to have to come up with my own answers to these questions. Except for dessert. She wants frozen berries with custard so we have that.
Later, I join her on the couch and start work on a brand new Harry Garner: Crime Reporter comic. Magic is curled up on the floor, keeping my feet warm. I already know what the comic is going to be about. It will be based on the story that I’ve just told you. Harry’s not so perfect any more. Not a jujitsu expert or a ladies’ man, none of that James Bond stuff. He has a crooked spine and walks with a limp. He’s been shot in the knee and he’s old and gruff. He doesn’t have all the answers. But he’s whip-smart and he’s prepared to put his life on the line for his brilliant, mostly not-angry kid tech-expert assistant. It’s going to be the best comic I’ve ever made. I might even let someone else read it.