Mum texted to ask if he was looking for work while he was in Sydney. She was worried he’d sink into habitual unemployment, become like so many of the people she grew up with. He spent ten minutes dutifully scrolling through local job postings before clicking on a link titled So You’ve Been Made Redundant? which advised him to Use the opportunity to rediscover and follow your passion. It reminded him of the prison orientation video which said to view your time in custody as an opportunity to make positive life changes. When the video finished an intake officer asked him about work skills and education, and Will said he’d love to use this opportunity to continue his childcare studies. In response he was handed a piece of paper detailing his laundry duty schedule.

  It’s possible the officer thought he was being a smartarse. Not many blokes in childcare, it was true. He himself hadn’t considered it an option until the end of year ten, when his friend Jas left school to do her Cert III at a private college in Parra. It was like she’d shown him a hidden window in a locked and stuffy room. Mum said he’d try anything to get out of school, Dad said it was one thing to do a bit of babysitting, another to become a professional manny, but Aunty Nic was on his side, helped him look up the different courses at the library near her work. He couldn’t afford the fees, but. Not even for the subsidised TAFE course. So one more year at school, this time working as a trolley boy at Coles during the week and a burger flipper at Hungry Jack’s on the weekends. He saved enough for the fees, finished year eleven feeling like a fucking superhero, though he told the other kids at school he was leaving to start a mechanics apprenticeship. Northern Beaches, he told them, so they wouldn’t try to visit his alleged employer and reveal the lie.

  Best nine months of his life, it was. Class four days a week, with him the only bloke in a room full of girls. They all tried to make him their best friend at first. Thought he was gay just for being there. When they figured out he wasn’t, a few backed off but most of the others were into it. Straight bloke, loved kids, down to fuck and not too bad at it, thanks very much.

  And then. Then he sold weed to a fourteen-year-old in full view of a police officer and there was no positive life change that could make that un-happen. Follow your passion? Might as well tell him to reverse global warming. Love to, internet job coach, love to. Lend me your time machine, yeah?

  Yes, Mum. Couple of possibilities to follow up on here, he texted.

  Great!!! Mum replied. Just FYI, if it doesn’t work out there Rick is looking for someone to do basic maintenance etc at the car yard. Only part time but at least you’d be here in beautiful Brissie with us!! We’d so love to see you …

  If you see me, weep, he wrote. Deleted it. Typed five rows of even though he knew the sarcasm would be lost on her.

  On the third day at Aunty Nic’s, he failed to finish even half of the Vegemite sandwich Lena had made him for lunch, and she yelled that he couldn’t blame her if it was shit since he hadn’t given her any money for food and she was nearly out and so had to buy day-old bread instead of fresh. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t the bread, it was the eye-watering sting of Vegemite on an open mouth wound, but she had already stormed out. After that, too hungry and worn down to feel shame, he called the emergency dentist from the other night and asked if there was any way—any way at all at all at all—he could be treated today and pay later.

  No, was the short answer. The receptionist gave him another number to ring which turned out to be for a practice that provided free dental care if you had a pension or Centrelink concession card. Didn’t matter he was eligible for free care based on his unemployed status; if he hadn’t done the paperwork and had it processed in time for the toothache he was shit out of luck. Also, the queue was quite long. Might be months, unless there was a cancellation. A hospital training clinic might be a possibility, he was told, and given more numbers. He called every one of them, was put on three waiting lists, felt slightly more positive but also in agony.

  And although he was truly fucking starving, swore he could feel his muscles cannibalising themselves as he worked, he was relieved when Lena didn’t raise the topic of dinner that night. There was nothing he could imagine eating that wouldn’t cause him to throw up with the pain.

  NIC

  Nic’s blood itches. She knows she can’t say that out loud, knows it sounds like a confused-old-dear thing to say and if there’s one thing she can’t bloody have it’s for the people here to receive confirmation that she is, indeed, a confused old dear.

  But how else to describe this feeling? Like the itch is both deep and on the move. Like even if you could find a way to get inside your arteries and scratch you couldn’t ever get to it. A flowing itch. An itchy stream.

  Her pain meds have been reduced, she knows. She knows that. Is not confused or incompetent or vulnerable or any of the things she’s heard them say. She knows where she is and why. Knows what’s going into her arm and what she’s taking by mouth. She knows the possible side effects, the ones to accept and the ones to alert the nurses about. She knows all that and none of it accounts for this deep, thick, surging itchiness.

  She pays attention: it is worse when it is light and quiet. When she can see and hear the unfilled spaces around her bed. It is worse when the blanket falls and she can’t reach it, and she has to lie exposed to the air until someone comes along and says, Oopsie daisy, let’s get you cosied up again. Worse when she can’t sleep and she imagines her little house dark and empty, abandoned. It makes her feel like when she was little and they watched a TV show about Chernobyl and she got so upset she couldn’t breathe. Mum rubbed her back and told her that it was far, far away, that the nuclear fallout wouldn’t even come close, that she didn’t need to be scared. Mum didn’t understand that Nic wasn’t scared; she was heartbroken. Everyone in that city took off and just left everything there. All the books and dolls and shoes and chairs and tables. The spoons and bowls and pencils and swimming caps and prams and pillows and photos. The pipes, salt shakers, eyeglasses, nails, hair brushes, clocks, compasses and coins. The buttons and wheels and fans made of feathers. All alive in there, still. Alive and utterly forgotten.

  Will comes by during morning visiting hours, says Lena is busy studying. As he says it his eyes cut to the side so she knows he is lying. That he has the same comically obvious tell as he did at five years old floods her with so much love she barely minds that he’s bullshitting her. He chatters away about how awful it is outside, how lucky she is to be in this cool, clear air, how everyone’s wondering if the fires’ll ever be out.

  The nurse she privately calls the Meanest One comes to check her blood pressure and temperature. Will introduces himself and the scowl dissolves. It’s so lovely of you to come and visit, in a voice entirely unlike the rasp Nic is used to. Even her hands feel warmer and gentler as she performs her checks. So, this is unchanged, too: Will’s ability to charm and cheer without even trying. It’s a gift she didn’t even know she could hope for, her Will come back after so long, older but still very much himself.

  As she leaves, the Meanest One comments on the obvious family resemblance and Nic immediately renames her the Best and Most Observant One. Michelle likes to say her kids have grown up to be all Joe and Nic understands that she misses her husband and searches him out in the faces of her children. It’s not true, though. Will and Lena’s faces are her family’s faces, one hundred per cent. Both have Mum’s high forehead and deep-set brown eyes. Lena has Dad’s dimple and Will has his lashes, so thick and dark you’d think he was wearing mascara. Both of them have Michelle’s lips, the top one almost as full as the bottom. And like their mother they both unconsciously puff their lips out when they’re concentrating or overtired. Will’s smile is Steve’s is Dad’s. And Lena’s smile is Nic’s own, everyone says it. Only their lankiness gives them away as not pure Miller. Her family all pears and apples, not a string bean among them until these two.

  ‘So, Lena’s preparing for exams and what about you? What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘Ah, you know.’ Those sliding eyes again!

  ‘Catching up with old mates?’

  ‘Nah. To be honest, Aunty Nic, I’ve just kind of been moping a bit. A lot.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Feel like talking about it? I’ve got all the time in the world.’ She gestures to herself, stuck in bed, but his gaze is on the far wall.

  ‘Yeah, nah. I mean, not much to say. It just … it blindsided me, you know. The break-up. I’d been on a bit of a bender. Me and the other blokes who’d been laid off, we really …’ He shakes his head, cringes as if the hangover’s still there. ‘Anyway, I came home messy as, slept most of the next day, get up late in the arvo and Mercy’s waiting for me in the kitchen, tells me it’s been fun, but time’s up.’

  ‘Because you got blotto one time? Seems harsh. Unless it wasn’t just the one time?’

  ‘Yeah, see, that’s the thing. I never got smashed like that since we’ve been together. Total one-off and I’d just lost my job, so, you know, give me a fucking break. But once I shut up and listened to her properly, you know, she wasn’t even talking about my coming home maggoted. She was saying she’d been feeling for a while that it was time to split but had been waiting until the kids were at her ex’s to talk to me. He’s FIFO, so it’s always a while between their week with him and, she said, you know, the timing’s unfortunate, because of me losing the job and that, but …’

  ‘Oh, Will. And you didn’t know? Didn’t feel anything was wrong?’

  ‘Nah. Yeah. I don’t know. I was always more serious about us than her, I think. She didn’t like …’ He wets his lips, cringes again. ‘She didn’t like how I was with the kids.’

  ‘What? You’re great with kids. Always have been.’

  He nods, barely. ‘She said I acted like they were mine.’

  Like cold water over her face. She is alert, heart racing. ‘Isn’t that a good way for a stepdad to act?’

  ‘I’m not their stepdad, though. She’d said it a few times. You’re not their dad, Will. They already have a dad, Will. I didn’t … I s’pose I didn’t really get what she was saying. I just … I love ’em, you know?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She should say something more. Comfort him or offer wisdom. But his pain is so big it’s broken free of his body and is pushing up against her chest.

  ‘There was this one arvo I keep thinking about. Coupla months back. Haymish’d been having a hard time at school. He’s small for his age, you know. Bright as, but looks four instead of six. Some kids were giving him a hard time. Name-calling, leaving him out of games at lunch and that. Mercy talks to his teacher about it, and she says she’ll have a word to the kids, remind them to be kind.

  ‘A few days later, Mercy gets a call at work. Haymish has crawled into the art cupboard and won’t come out. Merce’s stuck at work—no one else to mind the pharmacy—but I’ve finished for the day, so I go up to the school. Little fella comes out as soon as he sees me. Big cuddles, his face all wet. Tells me what’s been happening.

  ‘Apparently the kids who got told off for being mean are punishing him for dobbing. Being real nice in front of the teacher and then kicking him or knocking his stuff off the desk when she’s not looking. That lunchtime a kid had kicked him in the shins while another kid took his sandwich and stomped it into the dirt.’

  She takes it all back, the gratitude for Will’s unchanged nature. He is too transparent, too raw. How has he got to this age, been through the things he has, and remained this soft and open? What was it Steve used to say about her face when she gaped up at him adoringly? A thumb without a nail. That was her. Is Will.

  ‘I’m fuming by this time, but trying to be all cool and adult and stuff. The principal calls us into her office, poor little Haymish clinging to my side, and while I tell this woman what’s happened she’s all sympathetic, nodding and frowning. But then she says to Hay, Oh dear, it sounds like your friends got a little bit carried away at playtime today! And I—ah, shit, Aunty Nic, you’re going to side with Mercy on this. I bloody side with Mercy on this.’

  He takes a loud breath, taps a beat on the bed.

  ‘I stood up, calm as anything, and I swept my arm across her desk. Knocked all the paper and pens and shit off. Walked around the side and did it again so the computer crashed to the floor. Poor little Haymish’s nearly hyperventilating in the corner, principal’s dead silent. I go, Oh, sorry, I got a bit carried away with the playing and all. Then I lift Hay up in one arm, open the door with the other and walk out.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Will.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s what Merce said. And the rest. And I get it. It caused trouble for her. The school calling her in, asking all these questions about this young thug she’s got living with her kids.’

  ‘You’re not a—’

  ‘Anyway, what she said the other day, how it’s been fun but blah blah blah, I reckon she’s been building up to it since the thing at the school. Weighing up if the fun we were having was enough to make something like that forgivable. If she liked me enough to make up for being such a shit influence on her kids.’ He makes a what-can-you-do gesture, shifts in his seat.

  ‘Will. Listen. Listen to me. That boy? Haymish? He will remember that for the rest of his life. What you did, how you stuck up for him. It’ll matter to him forever.’

  He flicks a hand. ‘Maybe. Or maybe I’ve been Rick the Dick in this situation. Maybe Hay and Taylah will remember me as the try-hard, bogan ex-con who thought doing it with their mum made him their dad.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Her voice is too loud. Will blinks at her, then down at his hands. ‘Don’t talk about yourself like that. I can’t stand it.’

  His lips twist, droop. ‘Whatever,’ he says, standing. ‘I better let you get some rest. Sitting here raving on about my problems while you’re—’

  ‘No, it’s fine. You don’t need to—’

  ‘Should get going anyway. Stuff to do.’

  He leaves and right away her blood is itching worse than ever. There’s something that would make this better if she could only think of it. She should know. What makes someone better. What will help. An original Western Suburbs jersey she bought at good old Tempe tip a few years back. Yes! Thought to herself at the time it’d be good for Will and it would, it will. What else? That Nintendo console some spoilt dickhead put out last hard rubbish night. She just needed to find some controllers and give it a clean and it’d be perfect. Take his mind off it all. Oh! And what about the stack of self-help books she’d bought at the big Dymocks sale a couple of years back? One was about resilience, she remembers, another about self-esteem. She’d felt embarrassed buying them, but as she told the kid ringing them up, life can be hard and sooner or later someone she knew would need them.

  ‘Nicole, can we chat a minute?’ The social worker is suddenly there by her bed. No clip-cloppy high-heels today. She’s padded in as soft and sure as a nurse. She grabs the remote and switches off the TV even though Nic had it on mute, subtitles only. ‘I’m told you’re doing really, really well.’

  ‘Apparently not well enough to let me leave.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been speaking to your niece and she tells me that your home is in a safe condition for you to return to, which is fantastic news.’

  Nic says nothing. Silently thanks Lena for convincing this professional busybody that all is well.

  ‘I’m heading over there later today just to—’

  ‘Heading where?’

  She flashes her teeth. What is she smiling at, for god’s sake? ‘Your house. Lena is going to meet me there so I can complete a walk-through. Soon as I’m done, I’ll sign here.’ She holds up the green binder. ‘Then all you need is your doctor’s sign-off and we’ll have you out of here. Could be as early as tomorrow. How’s that sound?’

  ‘I haven’t agreed to …’ Her voice is barely audible, damn it. She reaches for her water, sends the plastic cup flying.

  The social worker sidesteps the splash, murmurs reassurance that she’ll get someone in to clean it up and bring fresh water.

  ‘So I’ll pop back and see you later today, let you know how we got on, okay?’

  It sounds like a question but the social worker doesn’t wait for an answer, turns and leaves. Nic goes for her phone, sees it’s dead, yells out like she’s been shot. An aide rushes in, rolls his eyes when she asks him to help with the charger, but he finds it quickly, plugs in her phone within reach.

  She dials Lena’s number, which goes straight to voicemail. Hands shaking like buggery, she manages to type: DONT LET THE SOCIAL WORKER IN CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS.

  Seconds, minutes, half an hour with no response. She sips the water a nurse’s aide has brought her. She dials, texts, dials, texts. Tries Will’s phone but it goes straight to message, too. Drinks some more water to cool her panic. The only time Lena doesn’t answer is if she’s at work, but it’s midday and Lena never starts before four. She might be in class, but even so she’d see the texts, would notice the urgency and type something back.

  Is it possible Lena’s intentionally ignoring her? Because why? Because what the social worker said is true? Because she’s been lying and conspiring all this week while Nic has trusted that—

  A vice closes around her ribs. Pain like she’s never known. Not even when she fell. And there’s no air at all. Like the squeeze on her middle has pushed something thick and sticky into her throat. Nic slams her hand down on the call button. She can’t die and leave the social worker to wander around her home. Can’t die without knowing what has happened to Lena, why she’s abandoned her like this.

  LENA

  The social worker—Ada—was the same woman they’d met with in the hospital, but standing in Nic’s hallway she looked too young and tiny to have any kind of responsible job. The sneakers, Lena noticed. Off-white, canvas, no socks. The other day she’d worn a near identical outfit of tight pants and brightly coloured singlet but with shiny high heels. Extraordinary that all it took to transform an officious hospital social worker into a high schooler was a change of shoes.