Inside I find a list several pages long, scribbled in pencil.
“These are names of towns?”
Marco nods.
“This is the notebook I had with me on the bus ride to Brisbane. Nineteen hours overnight. I was so nervous. Kept myself busy, writing down every place we passed through. Especially names that made me smile.”
Muckadilla, I read.
Mungallala.
The handwriting in the notebook doesn’t look like his.
Boyish. Uneven.
Nothing like the neat, tidy handwriting in his appointment schedules.
Einaeb. Trihs.
Retaw selttob.
Doof.
“What’s this? A secret language?”
“That was my escape checklist,” he laughs. “I spelled everything backwards. Doof means food.”
I cover my mouth to hold back the sob, but I can feel it brewing.
I can only imagine the strength it must have taken to pack that bag, being forced to make a choice like this at such a young age.
“And all these stars?” I ask quietly.
“Kept drawing them whenever I was missing her,” he shrugs. “Or feeling scared. I never realised until I got to the coast that my starry sky wouldn’t be there.”
Page after page of penciled galaxies fill the rest of the book.
I press my hand against them, wishing I could undo the past.
But there’s one thing I still need to ask.
I hold his hand to my chest, hesitant to say it.
“Baby, the burns and cuts on your back… did he?”
Marco averts his gaze, giving a subtle nod.
His words are barely audible.
“Glass bottle when I was twelve, because I took a shower for too long. And cigarette butts in the dark while I was asleep. That one started when I was four.”
“Four?” God, I feel ill. “You were a baby…”
My voice cracks open.
Fuck being strong.
Pushing my chair back, I kneel beside him.
