“What if she's not even there?”
It seems as though the thought hasn’t even occurred to him until now.
“What if Mum had the courage to bail after I did, and just didn't know how to find me?”
“I guess it's possible,” I consider.
“I can’t decide if that heals my heart, or breaks it.”
His voice wavers.
“If she got out, she’s finally free. But also gone for good. I’ll never get to…”
“One way to find out.”
I squeeze his knee reassuringly.
Just then, my phone reminder chimes softly.
I slide it from my pocket and glance at the screen.
Find best watermelon in Queensland.
“We still have one left,” he says, patting the towel on the back seat.
I turn to smile at him.
“Know anyone in this town who likes eating watermelon on September third?”
“One woman in particular,” he says fondly.
???
Closing the sketchbook, he fastens his seatbelt.
Curving back toward Miles Street, I slow to a crawl.
We park across the street from his former neighbour.
Marco is wearing my sunglasses again, keeping his eyes forward at all times.
He’s not ready to look at the house yet.
I’m sure seeing this street is hard enough.
So much pain. So many memories.
A crow caws abrasively from a lamp post, as if it’s been expecting us.
The house is much smaller than I anticipated.
Worn down and neglected, paint faded to a dull uneven hue.
One end of the rusted metal fence sags inward, loosely framing an overgrown yard.
Withered grass and weeds are almost tall enough to hide decades of hoarded debris.
I can see a cracked window pane next to the door.
