Page 45 of Serenity Falls

‘Again. Thanks.’

She yawns again and checks her watch. ‘I’m going to head up.’

‘Already?’

‘Yeah, I’m going to read, chill for a bit.’

‘Okay.’

She stands, and then, suddenly, bends and kisses me on the cheek. At fifteen, such displays of affection are rare. It’s lovely, but it also worries me a little.

‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘I can’t give my dad a kiss?’

‘You can, always, but you don’t.’

‘Just take it, Dad. Enjoy the small things.’

I watch her walk away. Sometimes, I think parenting is just a process of watching them walk away. From that very first stumbling step to the first day at pre-school. From guiding them through the doors at primary to waving goodbye as they get on the bus to secondary.

Each time, going a little further. Soon enough, they don’t want to hold your hand any more or be seen with you in public. Bedroom doors are kept closed. Hours are spent on the phone. You are not the focus of their life. That shifts. Friends and, eventually, boy- or girlfriends become more important. They have a life that you are cut off from.

Of course, there’s pride to be taken in watching your child discover their independence and navigate the world. But each time a thread is cut, it stings a little. And you start to realize there will come a day when you’re on your own, holding a bunch of loose, frayed threads, wondering why the house is so damn quiet and wishing you could yell at someone ‘to turn that bloody music down’.

Beer sometimes makes me maudlin. I decide to go and get another.

I pop the tab and sit back down by the pool, and then I do the thing I told myself I would definitely not do. I open the photo library on my phone and search through old albums for pictures of the three of us – me, Sadie and Nat.

Annoyingly, the photos don’t want to load. They’re lagging and blurred. Also, there aren’t as many of us all as I remembered. Probably because when you have a child, your focus changes. It’s all about documenting every moment of their life. Truth be told, we were never big photo-takers before Sadie. We were one of those couples who snorted derisively at people documenting the minutiae of their lives on their phones.

‘Why can’t people just enjoy the moment?’

‘Do they have to view everything through a screen?’

Of course, now I wish we’d saved a few more of those memories. Sadie was only four when Nat disappeared. I’m not sure how much she remembers about her mum. Living in the moment is fine. But the human mind is fallible. It can’t capture a picture like a phone can. Scents, feelings, it’s great on. But a clear, crisp picture of the three of us as a family, not so much. When you don’t see people every day it’s frightening how fast you forget their faces.

Eventually, I give up on the photos and finish my beer. I manage to sink two more before the sun finally dips below the horizon. It’s a little more than I normally drink these days, but not as much as I used to drink most days. Still, when I stand, I feel it. Maybe it would be a good idea to call it a night. It’s not late – only ten fifteen – but I’m suddenly aware how easy it would be to stumble into the pool. The thought is sobering, in more ways than one.

I wander into the kitchen and pour a glass of water, which I gulp down standing at the sink. I lock the sliding doors and press ‘down’ on the automated blinds. I’m halfway across the entrance hall, heading for the stairs, when my phone pings in my pocket. I slip it out.

Motion detected in back yard.

Shit. I press ‘open’.

Arnie the Armadillo stands on the other side of the pool. Motionless, like before. A sign around his neck. Like before. But this time the message is different:

Help.

Frankie

I wasn’t even supposed to be there.

I don’t really like doing the home greets. Some of the new arrivals, they just don’t get it. I once had a woman attack me with pepper spray ’cos she thought I was an intruder. Another time, this dude had a heart attack. Right there in his brand-new kitchen. Good job I know first aid, or he would have been cooked. Gotta appreciate the irony, right?

Also, summer, it’s too frigging hot for the armadillo costume. It’s the biggest and heaviest of all the costumes. And if you’re under six foot, it’s hard to see out of the damn eyeholes. Normally, I wear Lenny the Leopard ’cos it’s cut tight and I’m the skinniest out of the Mascots.

Chris always wears Arnie. Chris is eighteen, six and a half foot and built like Thor. He looks like he’s dumb as wood, but don’t let that fool you. He’s smart. And rich. His dad works at the Hub, and his mom is a doctor. Chris plans to go to medical school after college and, in his spare time, he plays in a band. Needless to say, Chris gets laid. A lot.