Page 42 of Return to the Waratah Inn

She’d grown up with loving parents. It was a tragedy she’d lost them so young, but while she had them, they’d been kind, good, patient, and supportive of their daughters. His parents were nothing like hers had been. He still hadn’t really told her much about his childhood, so it wasn’t her fault. And now he had to face the consequences of her not knowing—she would invite his parents to stay at the house when they planned their trip. It felt like a storm brewing on the edges of his subconscious.

Most days, it felt like the two of them were in survival mode with a newborn, and couldn’t imagine his parents being added to the chaos. This could only end badly. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to speak up, to say anything at all to stop it from happening. It was like a collision he could see coming in slow motion, but as in a dream, he was unable to move or speak in order to prevent it.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Time had passed, and they’d always been on their best behaviour around Kate. Perhaps it’d be fine.

A memory flashed before his mind’s eye. His mother, laid out on the bed. She wore a silk nightgown and lay face down with one arm slung over the edge of the mattress to hang towards the floor. He’d stood there, at five years old, looking at her with a mixture of concern and fear. What was wrong with her? Why did she stay in bed so often? He needed breakfast. His stomach was knotted up with hunger. His head hurt from needing something to drink.

“Mum,” he’d said in a soft voice.

He pushed her arm once. She didn’t stir. “Mum, I’m hungry.”

She groaned. “Go away. Get yourself something, Alex. I’m sleeping.”

With a groan, he’d padded on silent feet across the cold tiled floor to the kitchen. The fridge was high, and the milk was on the top shelf. He couldn’t reach it without pushing over a chair from the dining table. By the time he’d done that, he could hear his father’s ute rumble into the driveway. He tugged on the milk, pulling it to the edge of the shelf. As the kitchen door opened, the jug fell from his hands to the tiles below, the lid flew off, and milk splashed all over the chair and the floor.

His father glared at him, then swore. “What are you doing?”

“I want some breakfast.”

“Where’s your mother?” His father’s words were slurred. He’d been at the pub. He often slept it off in his ute and came home after dawn.

“She’s sleeping.”

“Clean this up!” Dad barked. “Or you’ll hear about it from me.”

Alex did his best to clean up the mess with a tea towel, but there were still streaks on the tiles when he was done. He threw the soiled towel into the laundry and then picked up the milk bottle. A little remained in the bottom. He poured it over a bowl of Weetbix, and then looked for the sugar. After searching a while, he settled for honey and dribbled it across the cereal.

His father had disappeared into the living room, and he could hear the news playing on the television at a high volume. It echoed along the hall and into the cold kitchen.

He ate quietly at the table, careful not to make noise that might attract his father’s attention. When his father had been out all night drinking, it was a mistake to do anything that might draw his ire. After he was done eating, he rinsed out his bowl and put it in the sink.

His father came into the kitchen, opened the fridge and stared into it. “What is there to eat in this dump?” He scratched his head. “You’ve eaten everything, huh?”

Alex didn’t respond. He knew better than to speak.

His father glowered at him, then noticed the streaks of milk. The blow, when it came, took Alex by surprise and knocked him off his feet. He flew across the tiles and hit his head on the cupboard door.

On the beach, decades later, Alex shook himself out of the reverie as his heart rate skyrocketed and a flood of shame and pain washed over him. Those years were long past. His father was sober now. He’d apologised for the way he’d treated Alex in his childhood years. His mother had moved on from her depression. The two of them loved to play lawn bowls and attend swing dancing competitions now. They were the epitome of a fun-loving retired couple, but Alex he couldn’t leave the past behind him the way they’d encouraged him to.

He’d been a kid, and they’d both wounded him in ways he’d never really dealt with. He knew he should, but he wasn’t sure how. He hated even thinking about those days, let alone speaking of them. But Noah’s arrival had inexplicably brought memories to the surface that he hadn’t thought about in years. Better to push the memories aside and focus on the present—he had a good life, a beautiful wife and a new baby. That was what mattered. And if he had to entertain his parents for a few days, he’d simply pull himself together for the duration. But he’d put them off for as long as he could.

When he’d lost his first wife to cancer, it’d seemed as if he’d never get over it, never find a way to leave the trauma and grief of the past behind him, it chased him wherever he went. He hadn’t learned how to cope with pain as a child, had simply buried it instead. And losing his wife had reopened those wounds in a way that left him feeling hopeless and desperate. But when he and Kate fell in love and got married, it seemed as though maybe, for the first time in his life, God was smiling on him. That perhaps he could build something out of nothing—the two of them could, together. Something that was beautiful, good and peaceful. No calamity, no drama—just pure bliss together. And they had.

Noah’s birth was a blessing and a dream come true. But it was hard on them both. He’d struggled with the chaos of it all, the changes to their life. He worried that he couldn’t adapt to being a father, even though it was something he’d wanted for a long time. What kind of father would he be? He had vowed not to emulate his own, but what did a good father look like? He’d kept himself busy, scared he’d mess it up.

He stood to his feet and brushed the sand off his wetsuit. Then, with the surfboard under his arm, he jogged to the water and leapt forwards to land on the board as it crested a small wave. As he paddled out beyond the break, he pushed every thought from his mind. He’d gotten good at that. He left things behind. Buried the past where it belonged. Instead of thinking about problems, conflict, and the fear he’d felt as a boy, he focused instead on a gull sailing overhead, the scent of the ocean, the swell of it beneath him, the cool, clear water that showed shadows of black bedrock through its depths, and the flash of silver from a school of fish.

After he’d surfed for an hour, he was exhausted. The waves were good and he hated to stop, but it was getting late, and he’d promised Kate he’d grab milk and bread on the way home and help out with Noah that evening. She’d been so great with the baby. She was a natural—the way she seemed to know exactly what he needed from her, responded to every cry. He was in awe of her.

There was a strong wind blowing in from the east, and the waves had become choppy. They dumped against the shoreline with a ferocious frothing and churning before rushing back to the ocean, sucking everything outwards only to dump it back again on the sand a few moments later.

He caught a wave most of the way to shore, then paddled hard and ran the last few steps before another wave landed on him. Out of breath, he paused for a few moments to gasp for oxygen. The sun drifted towards the horizon, and dark clouds clustered there. The day was overheated. It felt as if it needed a storm to wash it clean of the cloying humidity that threatened to smother them all.

It was then that Alex noticed the people gathered on the shoreline a few metres away. He’d assumed they were building a sandcastle or doing something enjoyable as a family, but now he sensed their urgency. Something was wrong.

He dropped his board in the sand and ran towards them, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes. There was a woman in a swimsuit lying on her back on the wet sand. Several other people were cloistered around her. A small girl cried.

“What’s happened?” he asked.