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He shrugs. ‘It was a long time ago. I was with them when I was eight years old.’
‘And what happened?’
‘What do you mean?’ He’s impatient now.
‘Why did you leave them?’
‘They left me,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘Paul got transferred interstate. A big job in Melbourne and my biological mother wouldn’t give permission for me to leave the state. I had to stay in Sydney.’
I nod. ‘I imagine the foster system is similar to here—your mother’s wishes had to be respected.’
‘My mother was a drugged-out whore,’ he says bitterly. ‘Her wishes should have been irrelevant.’
‘You wanted to go with the Morrows,’ I surmise.
‘At the time,’ he says coldly, ‘I didn’t want to have to move into a new home, a new school, find new friends. I wanted to stay with the Morrows because it was easier.’
‘But you would have had to meet new friends and go to a new school if you’d gone to Melbourne,’ I point out logically.
‘I was eight. I didn’t think it through like that.’ There’s rich frustration in his tone now.
‘So they left,’ I say quietly. ‘That must have been hard for you.’
‘Not really,’ he says, and again I feel he is lying. Hiding something. ‘I was used to it by then. They were my seventh family already.’
‘So many,’ I say with a shake of my head. ‘Did you keep in contact with them?’
‘No.’ A terse word. I make a mental note to ask him about this again later. Another time.
‘Do you keep in contact with any of them?’
‘Any of who?’ Belligerence is back.
‘The people you knew through foster care?’
‘Yes.’
Closed book. ‘Such as?’ I prompt.
‘Gabe.’ The word is very quiet; at first I almost don’t catch it. And it’s not immediately meaningful to me. But then I recall something I’ve read about Noah at some point, and I recall his business partner is a man named Gabriele Arantini.
‘Your business partner?’ I prompt.
‘Friend, business partner, foster brother. Take your pick.’ He turns to face me and his face is pale. There is a hint of perspiration on his brow.
His response is classic for someone with PTSD; I’ve pushed him too far. I still don’t know what exactly provokes this reaction in him, but somewhere within these questions is the key.
‘You know,’ I say thoughtfully, tilting my head to the side, ‘Ivy would love to stay another night with her grandmother. Why don’t I organise it and you and I can do something...fun?’
‘Fun?’
He repeats the word, his eyes clouded, still pained by his recollections. I must remove that hurt for him. Now with a sticking plaster, and in time with conversation and understanding.
‘Yes. Dinner? Movie? You know. Fun.’
He says nothing for a moment and I wonder if he wants to be alone. If perhaps I’m moving him too fast.
But then his eyes lock onto mine. ‘I have a better idea.’
