Page 78 of Echoes in the Storm

“Take it,” she grits out, spinning away.

I retrieve Duke’s number, ridiculously enraged that a slip of paper connected to him in some vague way has touched such an intimate part of me. I clear my throat, garnering Mum’s attention as she heads for the house.

She turns, her head shaking slowly, her jaw hard as I lift the paper between us and shred it.

“Fine,” she snaps, getting the attention of the removalists. “Wallow in your damn misery then.” She tosses her hands in the air, marching back into the near-vacant house.

I’m pissed at her, partly because she won’t let the issue go, but mostly because I’m redirecting the anger I feel at myself for not having the guts to do exactly what she says.

I should call him. Make a friendly gesture, and touch base to see how his job-hunt is going, how his family is. Yet the thorns in my heart twist in the septic wounds left by his touch, his kisses, when I think of how toendthe call.

I’d be a love-struck teenager telling him, “No, you hang up first.” I wouldn’t be able to do it, especially if our conversation cemented the fact that there’s no chance of there ever being an “us”.

“We’ve only got the beds to go and then we’re done,” the older of the two removalists says, coming to stand beside me. He points to the way they’ve stacked the rest. “We can fit some of your boxes in the gaps if you know which ones you don’t need right away.”

The truck will sit loaded in their yard for two days until I take ownership of my new property. Turns out Amanda knew her shit, and the house sold for a tidy profit within three weeks. Seeing Jared turn up on my doorstep with the contract and a celebratory bottle of wine cut the last tether I had to sanity, leaving me afloat in a sea of doubts.

The largest, that any life I create from here on in will ever be as good as what I once had.

Nine years ago, when I held Taylah in my arms for the first time, this isn’t what I saw in my future. Standing alone on the porch of the house I thought I would die in didn’t even cross my mind. I honestly fell in love with this place, believing I’d never leave. That I would spend the rest of my life making memories here with my daughter, my family, even grandchildren.

And yet, here I am, watching my possessions get bundled into the back of a truck, wondering how I’m going to fit them all into the new place. It’s got the same number of rooms, but a smaller footprint. It’s all I could afford, applying for a mortgage on my own.

“I’ll go shift some boxes to the door here for you,” I let the removalist know. “Make a pile that you can take from.”

“That would be brilliant.” He gives me a tight nod before relaying the message to his off-sider.

I head into Taylah’s room to gather the couple that hold the belongings of hers I decided to keep. My eye catches the school uniform still hanging in the wardrobe. I need to donate it, but in the never-ending list of things to do when shifting house, I forgot.

“Cam?” Mum calls from the depths of the house.

“Yeah?” I drone back, still not over her performance with the phone number.

“Do you have any blankets left out? I’ve pumped the airbed for you, so I thought I may as well put the bedding on it.”

“Beside the French doors,” I shout as I reach out and pull the uniform from the rail.

My hand hangs in mid air as I frown at how unusually heavy the blouse and skirt are. I step backward, intending to lay the outfit on the nearby boxes, when the reason for the added weight tumbles to the floor.What on earth?

“Where are you, Cam?” Mum calls from the hall.

“I’m in here.” I squat and retrieve the notebook, turning it over as she appears at the door.

“Did you mean these ones?” Her eyes narrow as she spies what I have in my hand. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I just found it.” I’ve got no idea what’s inside, but I know one thing for sure: this notebook isn’t mine. I’ve never had a grey one with the imprint of waves on the cover.

“Open it up.” She gestures to the book with the blankets in her hands. “Whose is it?”

“I don’t know.” I murmur as I flip the front cover open. The handwriting is messy, masculine, but I know that it’s not Jared’s.

“I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready,” Mum says softly. “I’ll put the jug on—have a coffee ready to go.”

“Thanks.” I have a gut feeling that I might need a wine, though. My fingers track over the decorative text scribbled on the first page.

echoes in the storm

The handwriting is choppy, dark lines scratched over each other, evoking a sense of thunder and lightning, wind and hail.Chaos.