Page 105 of That Island Feeling

‘Do you own an orange tackle box?’

‘Ah, yeah, I do.’

Toby grins, his expression completely out of place under the grim circumstances.

‘Thought so,’ he says.

On the journey back to the island, I run through the countless reasons why it wouldn’t work out between us anyway. At the top of the list is Andie never truly understanding who I was. How is it that I could immediately see what she was carrying and want to lighten her load, but she couldn’t see me? I sorted the bucks’ situation, made her bacon-and-egg sandwiches and did my best to keep her smiling and laughing, yet she struggled to recognise that I was just as adrift as she was, I shouldn’t have had to spell it out for her.

I know I’m better off without her.

So why does it feel like I just dropped off my heart at Port Hope dock?

Chapter Forty-nine

ANDIE

Toby has parked his car – Mum’s battered Subaru – at the Port Hope wharf, so we drive straight to our old family home. The trip to Sydney takes almost two hours, and by the time we arrive, it’s nearly 3 a.m.

Thick storm clouds cover the moon and stars, so there’s no night sky to light the way as we scramble from the car onto the swampy front lawn. It’s as though the galaxies of stars have been left on Pearl Island.

Violent rain has pitted the grass with deep, water-filled craters and – because I’m overtired and on edge – my first thought is whether the holes could be repaired with crushed oyster shells. Then, thoughts of Dad pour in, overwhelming me with panic. Is he out in this? Soaked through, looking for shelter – alone, exhausted, confused? Where the hell is he?!

Desperation grips me, and I find myself bargaining with any higher power listening: Just let him be okay, please, just let him be okay. Take all my earthly possessions, lock me up for life – I’ll forgo the film course, forget about Jack. I only care about finding Dad alive and well.

Toby said that the police have already checked here, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is where he’d be – he lived here for more than forty years. As we approach the house, the security sensor light flicks on, illuminating a safe path. The familiar blond-brick façade of our family home greets us, patches of lighter bricks framing the windows – a reminder of repairs permanently postponed by Dad and now a part of its charm. I’m glad they haven’t tried to fix it.

I scan the area frantically for any clue of his presence. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. A tiny trail of breadcrumbs? A stray hat or a bloodstained sneaker, like something out of a Missing Persons Unit episode? Please, no!

‘We’re not going to wake them, are we?’ Toby whispers as we creep down the side of the house, past the graveyard of his childhood goldfish. It used to be a running joke in the Alcott family – how the fish barely outlived their fabled seven-second memories. That is, until memory jokes stopped being funny.

It probably still counts as trespassing even if you’re on good terms with the homeowners – Cindy, Zach and their toddler-now-probably-school-aged daughter, Bella. Mum and I were thrilled when a young family won the auction, ready to weave their own beautiful memories into the fabric of the home. I left them a housewarming present: an old DVD copy of Frozen for Bella, a bottle of wine and an orange blossom candle.

Orange.

Disappointment had overwhelmed me as I watched The Codfather pull away from the dock. I was already at the end of the pier but I turned back to the sound of his boat chugging off into the light-speckled distance, towards the island. I had hoped he might offer to stay, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. After a week of his generous gestures – both grand and sandwich-sized – it was clear he’d given enough, yet he still gave us a ride, if only out of a sense of duty. Captain Jack Cooper was, unquestionably, a good man. Maybe the best man I’ve ever known.

‘I don’t think we should wake them,’ Toby repeats, voice low. I realise I haven’t responded to him.

‘We might not have a choice!’ I hiss.

I instantly regret my tone. I could tell guilt was already eating at him when he found me on the island. And it isn’t his fault.

‘I’m sorry, Tobes. I don’t blame you for any of this,’ I say, softening.

He’d taken the afternoon off work to go with Dad to the hospital. Apparently, Dad had been noticeably lethargic, and after several days of him refusing to get out of bed, the doctor recommended a brain scan as a precaution to check for any complications from his recent fall. So if anyone was to blame, it was me – if I hadn’t been rushing, I would have remembered to secure those bed rails . . .

It was at the hospital that things went terribly wrong. The staff, unaware of the severity of his dementia, directed Dad back to reception after the scan, where Toby was waiting. But Dad never made it there. No one saw him leave, but after an hour of frantic searching, they couldn’t locate him on the premises either. So the police were called.

‘Come on. There’s no sign of Dad here, let’s go,’ I whisper to Toby. The initial rush of adrenaline is wearing off, and cold, creeping dread gnaws at my insides. We make our way back to the car, the tension setting in as the minutes tick by.

The rain starts up again as Toby turns the key in the ignition and flicks on the windscreen wipers.

‘So, where to?’ he asks.

I bury my face in my hands. ‘God, I don’t know, Tobes,’ I groan. ‘I wish we could call Mum.’

‘Same,’ he says, his voice barely audible.

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