Page 106 of That Island Feeling

I lift my head to look at him and his anguished expression tugs at my heart – the baseball cap he’s wearing makes him look ten years old again, when his biggest worry was getting his hands on the latest Xbox game. I wish I could rewind the clock to when life was simpler. I had her for so much longer than he did.

‘I remember when you used to sit back there,’ I say, forcing a smile as I gesture towards the back seat. ‘You hated being strapped into your car seat, so you used to do this thing where you’d hold your breath until you turned red, and I’d have to leap back there and unbuckle you before you passed out.’

‘Ha. Did I?’ Toby laughs weakly.

‘Yeah, you were a strange kid.’ I punch his shoulder lightly. ‘Love you, bro.’

‘Love you too, sis.’

The memory lightens the mood for a moment before the gravity of the situation settles back over us. The wipers rhythmically push against the increasing rain, and we sit in Mum’s dark car out the front of our old family home in charged silence.

‘Fuck. He’s probably out in this, Toby! We could go check the ocean bench?’ I’m clutching at straws; I know it’s unlikely he’d find his way there. It’s the older, more established memories from earlier life that he lives in now. ‘Can you walk me through exactly what happened again?’ I ask. Maybe combing through every detail will ensure we haven’t overlooked something obvious.

Toby takes a deep breath. ‘Well, his appointment was at 3 p.m. so I arrived at around two to pick him up. He was sitting in his chair, all dressed and ready, but it still took a bit of time to get out the door. He kept pointing at the TV and making this grunting noise. I could tell he was extra frustrated, but then I thought that might be the concussion . . . Then I finally realised he was pointing at this shell next to the TV. He wanted to bring it with us, so I packed it in his bag and we finally headed out the –’

‘Oh my God,’ I interrupt, heart hammering in my chest. ‘I think I know where he is.’

Chapter Fifty

JACK

It’s still pelting down as I shuffle back to the cabin like a zombie. By the time I arrive, it feels pointless to try to sleep. Instead, I stay up, gluing oyster-shell pieces to a vase until my eyes start to droop, and I eventually rest my head on the table and drift off.

The first light of dawn wakes me. I pluck a stray piece of shell from my forehead and decide to head straight to Mum’s house. The rain has stopped. If I hurry, I’ll catch her before her dawn swim. I want to collect some spare boxes to start packing, and I can repay the favour by giving her a hand cleaning up after last night.

She witnessed what happened with Andie, but she doesn’t know about my late-night trip to Port Hope. I’m not sure which position she’ll take – steadfast Andie-girl advocate or quiet observer? We have more important matters to discuss anyway – like temporarily housing her thirty-one-year-old son until he gets his shit together.

The bucks are due to check out this morning, and so are the girls. I assume the other girls will pack Andie’s things. I can’t even fathom facing them. What if her dad hasn’t been found? It will be difficult to convince myself that I don’t care, and get on with things.

Thankfully, Bob has volunteered to drive the river boat, so I’ll open Charlie Farleys later. Since the majority of the island’s guests who venture outside the resort are leaving today anyway, there’s no rush.

There’s been no news on the baby’s arrival yet, but the phone lines are still down. Island word is that a rogue firework set off by the bucks’ group was shot straight into the cellular tower; a final, parting gift. What a bloody week it’s been! I’m exhausted.

As I reach Mum’s gate, the first thing I notice is the garden sprinklers are still running. Mum is usually strict about switching them off in the evening, especially when it’s raining. With all the excitement from last night, it must have slipped her mind.

I turn off the sprinklers and take the steps to the verandah, which less than twelve hours ago was packed with spectators admiring Arthur’s fireworks display. There are no wet swimmers draped over the railing.

‘Mum!’ I call as I walk through the house, finding wine glasses scattered everywhere. I check every room, but there’s no sign of her, only remnants of last night’s party – paper plates with leftover salmon and brie canapés (no leftover bruschetta), empty wine bottles, a few pairs of sunglasses, and a jacket – presumably lost property.

Deciding she’s likely out for her swim, I get to work tidying up. It feels good to let my body take over and give my mind a rest. I’m drying the final glass when I hear the door push open.

‘What’s the water temp like?’ I sing out.

‘It’s Keith,’ the voice calls back.

‘Oh, hey,’ I say as he steps into the kitchen. ‘Did you want to swing by your place later? The boys will be gone, and I can make my last-ditch sales pitch for you to stay.’ But the moment I clock his face, I know there’s something wrong.

‘Hazel hasn’t been here since last night,’ he says abruptly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I heard her leave around 11 p.m. and she hasn’t been back. I just went to check, and her boat is missing.’

My stomach plummets. It was so wet out last night; the river was flowing unnaturally fast, sloshing against the steep sandstone cliffs. The usual twenty-minute trip back from Port Hope stretched to thirty. I can’t bear the thought of Mum – no matter how river-savvy she is – being out in that. Where could she be now?

‘Which one?’ I press urgently.

Keith scrunches his face. ‘Sorry?’

---