Page 28 of That Island Feeling

It was less painful to step into his reality than to force him back into this one – but it did little to ease the immense guilt I felt from lying to him.

‘Should we look at some photos of her?’ I ask him now.

We made him a special family album when he came to live here, and once Mum passed, I added some more pictures of her. It was one of our favourite pastimes, to study the photos and reminisce. Often, Dad pointed at their wedding picture, him in suspenders and colourful socks, and Mum radiant in a strapless gown that gathered over her curves into a floor-sweeping skirt. When this book was open, everyone was alive and well.

‘I have something else for you today,’ I say when we turn the final page.

I set the album aside and pull a seashell from my bag, gently placing it in his hands. It has a creamy spiral with a pointed end.

Dad holds the shell stiffly away from his face, like it’s a foreign object about to attack, and not a precious item from his own treasured coral and shell collection. He used to love showing me the different features that distinguished one species from another – the spire, the body whorl, the apex. It was like another language.

He pushes the shell back into my hands and scrunches his face. Maybe this was a bad idea.

‘I’ll put this up here,’ I say, standing and placing the shell next to the TV so that it’s still in view.

My plan was to use the shell as a way to explain to him that I was off on an island holiday in a few days, and if he reacted well, reveal that it was the same island he and Mum had visited on their honeymoon. I knew it was a stretch – and wishful thinking on my part – but I thought the shell could even serve as a reminder for him that I’d be coming back. I’ll have to try again later.

I sit with Dad for another hour. We switch on the television and watch some of The Little Mermaid while nibbling on chocolate.

Before I leave, I lay out his pyjamas on the bed ready for the night nurse and load up my arms with shirts to take home and wash.

‘See you tomorrow, Dad. Sleep well. I love you.’

He doesn’t say anything back.

ISLAND LIFE

Chapter Fifteen

ANDIE

You missed our dinner.

The words flash across my phone screen as I’m battling the bluetooth speakers. I’ve settled on ‘Moonlight Sonata’ by Beethoven, which Google informs me is the perfect soundtrack for a moon circle.

I drift away from the uncooperative speakers and plonk myself on the lounge. Beethoven can wait. The girls are all upstairs changing into comfier clothes anyway. Apparently, the moon prefers us in elasticised pants.

Your dinner invitation was heavy on the aioli, light on the details, I type out.

But was it delicious?

I know that he’s talking about the bacon-and-egg bap, but my grip tightens around my phone as I recall this morning’s river run-in. How his strong arms cut through the water, stroking closer and closer to the house until the tip of his sun-kissed nose practically grazed the balcony railing.

‘Careful or you’ll wash up on shore,’ I sang out.

‘Wouldn’t you be so lucky,’ he called back, stroking closer.

In that moment, a strange urge washed over me to stow his gleaming smile in my pocket like a precious shell.

‘Regrettably, it’s high tide.’ Hazel’s no-nonsense tone broke the spell. Her face was still warm, albeit tinged with a hint of curiosity as to how this city girl was already so well acquainted with her son.

She waved Jack off on the promise he’d return with freshly caught salmon for her pot pie. Half an hour later, after I’d finished rinsing our teacups and plates, I hugged Hazel goodbye. The floorboards of the old river house creaked underfoot as we walked to the front door and I wished her good luck with the documentary.

I’d almost reached Moorings when I realised I’d left the Tupperware behind.

Very delicious, I reply to Jack.

Excellent. So, you’ll agree to dinner take two tomorrow night?

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