Page 39 of That Island Feeling

Who brings up their ballsack when trying to impress a girl? At least Andie didn’t appear too repulsed by my stupid antics. In fact, she seemed to have a good time tonight . . . I think? My life might not be what it once was, but while I was sprinting down Keith’s driveway in the dark, exhilaration tearing through my lungs, I wasn’t thinking of our ruined island, or of Alec. I was thinking of Andie.

My thumb absent-mindedly strokes the Snoopy bandaid on the back of my hand, as if I’m rubbing Aladdin’s oil lamp to make a wish.

And we have plans for tomorrow night, which Taylor thankfully seems to be on board with. I was worried, given how things played out last night, that it might be an issue.

I enjoy the familiar sensation of the wet sand squishing between my toes as I walk up the beach. There are not enough stars in the sky to count how many times I’ve taken this exact route. With the island blackout, the shore feels more alive than usual. The bright full moon hanging low in the sky reflects off the mastheads of boats anchored near the shore. A soft breeze gently rocks the sailboats, making the masts clink like melodic wind chimes and harmonising with the gentle groaning of mooring lines as they stretch against hulls.

I stop for a quick wee. I’m not concerned about peeping Toms on their boats, peering through a port window. It’s too dark to make out any anatomy. If the authorities (aka Bob, the retired cop who also lords over the island’s wheelbarrow collection) were to lay charges for public urination, the entire island would be locked up.

I make piss circles in the sand, the swirly patterns reminding me of a different time, when an adolescent version of myself would craft misshapen hearts with sticks and shells and leave them for Clara to find. Depending on the tide, the hearts could remain intact for weeks, especially the shell versions. There was no need for anyone else to come this way and wrestling the overgrown banksias wasn’t worth the reward of the narrow, swampy beach when there were much nicer, and more accessible, beaches all over the island. It felt like our own private coastal track, allowing us to sneak to each other’s houses under the cloak of night. Clara even had a ladder to climb into my bedroom window. It wasn’t just hearts we left behind, but our footprints too. We liked seeing them together in the sand, interlaced with tiny, forked seagull prints. Stamped together we looked like a peculiar family: Jack and Clara and their little bird children.

I zip up my fly and continue the rest of the way along the beach to Mum’s back gate. It’s sagged into the sand so I have to yank to open it. I shake my head. There’s no way Mum has that sort of strength now. She must be accessing the beach by going all the way around the other side of the house – and purposely not saying anything.

I take the creaky wooden steps two at a time up to her back verandah.

‘Mum?’ I call out.

It was a no-brainer to call into Moorings before I came here. Mum is as tough as nails. My entire childhood she operated on the perfect combination of smarts and guts. It’s how we came to live on Pearl Island in the first place.

Mum appears at the back door, holding her blackout contraption – a candle set in a box of mirrors strategically placed to amplify the light thrown out by the flame. Made by Arthur, the inventor of the famous walk-on-water shoes – trademark and actual effectiveness still pending.

‘Mum, what’s with the back gate?’ I rouse as she opens the screen door and steps out onto the verandah. It’s lighter out here than inside, so I wonder why she hasn’t been enjoying the still night from her favourite chair. ‘Why didn’t you say something? I’ll bring round my screwdriver to tighten the hinges.’

‘Ah, don’t be daft.’ She waves my words away while planting a kiss on my cheek. ‘I would have gotten to it sooner or later. I don’t need you fussing over me like I didn’t build all of this myself.’ She gestures at our beautiful home, hammered together with materials shipped from Port Hope and garnished with flotsam pulled from the river and a whole lot of love.

‘I know. But you’re getting old.’

‘Old! How dare you!’

I love our mother–son shorthand. No hellos or pleasantries, just straight into it. And of course, I enjoy our role reversal too. Finally, I have the time to care for her, despite her fierce independence.

There was only one time I truly worried for her, and that was during the floods in 2017 when she wouldn’t leave the house. I was at the oyster farm on the other side of the island with Keith, and when I kayaked home through the flooded streets, she refused to evacuate. She insisted she’d float down the river in the house, just like the clawfoot bathtub. Even when I reminded her that said bathtub sank, she still wouldn’t budge. It was only when I mentioned that Clara and Hannah were at the makeshift evacuation centre at the school, and Hannah was asking after her, that she finally agreed to leave with me.

‘I’m here to check on you,’ I announce, taking her elbow and attempting to guide her to her chair, but she shrugs me off and I have to duck to avoid the naked flame singeing my shirt.

‘Running a bit late, aren’t you?’ She sets the candle contraption on the table and settles into her seat herself.

I collapse into the chair next to her. The one Andie looked quite comfortable in earlier this morning . . . ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I had to go and check on the girls.’

She arches an eyebrow at me. ‘The girls? Or one girl in particular?’

There’s no getting anything past my mother, ever.

‘What was she doing here?’ I ask, not bothering to hide my interest. Knowing that it will only delight her.

‘She bought some fruit off me and then brought back my wheelbarrow with a slice of cake. She seems like such a lovely girl.’ Unsurprisingly, I detect a suggestive tone. But, actually, I welcome her meddling. While some people might feel embarrassed to introduce family members to potential love interests, I’m unequivocally proud to be Hazel’s son, to be made of a fraction of the same strength and passion. Everyone adores Hazel. I don’t think she has an enemy on this island – and that’s no easy feat for living in what is effectively a small town for over three decades. And although things didn’t work out with Keith, I know he’d drop everything the moment she needed him.

‘She also seemed interested in my documentary,’ Mum says.

Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo.

The bird call comes from above us, and Mum bounds out of her chair. ‘Yes! A hawk-faced owl!’ she cries, scurrying back into the dark house.

There’s a sharp thud, followed by a clatter of something falling. ‘Fuck!’

‘Are you alright?’ I call. The hallways and rooms are so crammed with treasure from the river that it’s impossible to see the floor in some spots.

There’s no response and I’m about to commence a rescue mission when she emerges from the house with her phone in hand.

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