Page 40 of Wings Above the Mallee

She was out of the room before the words had a chance to settle, but both Sean and Heath stared after her, as though blinking might obliterate the unexpected magic of the moment, the flash of brightness in the consuming darkness.

‘My God,’ Heath muttered.

‘When one door opens …’ Sean agreed, goosebumps racing up his arms. Was this the breakthrough they’d been waiting and praying for?

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that was a huge step forward with Charlee. And a huge screw up with Amelia.’

‘Nothing to screw up,’ Heath said sullenly as he poured another slug.

Sean tried not to stare at the glass; every day was a battle. ‘You know you have to make it right.’

‘What Iknowis that the thought of what I said makes me sick to my guts, but how the hell do I make that right?’ Heath tossed back the drink. ‘I’ve been so wrapped up in my own damn head that it never occurred to me that Amelia might have her own reason for sorrow.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘She got it in a nutshell: I act like I have a monopoly on grief.’

‘And on guilt,’ Sean said softly. ‘And maybe this proves it’s time you started letting some of that go.’

‘Short of this—’ Heath lifted the bottle, but didn’t pour any more ‘—any ideas on exactly how I’m supposed to do that?’

‘I guess you could start with Amelia. Now you know you’ve got something in common, maybe you could actually talk, instead of pulling that closing-yourself-off rubbish. Could be good for both of you.’

‘You don’t reckon it might be a bit odd to tell some woman I barely know all about my dead wife?’ Heath snorted, his lips tight the second he’d spat out the words.

‘You’re asking someone who goes to AA meetings whether it’s odd to share your pain?’

Heath twisted the glass between his fingers, leaving monochrome rainbows on the tabletop. He blew out a tense breath. ‘How come the doc was here, anyway?’

‘Waterworks thing.’ Sean waved off the question and headed for the door. ‘Nothing important.’

He had to leave the room before he took that drink.

17

Amelia

Amelia drove faster than she normally would, as though she could outrun her anger. Heath had just proved the truth of what she’d said to Biggles in the plane a few months earlier: men were dicks. She could see he was hurting, but she could also see Charlee’s pain. Beneath the oversized shirt, dishevelled hair and the clumsily inked infinity symbols that she intuitively knew were Charlee’s form of warding off the inevitability of life—and death—the teenager was crying out for help.

Her left hand tightened on the wheel, though she dropped her right to her lap: it was hot and aching and the thought of touching anything was enough to make her scream. When she’d peeled back the plaster that morning, the graze on her knuckle was weeping yellow pus. She should get Taylor to take a look, but her poor friend was under so much pressure at the moment—

The car hit the ridge of dirt on the side of the road and Amelia swerved back, shaking her head to clear it.God knows, she was angry enough at Heath to maintain her focus. How could he not recognise the pain his child was in? Pain worse than the hot ache that throbbed up her right arm, pulsing in her armpit.

She tightened her grip, hunching forward in the seat to fasten her attention to the road … to the trees flicking past … to the moon that sailed like a ship behind the clouds … camels were ships … ships of the desert … they had feral camels on the property … Noah loved them, chuckling at the eyelashes that swept their narrow cheeks … eyelashes … Noah had such beautiful eyelashes, just like his dad …

She buzzed down her window, welcoming the wash of fresh air. What was wrong with her? Why was her mind wandering, leaping from one subject to another like a skittish foal? It was Heath’s fault. Heath … what was going on with him … with her …? Sometimes it seemed that perhaps they were edging toward a friendship. Or did she feel something … more? Her heart clenched, hard enough to shock her back to reason. Any attachment, even friendship, was impermissible.

By the time she’d reached her front door, she couldn’t recall whether she had locked the car nor how she had somehow managed to pull into the driveway without hitting the hinged gate. She didn’t care. Her head was on fire, her arms hanging like iron star droppers at her sides. She must have picked up something from one of the clients: she’d had a sudden onset flu like this before. Of course, back then, there had been people around to help her: family, friends … Now there was no one to shoulder her responsibility.

And that’s how she wanted it. No one owed her anything, and she owed no one in return. She gritted her teeth and started the routine of animal meal preparations, trying to find a little joy in Biggles’ cuteness as the tiny possum accepted a sliverof apple, holding it in both paws to delicately nibble as she watched Amelia curiously. Dusty was asleep in the bathroom, her head hunched into her ruffled chest feathers, though she stirred enough to utter a deep churr of welcome. The lambs drank their milk eagerly, then Amelia let the empty bottles fall to the floor. She could nap in the chair, instead of struggling to bed. But she hadn’t changed the lambs’ nappies, and she needed to watch them for a few minutes, make sure they digested properly. Besides, she was frozen, the cold seeming to radiate from her core, rather than creep from her extremities. She needed to get to bed before she got worse. If only she had some aspirin in the house. But she didn’t dare keep it, couldn’t risk the temptation in moments of weakness.

Using her hands on the arms of the chair, she levered herself up like someone decades older. Plodded to the spare bedroom to get the nappies and the scissors. Wished she’d had the foresight to prepare the nappies earlier, as the wadding seemed too thick to force the blade through.

The lambs wanted to play, and by the time she’d caught the pair and managed to get the modified nappies taped on tight, sweat dampened her clothes. Hadn’t she been cold only moments earlier? If she left the lambs loose, surely they’d be all right—but they’d started showing an interest in electrical cables and Karmaa loved to jump on the bed. It was important to keep Noah behind the childproof gates, to keep him safe.

No, not Noah—the lambs.

It seemed to take an hour to get the animals safely contained at the foot of her bed, with Kismet leaping like a jack in the box, trying to break through the blanket Amelia draped across the top of the pen.

‘Kismet, Karmaa, Biggles, Dusty,’ she checked before allowing herself to fall on the bed. What did it matter if shedidn’t get undressed? Her bra pinched, but there was no one to see, no one to care.

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