Page 39 of Wings Above the Mallee

Sean gripped the back of a kitchen chair. Good Christ, he felt sick. It was like watching a train wreck, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Amelia had staggered backward under the onslaught of Heath’s words, but now, white-faced, she crossed one arm over her chest, cradling her bandaged hand. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps you don’t have a monopoly on grief?’ she said, coldly controlled.

Heath took a deep breath, raking both hands through his hair like he was searching for patience to deal with Amelia.‘That’s ridiculous. I’d do anything to have no ownership of it. But it’s a fact. One you can’t possibly fathom.’

He may as well have drunk himself into a soft-edged stupor, Sean realised, because even completely sober, he still couldn’t find the words to ameliorate his idiot son’s statement.

Amelia stared at Heath with open loathing for a long second. Then she turned and strode from the room, brushing off the doctor’s attempt to accompany her.

Heath groaned, sinking into a chair.

‘Lad—’

‘Don’t even start, Dad,’ Heath mumbled. ‘I know I’m supposed to offer visitors a cup of tea, not home truths. But what the hell’s with her? It’s not a contest.’

‘She was trying to tell you, youleathcheann,’ Sean said, suddenly angry. Why could Heath never see beyond his own pain?

‘I know, got it. Some story that was going to be about her childhood dog or cat or whatever. It’s not the same, Dad. You know it’s not.’

‘No. How she went off at the meeting …’ Charlee said in a small voice, suddenly subdued. ‘It wasn’t a dog or cat, was it?’ She stood near Heath, but looked from Sean to the doctor.

Christ, if even Charlee could work it out, how could Heath be so buried in his own misery that he didn’t understand?

‘The fact is, Amelia can’t even imagine what it’s like to lose someone,’ Heath said, doubling down on his justifications.

‘She can’t?’ Doc Hartmann asked softly.

Heath paused a moment, then waved off her question. ‘So she was married? Look, they can beat up divorce all they want, say the trauma rates up there with a death in the family. But I can tell you for a fact that it bloody doesn’t.’

The doctor kept her voice low but intense. ‘What could be worse than losing your spouse?’

‘Not bloody much.’ Heath’s gaze rested on Charlee across the room. The loss Sophie had sacrificed herself to avoid. ‘Well, losing your child, obviously.’

Silence stretched out, the only noise the scrape of fabric as Heath massaged his bad leg and scowled at the doctor.

The doc, bless her, didn’t say a damn word. Didn’t even condemn Heath with her level grey gaze. But she wound her necklace around her fingers until they whitened, struggling to hold onto her professional demeanour before she finally spoke. ‘From what I understand of your tragedy, no matter what you did, you were going to lose your wife or lose your daughter.’

Both forearms on the table now, Heath hung his head wearily, his eyes closed as though he was done with the conversation. ‘Like I said, Sophie insisted I get Charlee out of the car. By the time I did it was … too late for Sophie.’

Doc Hartmann nodded. ‘And Sophie made that choice because she knew that no mother can ever escape the nightmare of losing a child.’

Heath barely slit his eyes to frown at the doctor. ‘What does that have to do with Amelia’s fondness for handing out unwanted empathy and unqualified parenting advice?’

Doc Hartmann looked at him steadily. ‘No mother can ever escape the nightmare of losing a child,’ she repeated, more slowly.

‘You said that—’ Heath broke off. Hollow silence echoed around the room. ‘Jesus,’ he eventually whispered.

‘How?’ Charlee asked tremulously from the security of Ethan’s embrace.

‘Not my story to tell.’ The doctor picked up her bag with an exhausted exhalation. ‘Sean, call into my office in the next week or so, okay? We’ll finish talking then. But there’s no rush.’

‘Will do, Doc.’ He appreciated that, even in her urgency to go after her friend, Doc Hartmann was trying to ease his own fears.

As Ethan escorted the doctor to the back door, Sean took out the bottle of scotch that Heath had hidden in the old blue Metters wood-burning oven. Heath stiffened, his hands locked into fists, but Sean shook his head. ‘It’s not for me, lad. I already knew Amelia’s story. But I’d say you could do with a medicinal tot.’ He fought the desire to lick the splash that briefly darkened the back of his hand. ‘Ethan? Charlee?’ He held the bottle up, noticing that Charlee looked to Ethan, then followed his lead in refusing.

‘I think we’ll hit the sack,’ Ethan said. ‘Got to head into Settlers early tomorrow, if you could give us a ride, Sean? My car bit it, so Amelia gave us a lift out here. I’ll get the local garage to take a look. But that’s a problem for another day, as they say. You staying up, Charls?’

Charlee looked undecided, then shook her head. ‘No. I’m wrecked. I don’t know about getting up early, though. Someone here owes me breakfast in bed with all the trimmings.’ Her voice was tremulous, but she was clearly trying to ease the air of despair and tension. ‘I’ll leave you to fight among yourselves for who gets the privilege of cooking. Night, Daideó. Night, Dad.’

---