Page 17 of In Sheets of Rain

I texted Sean. He was on a shift at Silverdale again. His reply was understanding and encouraging all rolled into one.

Before I thought better of it, I called my sister next. Sharon answered on the second ring.

“I’m coming home this afternoon,” I said.

“About time,” she replied and then laughed.

“Is everything OK with Mum?”

“Oh, you know how she can get. We’re just in a manic stage is all.”

“OK,” I said, my stomach knotting. “How are the kids?”

“They’ll be happy to see their Aunty Kylee,” Sharon said. “I’ll meet you at Mum’s. Say four?”

I checked my watch and picked up speed. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be back by then.”

* * *

Mum was in the garden when I made it there. Dad was sitting in the lounge, reading a book. Sometimes I wondered why he did that. Why he didn’t pay more attention to what Mum was doing.

I said nothing about it, though, when I greeted him at the front door.

“She’s out back,” he said.

“I can see that,” I offered.

“Best you go to her before she realises you’re here and no one’s told her.”

I nodded, patted Dad on the arm, and walked out onto the back deck.

Mum was muttering to herself, hands flying, trowel flinging dirt all over the dahlias.

“Hey, Mum,” I called out.

She bounded to her feet and came rushing over. A gazelle springing through the long grass. Wrapping me up in a tight hug, she pulled back and stared me in the eyes.

“You need feeding up,” she declared. “I’ll cook a roast. Chicken or Pork?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

“Nonsense. It’s done.”

She swept past me over the deck and through the French doors. I looked at her abandoned trowel and the half-turned over garden bed and then followed her into the house.

Cups of half-drunk, now cold tea were dotted around the lounge and I slowly went around finding their hiding spots and bringing them to the kitchen. Pots and pans banged as Mum yelled out superfluous orders to Dad, the smell of something already cooking reaching my nose.

I walked into the kitchen and watched as my mother poured a perfectly good pot of soup down the waste disposal.

“Did it burn?” I asked while Dad frantically shook his head at me to say nothing.

“No. Just need the space for the roast,” my mother told me and started throwing pans on the stove and a chicken into a roasting dish, and vegetables onto the bench top in no apparent order.

“Can I help?” I asked and Dad nodded and backed out of the kitchen on silent feet.

“Oh,” my mother said. “It’s so good to have you home.”

* * *