New Animal, Ella Baxter [best books to read for success .txt] 📗

that I love your wildness, you’re perfect to me, and Josie loved it too, but I have to warn you: if you let yourself get any wilder, you’re probably not going to come back from it.’

She rolls her hair into a bun. ‘I’m saying this as one wild woman to another.’

I put my belt on, signifying that I’m ready to go, and she complies, starting the car and heading back down the road. I am grateful for Judy’s advice but there is something like a tap about her, in that she just keeps going, past the point of anyone needing a drink. People can be very prescriptive with emotions. I should have seen this coming.

Judy drops me off in front of the house, and I give her a rare hug as thanks, which she almost ruins by refusing to let go after an appropriate amount of time. I wave her off, and then jump the gate to the bungalow, ignoring the main house entirely. Inside, I pack a suitcase full of clothes I don’t hate and place it next to the door.

I call Jack and he answers quickly, happy to hear from me. I ask him twice how he’s been and then launch in.

‘Mum died,’ I tell him, still not quite believing it myself.

There’s a sharp intake of breath. I hear the same breath leave his body as he sits down heavily.

‘Cancer?’ he asks.

‘No, a fall.’

There’s a long silence, and I stay listening to nothing on the line.

‘Jack?’

‘When?’ he asks.

‘Yesterday,’ I say.

‘I should’ve known,’ he says. ‘I dreamed of swallows mating.’

‘I can’t go to the funeral,’ I say. ‘But Vincent wants you to know you’re invited.’

‘God no. I couldn’t; it’s too hard. You should come here—come and be with me. Do you need money for a ticket?’

‘No, I can manage. I’ll get the first flight in the morning.’

‘Okay, honey,’ he says, his voice breaking. ‘I’ll meet you at the terminal.’

I hang up so I don’t hear him cry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The fluorescent lighting at the boarding gate is unreasonably bright as I sit opposite a man reading a paper and stretch my legs out. I lean back and elongate further, while performing a few twists and neck rolls. My feet bump into something, and I look up to see the man opposite moving to another chair. I tuck my legs away and sit upright. I should have picked the next seat along, instead of directly opposite him. He probably thinks I’m encroaching on his space. I pick up my handbag and my small suitcase and move further away, to the next seat in the row. The man looks up from his paper, and smiles briefly. Am I still too close? I pick up my things again, and slip along to the next chair. He looks up again and this time I smile, but he doesn’t return it.

‘My mum died,’ I explain.

He clears his throat.

I nod.

He probably understands now why I sat so close before. He would realise that I am not really aware of my surroundings because I am shattered by grief.

When the plane is ready for boarding I line up with the others. No one asks how I am or checks to see whether I am truly comfortable with this decision. In front of a planeload of passengers I pass for normal. I look around, trying to gauge if anyone can sense how sad I am, whether it radiates out of me, but people are acting extremely normally, showing no sign of concern.

I sit in my allocated seat next to the window and shut my eyes. I open them again and adjust the air-conditioning vent because it is freezing. No one is seated next to me, but if they were, I know I would tell them my mother died. I think it’s a processing issue that I’m having. Hard to know.

I read the flight safety information and mentally practise the brace position. I yawn. I use two fingers to feel whether the glands in my neck are swollen. They’re fine. No one cares either way. I take seven small sips of water from a tiny plastic bottle, while looking around the plane at the other passengers. I need to tell someone that I am going to Hobart to avoid my mother’s funeral, because their reaction will let me know if this is a good idea or not. Other people have always been the canary in the mine for me. But right now, no one is available—they are all busy with their phones and books—so I pull the window shade down, close my eyes, and only open them again when I feel the plane dipping to the right.

Outside the terminal, I scan the parking lot for Jack’s old silver Mercedes, but instead find him leaning against a pole, watching a raven that is balancing along the rim of a metal bin. He’s wearing a loose linen shirt with three out of the five buttons done up, and has slipped his huge feet into Birkenstocks. His tan is deep, and his hair is the sandy, grey colour of a man who immerses himself daily in nature. I call his name, and he throws his arms open and walks towards me.

‘Oh, my darling little girl,’ he says.

I’m quite far from him, so I stop walking but let him continue. He’s still at least six steps away, and I wonder whether he will lower his arms, but instead he slows right down.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to pretend here.’

He embraces me, lifting me up and jiggling me around for a bit, before placing me onto the footpath and clasping my shoulders.

‘Josephine was the love of my life, and my heart will always be hers because she gave me you and Simon.’

He’s launched straight in. No pleasantries or offer of a quick coffee, it’s just straight to deep and meaningful. He hangs his head and begins to sob, and I step away from him. I have left one grief-stricken