The only place left that showed any semblance of Mum was the wardrobe: a large, dark antique that stood broodingly by the far wall. I walked over and stared at the curling pattern in the panelled doors. Mum had pretty much dominated this particular space; it had been full of her clothes, so full you could barely prise the colourful skirts and dresses apart to look at them.
Slowly I lifted my palm to the handle. A loud creaking sound broke the silence and my fingers stopped short. I tensed and turned back to the doorway. Mervie stared. The noise was only the roof, stretching as the morning sun warmed the iron.
I pulled on the handle.
The wardrobe was empty, apart from three of Kevin’s shirts hanging on one side. I stared at the empty space, wondering what the hell Kevin had done with all her stuff. How could he just remove it all? How could he do that?
The absence of her things didn’t help me understand her being gone; it just made me angry. Here I was, still half expecting her to burst into the bedroom with some crocheting project under her arm, or maybe dressed in her yoga gear ready to go out to the veranda for one of her sessions. I couldn’t imagine her as a little pile of dust. My mind couldn’t do that.
I closed the wardrobe door. The house was silent, holding its breath. I stood for a moment listening to the nothingness, feeling as though the earth had ceased spinning on its axis and the planet was sailing silently through space, adrift from its celestial moorings, as dead and airless as the moon.
A loud thud behind me made me jump. I gasped and swung around thinking maybe Kevin had returned, but the room was empty. My eyes were drawn to the floor where I saw the teacup had fallen and was lying on its side on the rug, the handle cracked off and the milky liquid slowly sinking into the fibres.
Mervie barked from the doorway and my skin shrank like it had in the library. I stood paralysed for a second. What had just happened? I rushed over and pulled some tissues from the box beside the bed, doing my best to mop up the tea before it soaked into the rug.
Still on my knees, I picked up the pieces of the cup, placing the handle against the body. The World’s Greatest Mum teacup was no more. I glanced back at the bedside table where the cup had been. I knew I’d placed it down carefully. I knew I had.
I got up and, with one last look around, closed the door behind me.
When the Toyota roared up the driveway I was still in my pyjamas, my body merging with the twisted mass of sheets and pink swirly flowers of my bed. Kevin’s boots thumped down the hall and with a sudden click, my bedroom door swung open.
Mervie sprang from the bed like a circus dog leaping through a ring of fire. I sat up. ‘You should knock,’ I said.
‘You’re not ready to go.’ Kevin’s giant hand grasped the doorframe.
Fee fi fo fum.
‘I don’t really feel like coming.’ I hoped that would be enough to make him go away so I could get back to my vegetative state.
‘You need to get dressed,’ he said. ‘This is not an optional activity.’ His lined face solidified.
‘I told you, I don’t—’
‘Get up, Sunny, and don’t be so bloody selfish! Dylan’s missing. His mother is frantic. He’s been out there for two days. Be outside in five minutes!’
Blood rushed to my face in a hot tsunami as he slammed the door. Selfish! He knew all about selfish. Had he even thought about the fact that I might want to keep some of Mum’s stuff before he chucked it all out? Had he thought about how hard it was for me to be here at all? My face was molten. Black anger crowded around my eyes and squeezed my head. I wanted to punch something.
I got up and pillaged my still-not-unpacked suitcase for some clothes. Mervie slunk under the desk and Wolfie lay like a hearth rug of some dead animal skin, his eyes following me in an arc with that odd mixture of curiosity and sorrow dogs have. I swallowed back a surge of self-pity and got dressed.
Kevin was waiting in the ute and leant on the horn as I grabbed one of Mum’s gardening hats from the rack on the veranda.
‘Hurry up, Sunny,’ he yelled as I walked across the yard. I deliberately slowed my walk by a tiny fraction.
‘The dog,’ said Kevin, waving a finger at Merv, who was following behind me. ‘Tie him up, will you?’
I didn’t want to chain him up again, so I picked him up and took him round to the back of the house.
‘Stay, Merv,’ I warned.
He looked at me with huge sad eyes. Both of our dogs had attachment issues. They couldn’t help it – they had come from the animal shelter in Dawson where Mum used to work as a veterinary nurse. She used to say Mervie was a lucky dog. I guess he was, in a way. For a start, Mum had saved him. He’d been at the shelter for over a year. Every time a family came in looking for a little dog, Mum would present Mervie and parade him around for the prospective owner.
‘He’s very loyal,’ she would say. ‘And well behaved.’
Mervie would strut proudly doing his best to sell himself, a bit like the orphans in Annie trying to get new parents. He’d sit and look at them hopefully but no-one ever took him. They screwed up their faces in disgust. The problem was that Mervie only
