I open my cupboard and set my eyes on the duffel bag up top. The idea is taking shape before I’ve even figured out if I have the courage to see it through. Pulling the bag down, I sit it on my bed and unzip it. Then I step back, arms folded, staring at it for the longest time.
‘Fuck it.’
I start opening drawers and grabbing clothes, shoving them into the bag. Then I pick up the pile of CDs beside my bed and a handful of books that’ll never make it back to the library and stuff those in too. On top of that, I drop a towel, my wallet, my Walkman, and a freezer bag filled with toiletries. My heart is racing as I zip it up. I carry it into the kitchen and see Dad hasn’t moved. I want him to wake up so I can tell him I’m leaving to his face.
‘Dad.’
He doesn’t stir.
I take hold of his shoulder and shake him. His head tips back, and the can falls from his hand. Beer fizzes out all over the floor. As tempting as it is to clean it up before leaving, I don’t. I do get him into bed, though. One final time. The next time he opens a drink, he’ll do it knowing I’m no longer around to help, so that decision will be all on him. For now, I do what I’ve always done.
After settling him in bed, I go into the kitchen and pull out the shopping list pad I bought Mum at a Mother’s Day stall when I was ten and write Dad a note. Dropping the pen onto the bench, I reread it, then snatch up my duffel bag and walk out.
Annie
I’m halfway to the creek when I remember I’m wearing a blouse. At least Mum didn’t make me put a skirt on. Gumboots are my shoe of choice, because they were the only dry footwear available at the back door. There was no way I was going back through the house in search of sneakers.
The light’s fading outside as I navigate the railroad tie bridge and begin the long walk up the hill to the farmhouse. The ute and bike are both there, so I know he’s home. The house is quiet as I step up onto the veranda. I glance over at a whining Tess, whose food bowl is filled to the top. That’s far too much kibble for a dog her size.
‘Don’t you eat all that in one go,’ I tell the kelpie.
I knock and wait, but no one comes to the door. I knock again, louder this time, and listen for movement inside. All is still.
Stepping off the veranda, I go check the hay shed, the workshop, and shearing shed, but can’t find him anywhere. If he was venturing any farther, he’d take the bike, and if he were moving sheep, he’d take Tess. My eyes return to the bowl of dog food, and an unsettling feeling climbs my spine.
Walking back to the house, I knock once before stepping inside. ‘Hello? Hunter?’
It’s possible he doesn’t want to talk to me, but that’s too bad, because there are things I need to say. Floorboards creak underfoot as I make my way to the kitchen. I stop when I notice a pool of beer on the floor.
‘Kevin?’
Again, no reply.
I spot a notepad on the bench with writing scrawled over it. While I know I shouldn’t, I make my way over to it, stepping around the spilled beer in the process. The words ‘Shopping List’ are printed at the top, and below that is Hunter’s barely legible handwriting. I run my eyes over the words.
Dad,
You wanted me to finish school, so I finished. We’ve never really had a proper conversation about after school. I think we both made a lot of assumptions instead of a real plan. You were right to assume I would follow in your footsteps. Farming’s in my blood. I’d stay for that job, but not the other one I find myself doing.
I’m leaving for a while. There are a few reasons why, but you know the main one. It’s time for you to get sober, and right now you don’t have a reason to.
You’re going to need to employ someone to help out. There are plenty of willing apprentices around here. Just remember that their job’s to take care of the farm, not you.
See you when you’re sober.
H
I snatch up the pad and reread the note, heart racing. Dropping it onto the counter, I steady myself on the benchtop as I try to process what I’ve just read. Hunter’s going. No, he’s gone. Though he can’t have gone very far without a car. Maybe Sammy picked him up or he took the bus somewhere.
My gaze snaps to the clock on the wall. It’s 7:47 p.m. I’m trying to remember what time the V/Line passes through town each night. Eight? Eight thirty? Perhaps he’s waiting at the bus stop.
I race out of the house and sprint down the hill, flying across the bridge. By the time I climb up the other side, my chest is burning. But I don’t slow down. There isn’t time.
When I burst into the house, Mum straightens with a look of alarm. ‘What happened?’
‘Did he come here?’
She shakes her head, confused. ‘Who?’