She frowns in my direction. ‘We don’t open for another ten minutes.’
‘I know. Quick question.’ I stop in front of her, slightly out of breath. ‘I’m trying to track down my sister, Bridget Wilson. I wondered if you might know her.’
The woman lets go of the door and turns to me. That’s recognition on her face.
‘Sister?’
‘You know her?’
Her expression has turned to suspicion. ‘The Bridget I know doesn’t have a sister.’
I don’t let that deter me. ‘She has light brown hair and the same colour eyes as me. Quiet type, dry sense of humour. Irrational fear of cats.’
She looks at me tiredly. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out employee information.’
When she turns away, I block the door with my arm. ‘Wait. She works here?’
‘I’m going to need you to remove your hand from the door.’
I withdraw it. ‘Sorry.’
She pushes the door open.
‘Does she work on weekends?’ I say to her back. ‘I can just wait here.’
The woman is halfway through the door. ‘She doesn’t work weekends.’
‘Oh.’ I’m so close. ‘It’s just that having to wait another two days might break me.’
The woman looks back, lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Kurilpa Point Park,’ she says, nodding in the direction of the river. ‘Cross the footbridge and look for a group of people with sketch pads. It’s one of those drawing groups. Anyone can go along. Bridget goes every Saturday.’
This tiny piece of information means everything to me. She used to get in trouble for doodling on her Watchtowers and Awakes during meetings, and now she spends Saturday mornings drawing in the park.
‘Thank you so much,’ I breathe as she disappears inside.
I don’t run towards the river—I fly. My feet barely touch the footpath. People step out of my way, and I shout apologies at them over my shoulder. When the river comes into sight, I don’t wait at the pedestrian crossing with everyone else. I dash between cars, ignoring the blaring horns in my trail. As I jog across the bridge, I look for any signs that say Kurilpa Point Park but find none.
As I step down off the bridge, I stop a man walking his dog and ask him for directions. He points west, and I’m running again, searching for her. My feet carry me across the grass until I spot a group of people seated beneath the shade of a giant fig tree, sketchbooks in hand. I stop and turn in a circle. This will be the first time I’ve laid eyes on my sister in nearly five years, and there are emotions bubbling up inside me that I wasn’t prepared for.
Breathe.
Breathe, and don’t throw up.
I press my eyes shut, then open them as I turn to face the group. Everyone’s so absorbed in what they’re doing that they don’t even notice me. I look from face to face as I move slowly towards them, stopping when I see Bridget. She’s leaning against the trunk with one leg pulled up, using it like an easel. Her skin is lightly tanned, her hair out and so long now. She has it tucked behind her ears, her pensive expression on full display. She pauses drawing to stretch out her neck and hands, her mannerisms so familiar that it’s hard to believe I’ve not witnessed them in years.
She glances briefly in my direction before returning to her drawing. But a beat later, she lifts her eyes to me again. I see them narrow and then watch the shock register on her face. She doesn’t light up, doesn’t smile. She simply stares. I lift a hand in a small wave, in case she doesn’t know for sure that it’s me. But she knows.
Placing her pad and pencil on the ground, she says something to the person next to her before standing. Then she’s walking in my direction, wary eyes looking me up and down. She stops a full metre from me, a safe distance, and crosses her arms.
That’s fair.
Neither of us speaks—probably because we don’t know what to say.
A full minute passes before Bridget says, ‘What are you doing here, Annie?’
It’s clear that seeing me has triggered a negative reaction for her. I hate that. I hate it, but there’s nothing I can do about it. ‘Looking for you.’
‘Why?’ She’s naturally suspicious.