killed.
Everyone in the town knew who she was and what had happened. She couldn’t walk into the post office or the supermarket or the bakery without noticing conversations stop, seeing people rearrange the expressions on their faces or hearing murmurs and comments even before she’d walked out
side again. ‘The poor things. What a tragedy.’ The closer it got to Tom’s first birthday and Nick’s first anniversary, the more she felt it.
Two weeks before Tom turned one she knew she had to leave. She ended the lease on the house they had rented, gave their furniture to the local charity shop and said her goodbyes. She ignored her parents’ pleas, Hilary’s phone calls, Nick’s parents’ advice. She had to. This wasn’t about them. They weren’t living with a constant soundtrack in their heads of what should have been, what could have been.
To begin with, she just drove. Simply packed as many clothes and toys into the car as she could and drove. Tom was a calm child even then, content in his chair in the back seat. They took the coast road south, staying in caravan parks and cheap motels. She made up stories if anyone asked her questions. She was going to meet up with her husband who worked on the oil rigs. She was bringing her baby to meet his grandparents for the first time, and no, unfortunately her husband hadn’t been able to get time off work. She said anything she could to stop herself from saying the truth. My husband was killed in a car accident three hours before our son was born.
She stayed in Queensland at first. After a month driving aimlessly from town to town, she rented a furnished apartment by the sea in a town south of Brisbane and stayed there, with Tom, for a year. She didn’t have to work. There was life insurance that she hadn’t even known Nick had taken out. If she was careful, it was enough to live on for several years. Not that she felt she could ever work again. She hadn’t turned on a computer or even picked up a pencil since the day Tom was born.
Her family visited, Nick’s family visited. Everyone tried to talk her into coming back home, but no one succeeded. As Tom’s second birthday and Nick’s second anniversary approached, she became restless again. There was more pressure from home. ‘We’re sad too. Let us grieve with you,’ was the message from everyone. Somewhere inside her, buried deep, she recognised that, but it was no help to her and she couldn’t help them. It was just her and Tom now.
The day before Tom’s birthday, she decided to move again. She needed the distraction. As she drove, she sang songs to Tom, all the songs she could think of, except ‘Happy Birthday’. It seemed too sad and unfair that he should share a date like that. She spent the next twelve months in a small town in northern New South Wales. The next in Newcastle, five hours further down the coast. A year in another town south of Sydney. Her family still worried. Her sister tried being mad at her. ‘Nina, you’re just running away. It’s not good for you or for Tom, to be uprooted every twelve months like this. We miss you. Come back to Queensland.’ But she couldn’t. This constant movement was her life now. If she wasn’t going to have the life she’d dreamed about, the permanent, settled, ordinary life she and Nick had planned, then she was going to have these different, temporary lives. She told herself she liked it that way. It suited her personality. Twelve months was the perfect amount of time to stay in one place, long enough to gather some impressions, short enough not to form too many friendships.
‘But what do you do all day?’ Hilary wanted to know.
At first, Nina did only what needed to be done. She looked after Tom. It took every minute she had. She wondered constantly how it would have been if Nick had been there with her. Sometimes it was a hardship, the constancy of it, the repetitiveness of it. But there was also a rhythm, a soothing sameness to being
Everyone in the town knew who she was and what had happened. She couldn’t walk into the post office or the supermarket or the bakery without noticing conversations stop, seeing people rearrange the expressions on their faces or hearing murmurs and comments even before she’d walked out
side again. ‘The poor things. What a tragedy.’ The closer it got to Tom’s first birthday and Nick’s first anniversary, the more she felt it.
Two weeks before Tom turned one she knew she had to leave. She ended the lease on the house they had rented, gave their furniture to the local charity shop and said her goodbyes. She ignored her parents’ pleas, Hilary’s phone calls, Nick’s parents’ advice. She had to. This wasn’t about them. They weren’t living with a constant soundtrack in their heads of what should have been, what could have been.
To begin with, she just drove. Simply packed as many clothes and toys into the car as she could and drove. Tom was a calm child even then, content in his chair in the back seat. They took the coast road south, staying in caravan parks and cheap motels. She made up stories if anyone asked her questions. She was going to meet up with her husband who worked on the oil rigs. She was bringing her baby to meet his grandparents for the first time, and no, unfortunately her husband hadn’t been able to get time off work. She said anything she could to stop herself from saying the truth. My husband was killed in a car accident three hours before our son was born.
She stayed in Queensland at first. After a month driving aimlessly from town to town, she rented a furnished apartment by the sea in a town south of Brisbane and stayed there, with Tom, for a year. She didn’t have to work. There was life insurance that she hadn’t even known Nick had taken out. If she was careful, it was enough to live on for several years. Not that she felt she could ever work again. She hadn’t turned on a computer or even picked up a pencil since the day Tom was born.
Her family visited, Nick’s family visited. Everyone tried to talk her into coming back home, but no one succeeded. As Tom’s second birthday and Nick’s second anniversary approached, she became restless again. There was more pressure from home. ‘We’re sad too. Let us grieve with you,’ was the message from everyone. Somewhere inside her, buried deep, she recognised that, but it was no help to her and she couldn’t help them. It was just her and Tom now.
The day before Tom’s birthday, she decided to move again. She needed the distraction. As she drove, she sang songs to Tom, all the songs she could think of, except ‘Happy Birthday’. It seemed too sad and unfair that he should share a date like that. She spent the next twelve months in a small town in northern New South Wales. The next in Newcastle, five hours further down the coast. A year in another town south of Sydney. Her family still worried. Her sister tried being mad at her. ‘Nina, you’re just running away. It’s not good for you or for Tom, to be uprooted every twelve months like this. We miss you. Come back to Queensland.’ But she couldn’t. This constant movement was her life now. If she wasn’t going to have the life she’d dreamed about, the permanent, settled, ordinary life she and Nick had planned, then she was going to have these different, temporary lives. She told herself she liked it that way. It suited her personality. Twelve months was the perfect amount of time to stay in one place, long enough to gather some impressions, short enough not to form too many friendships.
‘But what do you do all day?’ Hilary wanted to know.
At first, Nina did only what needed to be done. She looked after Tom. It took every minute she had. She wondered constantly how it would have been if Nick had been there with her. Sometimes it was a hardship, the constancy of it, the repetitiveness of it. But there was also a rhythm, a soothing sameness to being
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