E S T E L L E

......

The panic of having another control your fate. The dread of relying on strangers to fix it. The powerlessness of being alone.

That is my life.

My new life.

I want my old life.

When living another day wasn't dependent on bribing and bowing.

When fate was negotiable as long as we paid the right price.

Now?

I have no idea the cost of my future.

Taken from Narrabeen Apartments Notepad.

...

RING RING.

Ring ring.

I’d been obsessed with calling the number Daphne Moore had given me (courtesy of the information pack the captain had provided) for Galloway’s father.

The entire taxi ride to my new address. The entire run from journalists as they swarmed me. Even the moment of stepping into the cramped one bedroom apartment where cool porcelain tiles decorated the walls and the kitchen bounced late afternoon sunshine with its high gloss white cabinets.

It was sterile.

Unalive.

And I hated it because Galloway wasn’t there.

My prison guard left me once she was happy her task was complete. Placing the key on the kitchen bench, she murmured some nonsense apology about tearing my family apart and left.

She was wise to leave.

I’d allowed silence to be a curt form of politeness. I didn’t answer her awkward attempts at small talk. I didn’t glance at her when she touched Coco and made soothing sounds in the taxi.

I ignored her.

Because if I didn’t.

I’d kill her.

Then Galloway wouldn’t be the only convicted murderer.

My soul panged for Pippa, for my competent babysitter, while Coco screamed and cried with uncertainty over her new life.

I cooed her. I bounced her. I did everything I could to ease her tears while I yanked the phone off its cradle and dialled the number.

Everything felt too much. Too heavy. Too hard.

But I clung to the phone waiting, waiting, waiting for it to connect with my last hope.

“Hello?” a groggy voice answered.

Screw time zones. Screw sleep and rude awakenings.

I didn’t bother with introductions.

I’d used up my civil refinement and had nothing left.

“Mr. Oak. Your son is being held for deportation tomorrow against his wishes. He’s my husband, the father of my child, and I’m Australian, yet they won’t grant him entry based on his criminal past.” A hiccupped sob threatened to derail me. “Please...Galloway told me to call you. That you’d know what to do. That you had paperwork proving he wasn’t what they said he was and would find a way to let him stay.”

For an eternity, no reply.

Then harsh breathing as a man I’d never met teared up.

It seemed tears were in never-ending supply these days.

“Did you say you are his wife? That you have...children together? That he’s alive.”

“Yes, we crashed together. We survived and had a child. A girl. Coconut...long story. And yes. We don’t have the stupid piece of paper sharing last names, but we’re together. We’re married. I love him with everything I have.”

“My son is alive.” A loud sniff. “And he has a family of his own. I don’t know who you are but I adore you already.”

I laughed...such an odd reaction, but somehow, calmness trickled down the line. “So, you’ll help me?”

“Child...I can most definitely help you.” He paused. “First, I need the email or fax number of the bastards holding my son. Second, I’ll need to know everything about where you’ve been and how you survived. And third, I want to meet the woman who has become my daughter-in-law.”

I smiled for the first time in days. “I have the business card of the men who took him. I’ll recite it. But for now...my name is Estelle.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Estelle.”

“You too, Mr. Oak.”

“No. None of that. Call me Mike.” Shuffling sounded followed by a yawn. “Now...give me that bloody email address, and let’s get my son out of jail. Again.”

.............................

I’d done all I could.

I’d given cliff notes on the past three and a half years.

I’d passed on the email address required.

I hung up.

I trusted that Mike Oak would be able to spring his son out of prison for the second time and focused on soothing my neglected daughter.

Coconut took forever to settle. Even a warm bath (which was still a novelty) didn’t work.

She didn’t want her stuffed turtle (courtesy of P&O). She didn’t want cheese (which was her favourite food ever since she’d had it four days ago). And she wanted nothing to do with the sterile, lifeless apartment currently housing us.

It was the opposite of our wild island with it sharp lines and unforgiving edges.

There was no freedom in the white, white walls.

Even I felt claustrophobic and unsettled.

Eventually, I opened the balcony door and exited the twelfth-floor dwelling two streets away from Narrabeen beach where I used to live. Late twilight and people still jogged the sandy shores reminding me this beach wasn’t private. This beach didn’t belong to us. From now on, we would have to share.

I sighed as if my lungs would splatter to the concrete parking lot below.

Coco toddled outside, coming to hold my leg beneath the purple polka-dotted dress the cruise line had given me.

We stood there together, listening.

Just listening.