I’d cured whatever festered inside him. It was still there, but he could breathe without feeling guilty. He could laugh without filling with hatred.

He’d mellowed.

But when he held Coco, he came alive.

In bed together, just before falling asleep, we often spoke of Pippa and Conner. We welcomed the memories, and when Pippa finally called us (on the cell-phone immigration had given us), we’d been quiet for hours afterward. Physically in pain with missing her.

She sounded happier. Not cured. Not content. But happier.

Being in a new place—away from us, the island, and Conner’s ghost—she might have a chance at healing. I didn’t know if she would be okay mentally, spiritually, but at least, physically we’d done what we could to protect her.

And I wanted her to be happy. I wanted it enough to keep our distance until she returned to us.

Night-time was the hardest.

We struggled to sleep on the soft mattress. And gave up in favour of the yoga mats we found in the apartment closet. We relocated to the lounge where Coco slept between us and the balcony doors remained open to the humid breeze and distant crashing of the ocean.

That was the only time we found peace.

True peace.

Peace that wasn’t manufactured or bought.

However, we also slept in the lounge with the doors wide because Coco screamed blue murder whenever she couldn’t hear the sea. If we popped into the city, she cried. If we tried to give her a treat of chocolate or candy, she cried. She truly was an earth child who found pleasure and belonging in the sand between her toes, the sun upon her face, and the simple sweetness of coconut and papaya.

“Will this get any easier?” Galloway muttered, feeding mashed-up banana to Coco.

Her tiny face scrunched up. “No.”

“Come on. It’s yummy.”

“No!”

We’d tried everything, but she still wouldn’t eat anything overly salty or sweet. Her palate was refined to simple, rustic food and pounded her little fists whenever we tried to introduce her to flavoured foods such as spaghetti bolognese or meat dishes.

I was a vegetarian and converted seafood lover, but Galloway was a serious meat eater. Turned out our daughter took after me in that department.

However, I still couldn’t have eggplant or halloumi (not after the painful association with my family’s death).

With all the loss and never-leaving grief lately, my parents and sister had been on my mind. Being back in Sydney made their demise seem so much more recent, webbing with the ache of Conner’s passing and Pippa’s leaving.

It’s all too much.

“I think she misses Fiji,” I whispered, rubbing my temples from the slight headache I’d had all day.

Coco looked squarely at me. “Fiji. Fiji. Home!”

The spoon in Galloway’s hand clunked into the bowl. “I know, little nut. Fiji was your home. But it isn’t anymore. We live here now.”

Tears welled in her green-blue eyes.

I couldn’t stop staring at the nutmeg brown of her tanned skin (that I doubted would ever fade), the light blonde of her ringlets, and the determined set of her pretty jaw.

She was the perfect blend of Galloway and me, holding the same cravings deep inside her.

Yes, baby girl, I would love to go home.

Galloway caught my eye.

I didn’t need him to speak to understand he felt the same way.

I hadn’t asked him.

I hadn’t pried.

But I knew he was homesick.

Why were we here?

Why had we returned if we would trade everything for what we had before?

Before Conner died?

Before Galloway almost died?

Before your family almost perished?

So much death and yet I wanted to go back.

It didn’t make sense.

We should be happy to be here.

Happy to be safe with medicines and doctors and people around us once again.

Tearing my gaze from his, I stood to take the dishes to the kitchen.

The moment was broken.

No mention of home was uttered.

The next day, Galloway and I spoke for the first time about where we would live. We didn’t want to outstay our welcome in the apartment (thanks to the Australian government’s generosity) and we needed to put down roots if we were ever going to feel comfortable here.

We discussed what he would do for work. Not because he needed to, but because he couldn’t sit idle. He hadn’t been able to sit idle in Fiji, and he couldn’t start now.

We agreed he’d look into transferring the certificates for his architectural degree here and go into construction. However, none of that was possible until the paperwork cleared and brought us back from the dead.

My lawyer was in charge of that, including reinstating my funds and assets. I still hadn’t talked to the record company, but Madi had informed me they knew I was alive and were waiting to discuss their contract terms.

So much responsibility.

So much happening at once.

I wasn’t used to it. It made me want to run away and slam the door in everyone’s face.

After a long day of uncertainty and endless questions, we finally got the call to pick up Galloway’s prescription.

Holding Coco’s hand, I waited outside the optometrist after he forbade me from entering. He returned with the box tucked in the bag along with lens cleaner and care instructions.

He wasn’t wearing them.

Taking Coco’s other hand, we strolled silently back to the apartment. His limp still affected his gait, but he’d become better at hiding it. A few days ago, I’d asked if we should invest in a car. I still had a valid license. It would make things easier—especially carrying groceries back to the house.