Miracle In March Read online

  They crossed the road, Jackson stepping cautiously on only the white stripes of the crossing, and entered the green expanse of Miracle Park.

  A miracle would be nice…

  They sat at a picnic table and Jackson gulped down his juice. He picked at the muffin for a while, until he must have decided he liked it because he took a huge bite and James had to remove half of it from his mouth to prevent him choking.

  ‘It’s all or nothing with this guy,’ James joked.

  ‘If he has half the appetite you had at that age then he’ll be fine,’ his mother said. ‘Bottomless pits, boys’ stomachs.’ She shook her head with a smile.

  James patted his. ‘Too right.’ He bit into his muffin and revelled in the alternating soft and crunchy texture, the warm sweetness reminding him of Nonna Bella’s home-baked goodies. Something he’d never have the pleasure of enjoying again. ‘Didn’t Grandpa John propose to Bella here in this park?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘Apparently, this was where they had their first date. He made a wish on her behalf in the Wishing Fountain. He proposed at the lookout near the beach, the one near Tarrin himself. That’s why we’re spreading her ashes there on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise,’ James replied. ‘I just thought it was her favourite place.’

  ‘It was. Because of what it meant to her,’ Marie said.

  James wondered if he’d known enough about his grandparents. Had he been a devoted enough grandson? Should he have taken more time to listen to their stories and learn about their past while he was busy working hard at school, surfing, going on dates, and then working hard, yet again, at university?

  It was only after becoming a parent himself that he’d realised how important family was. Sure, they were annoying at times, but the reality was; he wouldn’t have coped with raising Jackson if they hadn’t moved back south to be near him. He was lucky. His parents were there if he needed them, though he didn’t like to admit he needed anyone.

  I can do it myself, he’d told them when the reality of being a single parent became apparent.

  And he could, but everybody needed a little respite now and again. And now, he realised, he craved more than just the odd bit of time out. The desire for good conversation, a few laughs, and good company inched its way into his mind. The last time he’d had that was a few months ago, when he’d caught up with friends in Sydney before Christmas, leaving Jackson with his parents. In the past, fun and freedom had been a regular occurrence, now they were as elusive as the unspoken words from his son’s mouth.

  * * *

  When Jackson’s appetite had been taken care of, he left Owly with James and ran over to the Wishing Fountain. With one hand holding his Sound Machine (laughter button on repeat) and one hand on the fountain’s rim, he ran around in circles, mimicking the laughter from his device.

  ‘Don’t get dizzy, Jackson!’ Marie called out.

  The boy stopped every now and again to jump in the air, then run around in the other direction, tracing the rim with his hand.

  Forget about getting dizzy, James was more concerned with getting the Sound Machine wet. Heaven forbid if anything should happen to his son’s most prized possession.

  ‘Cool!’ A boy of about eight came up to Jackson, pointing to the machine. ‘Can I have a look?’

  Jackson ignored him and stood still, looking at his machine, pressing different sounds.

  ‘Is there a burping sound?’ the boy asked, laughing. He tried to take a closer look, and James instinctively stood, ready to intervene if necessary. ‘Oh look, there is!’ the boy pressed the burp and a revolting belching sound emerged.

  Damn it, why did he have to do that? The burp was never pressed. Jackson hated it with a vengeance. A few people walking by turned their heads to see who had been so vulgar, not realising it was a recorded sound, and the boy laughed heartily. Jackson grunted and stamped his feet.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s funny?’ the boy asked, and pressed it again.

  Jackson lifted his hand and gave the boy an almighty push, squealing from the effort. The boy stumbled backwards a little but didn’t fall.

  ‘Jackson, no. Come here.’ James swooped in and took hold of the machine, pocketing it, then picked Jackson up. ‘Mustn’t push people.’ His four-and-a-half-year-old body wriggled beneath his father’s grasp.

  A woman approached, checking that her son was okay, then caught James’ glance. ‘Doesn’t your son know not to go around pushing other kids?’ she huffed. ‘Disgraceful. He needs to learn some discipline.’ She shook her head.

  ‘I’m really sorry, he didn’t mean it, it’s just that…’ He was about to explain his son’s condition but she’d already walked out of earshot, tugging her son along with her. James sighed, and Jackson wriggled free. What would he do when his son was too old and big to be carried? He was already getting heavy.

  Jackson pounded James’ pocket with his fists, and James gave in and handed back the machine, but led him to the picnic table where Marie wore an expression of concern and Martin wore one of…embarrassment.

  ‘Should have stayed at the cabin,’ James said, frustration hardening his voice. Would he ever be able to take Jackson somewhere without him having a meltdown? This one was only small compared to others, but in public even the small ones seemed huge. He was doing everything he could for his son’s growth and wellbeing, but sometimes it didn’t seem enough.

  When Jackson had calmed down and was having a private moment with Owly, James checked his emails on his iPhone. He scrolled through the usual unimportant delete-worthy ones, and his finger hovered above one with the subject: VIP package enquiry.

  He pressed it open and read it. He’d put an enquiry form on his website a couple of months ago to take expressions of interest for his new law business training package that he planned on launching soon, when he could spare the time to finalise the details. This potential customer had looked at his available programs for law graduates wanting to start their own firm, and said he didn’t want any of them. He wanted the best package available, and when would it be ready please?

  James didn’t think anyone would want it. He’d be charging a bucketload for it as a high-end product for lawyers to maximise their profits through learning the foolproof management systems he’d developed, and marketing techniques to rise above the pack. His other self-study programs taught the same things, but this one was to include personal coaching, on-call access to him to help implement the systems, and an annual retreat for members only. He’d come up with the idea to leverage his knowledge and experience when Jackson’s high level of care required him at home more than the office. It had been a blessing in disguise, and last year he’d out-earned his income from when he was in practice, yet he was working fewer hours. It was something he could do at home, around Jackson’s needs, while still paying the bills and having plenty left over. Other law professionals had caught on, asking how he had done so well in his business in such a short time, so he thought his skills might be worth charging for.

  James considered what to say in his reply. He didn’t have a set launch date in mind, and the plans had been delayed with all the family upheaval of late, but maybe it was time to put the next level of his business in motion and give him something else to focus on besides Jackson. His existing products were all automated and earned him passive income. But he still needed to keep his finger on the pulse and maintain connection to the industry, not to mention give him some much-needed intellectual stimulation.

  He thumbed in a reply on his phone’s screen:

  Thanks for your enquiry. The VIP package will be launching within 48 hours.

  What was he doing? Was it really ready to sell? He’d done the work, but needed to get some of the technical things sorted out and commit to a schedule for the coaching and annual retreat. That was what was holding him back. He’d done occasional workshops to teach the basics of his program, selling his packages at the end of the event, but that was only a day being away fro
m Jackson. This would be longer, though only once a year, and he’d have to arrange babysitting during his coaching sessions in case Jackson needed attention during them. It didn’t sound professional to have a screaming child in the background of a business call.

  He looked at his parents, sitting here in the park with him, loyal and devoted. Then he looked at Jackson and a future of never-ending appointments and programs and health care needs flashed before him. He was financially stable already, but the extra money from this program if it really took off would be phenomenal. And he’d still be there for Jackson the majority of the time, so there was no need for guilt. He needed a new challenge, and there was obviously demand for his services. Yep, he just had to trust that it was the right move. If he waited for perfectionism he’d be waiting a long time.

  James reread his reply and nodded to himself. Then he hit ‘send’.

  Chapter 8

  Emma pressed ‘post’ on the Tarrin’s Bay Beachside Cabins Facebook page, and the photos of the construction works appeared on the screen.

  ‘Bob our Builder is working hard as you can see! Stand by for an announcement next week regarding advance bookings for our two new cabins.’

  Bob had given her permission to post the picture and his name, all for the sake of marketing. He said maybe having his picture on the internet would help him find a wife, and suggested to Emma that when her time was up running the cabins, she could perhaps produce a TV show called The Builder Wants a Wife. ‘Farmers have all the luck, why not builders?’ he’d asked. The guy was in his late forties and divorced; his wife had apparently not been suited to small town life, while Bob wouldn’t live anywhere else.

  Emma liked the appeal of city, country, and coast. She was flexible, though since moving back here the bay was starting to cast its spell on her. There was nothing like going to sleep and waking up to the constant hum of ocean waves, instead of tooting horns and ambulances. And, there was nothing like a lunchtime walk along the beach.

  She grabbed her lunch bag and a towel, turned over the sign on the door that read ‘gone fishing, back at 2pm’, and headed towards the beach.

  She hooked her shoes under two fingers and stepped onto the soft, warm sand that was like a carpet of clouds. Being the middle of a school day, the beach was quiet, only a few holiday-goers and locals wandering about and enjoying the water. She laid down her towel on a raised patch of sand near some rocks, and sat cross-legged, tearing the wrapping off her homemade chicken and roast vegetable wrap, courtesy of last night’s leftovers.

  The breeze tickled her face and although pleasant, foretold of cooler weather coming in the next few weeks as autumn kicked in. She glanced up to the right at Tarrin, the natural rock formation that resembled a man’s face. He gazed across the horizon just like her, and he’d adapted to the winds of change without falling down, just like her. He was the perfect example of strength and persistence, of staying true to yourself and facing challenges head on. His face, formed a long time ago from bursts of waves licking at his rocky skin, and years of saltwater spray sculpting every tiny detail, was probably still changing; morphing into a slightly different appearance, but you could never tell. Like a person you see every day, so you don’t notice ageing, Tarrin would always be Tarrin: tall, strong, and proud of his homeland.

  When Emma finished her wrap she got out her sketchbook and pencil, and smiled. Since taking up drawing again a few years ago, she’d remembered the joy it brought her. She’d cast it aside when childhood’s transition into adulthood brought with it ideals of ‘doing better things with her time’. But now, more than ever, she knew that doing something purely for the joy of it was enough of a reason to do it. If not a damn good reason. Life was too short and precious not to use the gifts you’d been given.

  She studied the incline of the headland that was home to Tarrin, and the shapes of the rock face surrounding him. She brushed the pencil across the paper in a sweeping motion, capturing the framework of the landscape. The sound of the pencil scratching across the paper brought back memories of silent moments with only her drawing material for company, when her heart would tell her hand how to move, what to draw, and how to create something to visually represent what she needed to express. If emotions were lines, or colours, or shapes, then she’d given birth to many over the past few years. It always surprised and delighted her what a blank piece of paper could turn into. One day she’d do something with all the drawings she’d filed away in desk drawers, but didn’t know what.

  As Tarrin grew to life on the page, she smiled at a seagull that had approached to steal a few crumbs from her lunch. It flew away, swooping through the sky, and she ached for that kind of freedom.

  After a few more minutes of sketching she put her book and pencil away, promising to return to it another day, and stood, stretching her arms up high. She had time for a short walk before she’d have to get back to the office and await the afternoon check-ins.

  Emma glanced across the beach to check if James was around. There was a man in the water, but not the same build as James, and there were no little boys Jackson’s age. She tilted her replacement cap a little to the side to protect against the glare above the water, and walked along the shore, water lapping at her heels. A large beach umbrella was propped up on the sand ahead, bare feet crossed over each other beneath it. When she neared, she prepared a friendly smile, but then her smile twitched.

  ‘Oh, hi Lizzie. How’s the book?’

  Lizzie looked up from behind the open book and her smile flattened out. ‘It’s fine. Thanks.’ She returned her gaze to the pages.

  She knows. James must have told her about me.

  Awkwardness replacing the peace from her short break, she said, ‘I’ll leave you to it’, and walked forwards.

  ‘I hope it was a good reason,’ Lizzie called after her.

  Emma stopped, turned, backtracked a little. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why you left my brother in the lurch.’

  If only she knew.

  ‘I…I did what I thought was right, at the time.’ She scratched her cheek.

  ‘I? What about him? Why didn’t you stop to think about what was right for him?’

  I did, Lizzie, I did. That’s exactly why I left him, it was for the best.

  Emma adjusted the strap of her lunch bag across her chest and turned in the direction she’d come. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this. I have to get back to the office.’ Emma stepped forwards again, then added, ‘Enjoy your afternoon.’

  Enjoy your afternoon? The woman had just had a go at her and she was adding pleasantries to an unpleasant conversation?

  Emma’s response was met with silence, and a smidgen of guilt rumbled in her belly. She hoped Lizzie’s blood pressure wasn’t climbing right now, she was supposed to be taking it easy. But in truth, her issues with James weren’t Lizzie’s concern. It was in the past, between her and him, and that’s where it would stay. She shouldn’t have to feel bullied into explaining something that had taken more guts to deal with than she’d ever thought she had.

  So much for the beach walk. She felt exposed out here now, like a lone seashell washed up on the shore. She wanted to return to the safety of routine and confinement in the office where no one could question or judge her past decisions. But she should have walked the outer perimeter of the park grounds instead of cutting through it, because before she had realised, her past was standing in front of her. Again. James stood on the sand, his back to her, trying to coax Jackson from the green grass and onto the crumbling sand. The boy stood rigid like Tarrin, unwilling to move.

  ‘Jackson, it’s nice and warm. It will feel nice on your feet, and then we can make a sandcastle. Yeah?’ He picked up a clump of sand and let it run through his fingers.

  Jackson strained, his fists tight and his neck taut. Emma knew that kids on the autism spectrum often had heightened sensory sensitivities. Sand wasn’t an uncommon phobia. The texture, the uncertainty of support underfoot. It was too unpredictable and
different to solid ground.

  ‘C’mon mate, just for one second, then we can go back on the grass.’

  Jackson took something from his pocket and pressed it, a scream emanating which made Emma flinch. James gave up and returned to the grass, patting his son on the back and saying, ‘It’s okay, another time. It’s okay.’

  Emma knew she should walk straight past without him seeing her to avoid any further uncomfortable confrontations, but that need to help others weaved its way to the surface. ‘You could try putting his favourite toy on the sand,’ she said. Damn it, Emma!

  James spun around at her voice. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘To help him see that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Or you could even get a tray and fill it with sand, keep it inside somewhere he’ll get used to seeing it, so he can practise stepping in and out while still having his regular environment around him.’

  James’ eyebrows rose. ‘You’re giving me parenting advice?’ He planted his hands on his hips.

  ‘No, just offering some tips that might help. I’ve known kids like Jackson before.’

  A big crease formed in James’ forehead. ‘Don’t even think you can begin to know anything about him. You met him a day ago. I’ve been raising him on my own for four and a half years. You don’t know anything about him. Or me, anymore.’

  Emma bit her lip, which she should have done before deciding to speak. ‘Sorry, I was only trying to help. I’ll just go then, shall I?’ She marched across the park. When she turned to the left to follow the path back to the office, she slid a glimpse towards the playground. James was now as still and rigid as Tarrin. But he was watching her. His eyes followed her, she was sure, all the way back, until she was out of sight.

  Emma turned the sign on the door, sat behind the reception desk and checked for messages. Then she opened an internet window and found her favourite travel blog. She forced her interactions with Lizzie and James from her mind and focused on the beautiful pictures of Tuscan vineyards and Parisian moonlit streets. They held a magic she had yet to experience, a thrill she wanted to indulge. If she could, she would teleport to Europe right now and sit at a café eating local cuisine and sketching, pouring herself onto the page. But instead, she was sitting at work, behind a computer, trying her best to pour her grief and guilt back into the deep, dark pit where it belonged, so she never had to feel it again.