Free Heat and Light by Ellen van Neerven Page B

three of her fingers together and a small flow of clear water squeezes out and into the cup.
    ‘You’re a native Australian?’ she asks.
    I’m taken aback by her observation. I’m not yet used to her forthright nature. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Where is your ancestral home?’
    ‘The islands here, actually,’ I say.
    She nods unemotionally. ‘Which island?’
    I frown. ‘Ki Island, I think. I’ve never been there. My father died, see.’
    ‘I see,’ she says. ‘How did he die? He must have been extraordinarily young. Human men live to eighty-two.’
    ‘He killed himself.’
    Larapinta blinks to register. ‘Doesn’t this upset you?’
    ‘My dad? Of course …’
    ‘The mining. The islandising. Australia2.’ She’s blunt.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve never been there. How can you have an attachment to a place you’ve never been?’
    She walks off to the far side of the room and takes something in her hands.
    I talk to her back. ‘I thought you weren’t political.’
    ‘There isn’t anything that isn’t political.’ It’s an expression that sounds human, but everything in her voice indicates she is not.
    I look closer at what she is doing. It is an e-reader she is holding.
    ‘I have been reading,’ she says. ‘I come here to charge it up and use the wi-fi to download more material.’
    I nod, and take a sip from the cup.
    Wednesday is a public holiday. On Tuesday night, after a day getting a grip, I catch the ferry back to the mainland in a dark so stiff my hands are part of it. It is cold, too, with the wind.
    While I’m on the ferry I look occasionally to the left and wonder where in the darkness Ki Island is. My father and his brothers were raised by my grandmother on Ki. I wonder if the island is anything like Russell, or the smaller, overgrown, brown isles I’ve passed. Remembering the stories my father told me about growing up is like walking on glass stairs in my mind.
    I transfer to the bus that says ‘Kurilpa’, and it stops me into the city. When I walk in, Julie is already at the bar. She has let her hair out natural, and she looks different, like I haven’t seen her for a while, or I’ve just really seen her from far away, and I’ve realised we are strangers to each other still.
    ‘Kaden!’ she says. ‘Were you okay getting into town? I sometimes forget it gets dark so quickly up here. I miss daylight saving.’
    I chuckle a little. ‘I’m fine. It’s a piece of cake compared to what driving a box over water is going to be like!’
    She widens her eyes, nods, ‘How were your first two days on the job?’
    I tell her a quick story about Milligan and how he seems uncomfortable around the plantpeople that come into the centre. ‘But how is Uncle Ron?’ I ask.
    ‘Dad’s … good. He’s been sick, again, though.’
    I nod. ‘I would like to visit him on Ki.’
    ‘Can’t,’ Julie says. ‘Evacuated, remember?’
    Already. I didn’t think they were moving so fast. I put my hand to my forehead. ‘Where is Uncle now?’
    Julie shrugs. ‘Around, really. Sometimes in the home in Gympie. With me. At the hospital.’
    I nod.
    ‘You’ll see him soon, I hope. This is not one of his best weeks, but I’ll tell him you’re going to stop by. He’d love that.’
    We talk about Julie’s work and then, when we’ve exhausted the topic, I take a big sip from my glass and ask, ‘Do you remember much about me and my dad when I was little?’
    Julie thinks about it for a moment. ‘When you were really young, five or something, I used to babysit you all the time. I was studying and staying on campus, and my uni was just around the corner from where you used to live. And the family was always getting together, back then, your dad and my dad were so very close, even with the age distance.’
    ‘Then Dad died.’
    ‘Yeah, and I guess it pulled the family apart. We all tried to help you and your mum. I’m not sure about some of it because the next year I moved to Sydney. And