Kate nodded, smiled nervously. She knelt to look Mia in the eyes and said, ‘You don’t need a reason to call me. Day or night, whenever you feel like it. I need you to be a big girl for me while I’m away, alright?’

She nodded. ‘Two sleeps.’

‘Three at the most.’

‘And, Mum?’

‘Yes, monkey?’

‘You be a big girl too.’

Belport Island was accessible only by a thirty-minute ferry ride from a port on the Bellarine Peninsula, a little over a two-hour drive away. It took them a while to get out of the city, but then the traffic parted, and the highway turned clear and straight.

Kate stuck to the slow lane and kept the car a few kilometres under the limit. Her slow driving must have frustrated Fisher, but he didn’t ask her to speed up. Unlike him, Kate was in no hurry to get there. For her, the island represented a cold exclamation mark at the end of a sentence: whatever drama John was caught up in would be revealed, and her life would be up-ended. Out here on the road, rolling on with commas and semicolons, it was easy to believe that it was all a mistake, that John would have a simple explanation for everything. While the sentence was still open there was still room for hope. Hope was one word for it, anyway. Denial also worked.

The heavier the silence grew between Fisher and Kate, the deeper her mind slipped into fantasy. Embarking on the familiar route to Belport, she was lulled into thinking John had gone on ahead to set up the beach house for their arrival. The air in the house was always stale when they first got there, so John had gone in advance to sling open all the windows. He had removed the protective sheets from the furniture, put fresh covers on the beds, and was waiting for her and Mia to arrive.

She imagined the weight in the passenger side was her daughter instead of her father-in-law. It was easy if she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, just so, and didn’t turn to look in his direction. Yes, Mia was in the car with her. She’d have fallen asleep by now, tired after spending the first leg of the trip discussing the shells she’d collect when they made it to the beach, and playing I-spy and punch buggy. When they finally arrived, it would somehow be summer again, and a warm breeze would be blowing. John would be sitting on the swing chair on the front deck. He’d watch them roll up the driveway, a warm smile on his face. With his free hand (the other would be holding a beer) he’d pat the space next to him, inviting Kate to join him. And she would.