Page 147 of Pull Me Under

Three nights. Three nights of falling asleep to the sound of her breathing, of tripping over her shoes in the hallway, of fighting for bathroom mirror space like an old married couple. My razor’s sitting next to her moisturiser. My jumper’s in her laundry pile. Yesterday I opened the fridge looking for milk and thought, we need to get more eggs.

We. Christ.

Get a grip, Harding.

Dad’s on the dock when I bring the Mary Jane in.

Coiling rope. Same position he’s held for fifty years, same rigid back turned toward me like a wall. We haven’t spoken since he threw me out. Not under my roof, he’d said, and I’d grabbed my holdall and walked out before I could say words I’d regret.

Three days. Three days of silence, of working around each other like strangers, of pretending the other one doesn’t exist.

I tie off the boat and start unloading the catch. He doesn’t look up. Just keeps coiling that rope, hand over hand, like I’m not even here.

Fine. I can play that game too.

I haul the first crate onto the dock. The second. My shoulders burn from the morning’s work, salt crusting on my forearms. Dad reaches for another length of rope and⁠—

His hand misses.

Not by much. An inch, maybe two. But I’ve watched this man coil rope my entire life, watched those hands work with a precision that put the rest of us to shame. He doesn’t miss.

He tries again. Gets it this time, but his fingers fumble the loop. The rope slips. He has to start over.

I set down my crate.

His face, when he turns to grab the fallen rope – there’s a greyish cast to his skin. A slackness around his mouth I don’t recognise. And his eyes, when they briefly meet mine, don’t quite focus. Like he’s looking at me through fog.

‘Dad.’ My voice comes out sharper than I intend. ‘You all right?’

‘Fine.’ He doesn’t look up. His hands are shaking on the rope.

‘You don’t look⁠—’

‘I said I’m fine.’ The snap in his voice, at least, is familiar. ‘Mind your own business.’

‘You’re my father. You are my⁠—’

‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’ He cuts me off, still not looking at me. ‘Someone else’s family to destroy?’

His hands keep working. Loop, twist, coil. The tremor visible in his fingers.

I could push it. Could tell him to sit down, call someone, force the issue.

He’d never forgive me. Reuben Harding doesn’t accept help. Doesn’t show weakness. Doesn’t admit that anything’s wrong, ever, even when it’s written across his face in grey.

‘Yeah,’ I say, picking up my crate. ‘I do, actually.’

I walk away.

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.

I do it anyway.

The boat shed door is open when I get there, morning light spilling across the worn floorboards in golden stripes. I can hear movement inside – the scrape of a tool, the soft thud of footsteps. It springs me forward, a magnetic pull I can’t resist.

She’s here. She’s always here, these days. Working on that bloody boat like it holds the secrets of the universe.

I lean in the doorway for a moment, just watching.