Cameron of the Seas

3: Magnetic Island-4

BONITA OPENED MEGAN’S BEDROOM door gingerly and peeped in. The little one was now wide awake, up on her feet, and rattling the rail of her cot as her knees jigged in place, eager to be anywhere but the confines of her sleeping cage. Bonita smiled widely, delighted at the antics of her child.

Opening the door wide, she hastened to get to Megan. A framed photo of Duck sat on her dresser. She flipped this upside down before reaching her daughter. The wee one raised both arms, eager to be picked up. Bonita adoringly wiped the sweaty blond hair off her ruddy face and kissed her on both cheeks. Megs kissed her back, hugging her neck tightly.

‘Come on, little rascal,’ she said smiling, belying her emotional turmoil.

The little one nodded and excitedly kicked both legs. She then leant down from her mother’s arms trying to reach Duck’s photo. Bonita attempted to ignore it, turning to walk away with the baby in her arms, but the little one wouldn’t have it.

‘Papa Duck,’ she said, ‘say ‘ello to Papa Duck.’

It was going to be a losing battle, so she gave in before it escalated into World War III. She moved closer to the dresser, and Megs grabbed the framed photo and kissed the picture.

‘’Ello,’ she said to it.

It’s his fault, she thought. He programmed Megan.

Duck was often away for weeks and months at a time, so to ensure Megan didn’t forget him, they framed a photo and placed it on her dresser as a constant reminder. When he was away on exercises, training or counter-terrorism duties, Megan would pick up his picture, and to Bonita’s amusement would kiss it and talk to it. Now, it was with alarm that she watched her daughter do so.

‘Let’s change your nappy.’

She laid the toddler on the change table; grateful she had started with toilet training with some success. Soon, diapers would be a thing of the past. Megan happily stayed still, content with kissing Duck’s photo. She gently removed it away from Megan’s grasp.

‘How about you kiss me instead?’

The little one giggled with glee, replying in a slight lisp that is common with some toddlers, ‘Yets, kist Mummy.’

They briefly pecked each other on the lips. Feeling decidedly better, Bonita tickled Megan’s belly, causing her to squeal.

‘Done,’ she said as she snapped the garter of Megs’ play shorts in place. ‘Let’s go.’

Megan refused to be carried, wriggling down so she set her down on the bedroom floor. Bonita allowed the little one to find her own feet.

They walked out to the living room, and strangely enough she half expected to find Duck standing behind the kitchen counter, fixing them something to eat. There was only the aura of his lingering presence, precipitating painful reminder of lost love. Conscious of Megan’s presence, she fought back the tears of melancholy.

She sat Megs in her high chair and went about preparing her breakfast, a small bowl of oats with milk, and a small tub of yoghurt with pieces of fruit on the side. Occasionally, she glanced at the little one making sure she didn’t do anything mischievous or dangerous or both.

Bonita placed the bowl of oats in front of Megan. The independent toddler eagerly took the plastic spoon and ate with gusto, feeding her face, her front, the high chair, down her legs and the floor with equal measure. It was messy, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

She looked at her child’s piercing blue eyes and wispy blonde hair that were a constant reminder of her biological Dad’s. She felt sad that, once again, Megan had lost a Dad.

‘I must be cursed,’ she said to herself. And now she had inadvertently dragged her child into her situation.

She turned towards the sink, wishing she could turn back time and skip the sixth of May.

*

* * * *

THE SIXTH OF MAY, THE day he’d seen her breastfeeding, he had waited her out, spending over an hour befriending her mother. He regaled her with stories about the Navy and had a laugh. By the time Bonita showed herself again, he was also aware of her history, her Filipina mother having unashamedly disclosed half her life story.

She accosted her mother into the utility room with indignation.

‘Mum,’ she recalled saying with horror.

‘What?’ Fely replied. “What’s the fuss all about?”

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Nothing, I just told him you’re on maternity leave.’

‘And?’

‘And, nothing, I told him about your bastard of a husband hasn’t been seen since...’

She was mortified.

‘What? You couldn’t have! Mum!’

Fely shrugged her shoulders.

‘What’s wrong with that? Besides, I think he likes you.’

‘Oh, mother,’ she moaned, slapping her forehead. She gritted her teeth and rolled her eyes, controlling an overwhelming urge to throttle her Asian mother who didn’t know, never knew, where to draw the line when it came to personal disclosure.

Urgh!