The Other Side of Summer by Emily Gale Page A

side of the world.

Saturday morning dragged on as I waited for the van to arrive. Dad went out for an early run with Julie Witkin, which he now did three times a week even though he’d never exercised once in my whole life. It was no wonder he didn’t mind spending time with her, the way that woman fussed all over him. He was looking fit and healthy again, but that didn’t make it any easier to see them running off down the street, side by side.
    After his run, Dad got into his suit and went to work his usual half-day Saturday, showing a bunch of nosy people around houses for sale. I wondered about the family living in our house back home. In my mind I furnished it with our things again – the rug was backin its place, the curtains were hung, all our treasures were on display – and I hated to think of the new people poking around, living our lives.
    Wren was on Dad’s laptop at the dining room table. ‘Another parcel came for you, by the way,’ she said. There was a small brown pillow-shaped package on the kitchen bench.
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
    ‘Later.’
    This brought the number up to three. Three unopened parcels from Mal, stuffed into my bottom drawer like secrets.
    ‘How is she?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Mal, you dork.’ She laughed. ‘Who else?’
    ‘She’s fine. Like you care, anyway.’
    Wren stopped typing for a moment, then started up again. ‘Stop pacing, Summer. The van’ll be here when it’s here.’
    ‘You can’t stop me from walking in my own house. Anyway, what are you doing, writing a book?’ I said, sarcastically.
    ‘It’s an email.’ She paused, as if she’d forgotten which words to use. ‘To Mum, actually.’
    My stomach dropped. ‘Since when do you do that?’
    ‘Since about the whole time we’ve been here.’ Wren sighed and typed another sentence. ‘You’re the only one who doesn’t, Summer.’ Another sentence. And another.
    I stared at the back of the laptop, wondering at Wren’s words to Mum and Mum’s back to her. I knew Dad and Wren had been Skyping Mum and Gran, but I thought that’d be just ‘What are you doing?’ and ‘What’s the weather like?’ I’d left the room every time and no one had ever tried to force me back in. (And what did that say?)
    ‘I don’t get you, Wren. When did you become so nice ? Mum didn’t want us. Have you forgotten already?’
    Wren gave me a sour look but it quickly melted. ‘She does love us.’
    ‘If you say so.’ I swallowed a lump in my throat and walked out of the room, straight out of the front door and onto our porch.
    I hadn’t cried in ages. Now I was, it felt disappointing, like tripping over after being so careful. There’s nothing new to cry about, I told myself, but I still couldn’t stop.
    The warmth of the sun on my face made me feel even sillier and more alone. Everything that was beautiful out here, like the multi-coloured autumn leaves that had landed in the front garden or drifted onto theporch, made my feelings ugly. My tears flowed freely, as if crying was just a basic, disgusting bodily function that would happen whether I wanted it to or not.
    I tried to breathe deeply and wait for it to pass.
    Lots of people had benches on their front porches here but I’d never seen anyone sitting on one. The dog was sprawled on ours now. I sat down in the tiny space left beside her. Stupid, giant creature.
    Moments later she licked the side of my hand twice. I ignored her. She licked me in the same spot again and when I took my hand away she snuggled in closer and lay her head in my lap. Her ears twitched. I went to push her off but she whined very quietly. So I put my hand lightly on top of her head. Straight away Bee shifted so that my hand was now under her chin. I scratched her there and she closed her eyes and made such a funny grunting noise that I laughed out loud. She looked at me with only one eye as if to say keep scratching . She was leading me, teaching me her language.