Only Little Bounces

“Sometimes a kiss on the forehead is stronger than telling the truth out loud.”

The doona was starting to feel warm and heavy in the best way — like being wrapped in a baked potato. I was nearly asleep, floating somewhere between dreams and the soft hum of the fridge, when I heard the soft creak of the hallway floorboards. The old ones outside the sewing room always gave a little groan when you stepped just right. Not the scary kind of creak — not like cupboard ghosts — but the nice sort that says, someone's coming, and you already know who it is.

A soft yellow rectangle of light slid across the carpet as the door opened just a crack. The hallway light wasn't very bright — more like melted butter than proper sunshine — but it made the shadows on the cupboards wobble like jelly. The light caught the edge of Mack's cheek, showing a tiny bit of drool stuck to his chin. He always drools when he's properly asleep. Mum says he gets it from Dad, who sometimes leaves a damp patch on his pillow that looks like a tiny puddle. I never drool, though. Girls are neater sleepers, Grandma says.

Grandma poked her head in. Her grey curls were flattened on one side, like she'd been lying down and forgot to fluff them back up. She was wearing her dressing gown — the blue one with flowers that looked like they'd been drawn by a child — and her slippers made no sound as she stepped inside. Those slippers used to be bright pink with rabbit ears on the toes, but the ears fell off years ago, and now they're just faded pink boats that keep her feet warm on the cold winter nights.

She didn't say anything straight away. She just looked at us both for a moment, her eyes going soft and her mouth curling up at the corners like warm toast. It was the kind of smile that made my chest feel safe, like everything in the world was alright just because Grandma was looking at me. She has that power – making broken things feel whole again, just by being near them.

She walked over to the bed and bent down with a little oof as her knees creaked. I wondered if knees get tired of holding people up after so many years. Mine never creak, but maybe that's because they're still new and haven't had to hold me up for very long yet.

Mack was pretending to be asleep now, I could tell. He always breathes too fast when he's faking, like he thinks sleeping people are in a rush. His eyelids fluttered just the tiniest bit – another giveaway. Grandma leaned in and whispered, “Stop wiggling, or you'll bounce Rose right off the moon.” She knew he was faking too. Grandmas always know.

Mack didn't reply, but I felt him grin under the covers. His body tensed slightly as he tried not to laugh.

Grandma turned to me and brushed a bit of hair off my forehead. Her fingers were cool, but gentle. She smelled like lavender, toothpaste, and a bit like those tiny lollies she keeps in her handbag — the round ones with powder on them that make you cough if you breathe in too fast. I think they're called “conversation lollies” because they have words stamped on them, though I can't read them because the letters are too small and worn away.

She leaned down and kissed my forehead. The kiss was soft and light, but it stayed there, like a warm sticker. I imagined it glowing in the dark after she left, a little beacon of love keeping the bad dreams away.

“Night, petal,” she said. “No jumping on the moon tonight, alright?”

I giggled, even though I hadn't meant to. It squeaked out of me like a hiccup. “Okay,” I whispered. “Only little bounces.”

She smiled again, the kind of smile where her eyes got crinkly at the sides. The smile made her face look like a map, with all these little lines leading to different places she'd been before I was born. Sometimes I wanted to trace those lines with my finger and ask her to tell me where each one went.

“Good girl.”

She started to stand back up, her hands resting briefly on her knees. The light from the hallway made her shadow stretch across the carpet, long and thin like one of those giants from Mack's storybooks. But she wasn't scary at all. She was like a storybook herself — the kind with soft pages and a good smell. The kind you want to keep under your pillow at night, just in case you wake up and need something familiar.

I watched her for a second, then said, “Grandma?”

She turned back, eyebrows raised gently. Her eyebrows were like two silver caterpillars that had crawled onto her face and decided to stay.

“When's Daddy picking us up?”

The question popped out before I really knew I was going to say it. It had been sitting somewhere near the bottom of my tummy all day, hiding behind the games and the biscuits and the funny dinosaur tile, waiting for the quiet moment to crawl out and ask. I hadn't asked Mum before she left. Sometimes it's easier to ask Grandma hard questions.

She didn’t answer straight away.

It wasn't long — not really — just a breath too long. But I noticed it. Kids always notice when grown-ups pause like that. It's the kind of pause that says, I have to be careful now. It's the same pause Dad used when I asked him if Santa was real last Christmas.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, voice still warm but now with something behind it. Something that sounded like worry wrapped in a blanket to keep it hidden. “Your daddy's just busy at the moment. Something important.”

The winter wind rattled the window frame, making a sound like someone tapping their fingernails against glass. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned as the heating kicked in.

“Is it work?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbow. I could feel Mack go very still beside me, like he was holding his breath.

Her eyes darted away from mine, just for a second — over my head, to the edge of the cupboard, or maybe the shadows on the wall. Then back to me. But in that tiny flicker, that blink-quick movement, I saw something change. Like when you're watching telly and the picture jumps for a moment.

“Yes,” she said gently. “Yes, love. Work.”

“Is he coming tomorrow?”

She hesitated again. Even in the dim light, I saw her smile wobble just a bit at the edges. Her hands, resting on the edge of the bed, twisted in the fabric of her dressing gown.

“Soon,” she said. “He'll come soon.”

I lay back down slowly, not quite satisfied, but not really worried either. Grandma never lied. Not like the fibbing kind. And if she said soon, then it must be soon. Maybe not tomorrow soon, but soon enough. The kind of soon you can hold onto, like a promise.

Still, something in her voice made me wish I hadn't asked. Like I'd tugged on a thread that held something together, and now it might start to come undone. Like when you pick at a loose bit of wool on your jumper and suddenly there's a hole where there wasn't one before.

Grandma leaned in one more time and kissed my cheek. Then she whispered, “Sleep tight. Don't let Mack eat all the space rations.”

I grinned sleepily. “He already did.” My voice was getting fuzzier now, the words softening at the edges as sleep crept closer.

Her laugh was a breathy puff, more air than sound. She padded softly to the door, paused there a moment, then flicked off the hallway light.

The sewing room fell into deep, cosy shadow again. I heard the floorboard creak once more as she walked away, and then the click of the kettle in the kitchen — always ready for tea, even at bedtime. Grandma says tea fixes most things, even the things you can't see. I wondered if she was making tea to fix whatever made her eyes dart away when I asked about Dad.

I stared at the ceiling. Or maybe just where the ceiling would be if I could see anything in the dark. The warm spot where Grandma had kissed me still buzzed gently on my skin, like it was keeping watch. Like a tiny guardian angel made of lip balm and love.

The air in the room had turned that special kind of midnight-cold that only happens in winter. The tip of my nose felt chilly, but the rest of me was warm under the doona, like I was a snail safely tucked into its shell.

Mack's breathing had gone back to its fake-sleep rhythm. He wasn't fooling anyone. His shoulders were too tense, and every few seconds he'd shift position like he couldn't get comfortable. As if sleep was a costume that didn't quite fit.

I whispered, “She said soon.”

He didn't answer right away, but I felt the mattress shift slightly as he rolled over. The springs groaned beneath us, singing their rusty lullaby.

“She always says soon,” he mumbled. His voice was flat, like a balloon that had lost its air. He knew something I didn't. Something about Dad, maybe. Something ten-year-olds get told that six-year-olds don't.

There was a tiny silence, the kind that feels like it might be the start of something more, but then Mack just let out a sigh and pulled the doona up over his ears.

I stayed awake a little longer, staring into the blackness, thinking about Daddy. I tried to picture where he was right now. Maybe flying through the stars in a night-time plane, or bumping over red dirt in a big noisy truck. Maybe he had to sleep out there in the dust, with just a torch and a tin of beans, like in stories. He’s not a real miner—not the kind with a helmet and a headlamp and a canary in a cage—but he works with the mines, which sounds close enough to me. He does something with BHP and big machines and numbers and plans. I think he still gets dusty. Maybe he was lying in his own dark somewhere, thinking about me too.

I hoped he wasn’t cold.

I hoped he had someone to tell him a story.

I remembered the last time I saw him – two days ago now. He'd been wearing his blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair had been messy, sticking up at the back like he'd forgotten to brush it. He smelled like aftershave and something else – something sharp that made my nose wrinkle. He'd hugged me goodbye, but it was a quick hug, not the long squeezy kind I like best.

My eyes started to sting the way they do when you're trying not to blink because you don't want sleep to win just yet. I rolled onto my side, curled up like a comma, and hugged Ribbons the Rabbit tight to my chest. Ribbons used to be bright pink, but now she's a faded sort of grey-pink, like the colour got tired and gave up. One of her ears flops over, and she's missing an eye, but she's still the best at keeping secrets.

“Soon,” I whispered to her, so quietly that not even the ghost in the cupboard could hear.

That was enough for now. It had to be.

I let my eyes close finally, sinking into the soft darkness. I dreamed of space rockets and unicorns and a road that stretched on forever, winding its way back home.