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Katie walked back to the lectern and took another sip of water. This was a roundabout way of talking about her writing journey, but she couldn’t see how she could take a shortcut and still be authentic. Children and writing demanded honesty.
“From my illness I learned life was too short not to be true to yourself. I loved teaching but I still had a dream of being a writer. How would I feel if I’d been given this second chance at life and at the end of it, I had regrets for what I hadn’t done?” Her voice vibrated and she held out her hands, inviting a response from the audience. A few heads nodded.
“After I recovered I vowed I’d never again put anything on hold. As soon as I felt well enough, I started to write. Soon I was hooked. Storytelling became my passion. After I went back to teaching, I wrote in my spare time. It was as if all my life I’d been waiting to discover what I really wanted to do—tell my own stories.”
A young girl, about seven years old, put up her hand. “Are you Lizzy? Is that what you mean by your own stories?”
“That’s a good question. I am like Lizzy in some ways.” Katie walked slowly across the dais as she thought out her answer. “When I was younger I had a friend who reminded me of a cheeky, mischievous monkey. He made me challenge myself. To climb trees and cliffs, to swim over my head in the ocean, to be brave enough to take risks.”
But when she’d taken a life-and-death risk he didn’t approve of—not getting a double mastectomy—well, he couldn’t handle that. Which was really unfair considering he regularly risked his life with surf and sharks.
“When this boy and I ventured out together I never knew how the day was going to pan out. As we got older we went rock climbing, paragliding, even bodysurfing at Gunnamatta Beach. It was always something a bit dangerous.”
“Weren’t you scared?” a boy called out.
“Often I was frightened out of my wits. But I did it, anyway. Que sera sera.” She spread her hands wide. “Whatever will be, will be. We can’t plan our lives completely. Sometimes we have to trust that things will work out.”
Take her writing, for example. She’d thrown herself into it, not worrying whether or not she got published. Lo and behold, after years and a lot of hard work, she’d sold her first book. Before her cancer she’d been a planner and a rule follower. A perfectionist, she liked being in control of her life. It had taken facing her own mortality to know that control wasn’t possible all the time. She’d given herself permission to break free, to be more spontaneous. Because you never knew what was coming around the next bend.
“Even with that belief, I don’t take chances with my health,” she added. “I’m very careful with my diet, only eating organic, whole foods, mostly vegetarian. I see my naturopath regularly and I take special dietary supplements.” Some blank faces stared at her. Laughing, she waved a hand. “But you don’t want to know all that.”
“Do you still have adventures with your Monkey man?” a brunette woman asked, a small smile playing over her lips.
O-kay. That was striking too close to the bone. Some of these people might know that she and John Forster had grown up together and been engaged and put two and two together.
“I have my own adventures nowadays. I’ve been in remission for six years but my gratitude for being alive hasn’t faded. I regularly take what I call Adventure Days. I get in my car and tootle off down the coast road, heading south on the peninsula. I take my camera and notebook, my hiking shoes and rugged clothing. I’m ready for anything but with no plans whatsoever.”
Mostly, though, she found a quiet spot to walk, read and take photos. Maybe write a little. Pretty tame, really. “Any more questions?”
“Where do you get your ideas?”
From memories of her times with John. They’d had so many wonderful experiences together. She didn’t know what she would do when they ran out. Her own adventures were all solitary ones.
“Don’t tell anyone, but…” She cupped a hand around her mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. “I have an idea tree in my backyard. When I need a new one I go outside and pick it.”
An appreciative chuckle ran through the audience. Katie used that to springboard into talking about her writing habits, the way she organized her office, the books she’d loved in childhood. It was a relief to move on to less personal topics.
She worried she may have inadvertently given a wrong impression that she still took part in dangerous activities. Truth was, she hadn’t done anything risky in years, not since John. Why was that? Had she gotten scared or just lazy? Or was she simply not the adventurous person she liked to think she was? Maybe she’d only done those things because he’d pushed her and without him she was a wuss.
She didn’t like that thought. John didn’t rule her life. She’d proved that when she’d had cancer and they’d disagreed on her treatment. She’d stuck to her guns on no mastectomy. He couldn’t handle that and had abandoned her. That’s when she’d realized she had to rely on herself.
She wanted to be strong. She didn’t want to be sedentary and soft. She needed to push herself. And she would. As soon as she thought of something exciting to do.
CHAPTER TWO
A ROOSTER CROWED. John sat up and stretched, his back sore from the thin mat in the unmarried men’s quarters of the family compound. He’d booked a hotel room down the road then decided he wanted a closer look at how Tuti was living and make sure she was okay. In the bigger towns Balinese life approximated a Western lifestyle. Here in this remote fishing village time seemed to have stood still for the past fifty years.
Nena’s two teenage nephews, with whom he shared the small hut, had already risen and left. Their mats were rolled and stacked against the wall. Just inside the open door was a tray with a teapot and a plate of fresh tropical fruits. He was being treated like an honored guest.
He pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, poured himself a cup of fragrant, fresh ginger tea, and stood in the doorway looking onto the courtyard of the walled compound. Grouped around the outer wall were separate rooms for sleeping, cooking and storage. Judging by the grunts he’d heard from next door, accommodation for pigs, as well.
Ketut, Wayan’s wife, was sweeping the ground clean of leaves and bits of palm frond and flowers left over from the funeral offerings. She glanced over and smiled at him but made no move to talk. That suited him just fine. After yesterday’s exotic festival of people, color, noise—and yes, too much rice wine—he needed time to himself.
He carried the plate of fruit and his copy of Lizzy And Monkey out to the bale shaded by a thatched roof in the center of the courtyard. He sat, crossing his legs on the woven mat that covered the raised platform, and reached for a slice of papaya. The compound was peaceful, with a pleasant smell of wood smoke from the cooking fire. A slender young woman in a sarong lit incense sticks on a small shrine in a shady corner. Chickens scratched in the dust at her feet.
Wayan was a fisherman, but from what John could see, the women did most of the work. The men saved their energy for religious rituals and chatting over a glass of rice wine in the evening.
Tuti came through the ornate stone gate that guarded the entrance to the compound. Her hair was again in pigtails and she wore a pink T-shirt and pink shorts. The toddler was once again glued to her hip, which couldn’t be good for Tuti’s back. But these people were strong, used to doing manual labor from an early age.
She was halfway across the courtyard when she saw him sitting in the bale. She paused, uncertain. He motioned to her. Obediently she walked over, adjusting the baby, a little girl with wisps of black hair and a drooly smile.
John held the baby while Tuti climbed onto the bale. She took the child back and nestled her between her crossed legs. When he offered her a piece of mango she gave it to the toddler.
“How are you this morning?” he asked.
Tuti smiled shyly, leaving him unsure whether she’d understood him or not.
From his wallet he took out a photo of himself and Nena, a shot of them perched on stools at an outdoor bar on Kuta Beach. He wore a T-shirt and board shorts and had his arm around her. Her black hair was cut short, Western-style, and she wore a yellow dress.
He showed Tuti the photo, watching her face to see if she recognized her mother. And him. She glanced up, her eyes speaking a question.
“Yes, that’s your mother—Meme.” Tuti nodded. He pointed to his photo and then at himself. He started to say, bapa—father—then changed it to, “Nama saya John.” My name is John.
The feeling of connection with her was persisting—growing even—but he hadn’t come here intending to claim her. And if he wasn’t claiming her there was no point in telling her he was her father. He’d talked to Wayan about this when he’d first arrived and Tuti’s uncle had agreed.
It felt surreal even having such talks. He and Wayan had also discussed setting up a bank account for Tuti’s support payments so Wayan and Ketut could continue to care for her. Was that enough? It didn’t feel like enough. He was Tuti’s only living parent. But what was the alternative? Move here and look after Tuti? That wasn’t going to happen. Bring her back to Australia to live with him? How could he rip her away from her home and the only family she knew to bring her to a foreign country?
Yet it felt wrong to just go away and leave her behind. Tuti was his family. Family was a big part of who he was. He was close to his parents and his sisters and he loved spending time with his nieces and nephews, teaching them to swim, playing cricket with them on the beach.... They would all adore Tuti.
Tuti stared at the photo of her mother for a long time. Reluctantly she held it out to him. John shook his head and gently pushed it back. “You keep.”
She smiled again, her eyes shining. She understood the meaning of his gesture if not the words. John couldn’t help but grin back. With her jaunty pigtails and dimpled smile she was cute as a button. He set his teacup on the platform and brought out Katie’s book. Tuti edged closer, to peer over his arm. Not wanting to hand it to her while she was holding the sticky baby, he opened to the title page and showed her the inscription Katie had written.
“Bukuh for Tuti,” he said in pidgin Balinese, pointing to her name. She have him a half smile, half frown, clearly not understanding. Later he would get Wayan or Ketut to explain.
He read the story aloud, letting her look at the illustrations as long as she liked before he turned each page. He wasn’t sure how much she understood but she listened attentively and more than once laughed, whether at the story or the pictures, he couldn’t tell.
“Do you go to school?” he asked.
Clearly recognizing the word “school,” she nodded vigorously, her face lit. In a flurry of movement she handed him the toddler and scrambled off the bale. John held the tot in one arm, keeping the book away from her sticky, grasping fingers with the other.
On the ground, Tuti reached for the baby. “Come. School.”
John slid off the bale and, with the book tucked beneath his arm, he followed Tuti out of the courtyard and down the stone steps to the narrow potholed street.
High on the hillside, set among lush vegetation, a hotel looked out on the ocean. Across the road was an open-air restaurant with just a few rickety tables and a languid ceiling fan stirring the hot air. The village straggled along a mile or so of coastal road, small houses interspersed with homestays for tourists and a few small shops selling dry goods, fresh produce and, outside, liters of gasoline in glass bottles.
Tuti hurried down the road, glancing over her shoulder to make sure John was following. Between buildings, through banana trees and bougainvillea and coconut palms, he glimpsed the curving sweep of a black sand beach. A ragged fleet of outrigger fishing boats with their triangular sails was returning with the morning’s catch. At a cleared lot John paused to watch as one boat landed. The fishermen hopped out and, joined by other men waiting on the beach, dragged the wooden hull up the sand.
Tuti tugged on his hand, impatient with his interest in what to her was everyday life. Her destination was nearby, a squat cement building covered in chipped green paint. She walked up to the doorless opening. “School,” she said proudly.
John kicked off his flip-flops and ducked his head to step over the threshold. A table and a chair for the teacher were at the front of the room next to a blackboard on an easel. A woven mat covered the floor, presumably for the children to sit on. An old tin can held stubs of pencils and a plastic basket contained perhaps a dozen dog-eared notebooks. There weren’t any desks, or books, or posters depicting the alphabet or the multiplication table, much less anything as expensive as a computer.
He was surprised at how small and ill-equipped the school was. In Bali, elementary school, at least, was compulsory and free. And he’d seen large, modern schools in some of the bigger towns. But Tuti’s village was tiny and remote and no doubt couldn’t attract the government funding needed for a bigger school.
Tuti bounced on her bare feet, wanting his approval.
John forced a smile. “Good. Very nice. Tuti go to school here?”
She nodded, her grin widening, and held up a finger. “One…year.” She sifted through the notebooks and found hers, showing him rows of wobbly Balinese script.
His stomach hollowed. Tuti was so eager to learn, so proud of her tiny school with its acute lack of facilities. How much learning could she do here? Read and write, add and subtract, that seemed to be about it. When he got back to Summerside he would see about sending books, stationery, laptops, whatever he could afford to improve the situation.
Tuti quickly ran out of things to show him. A few minutes later he emerged from the school to see Wayan coming up the path from the beach. He wore a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts wet around the cuffs, and carried a woven fishing basket on his shoulder.
“Morning,” John called to Wayan. “Did you have a good catch?”
Tuti, seeing the grown-ups were going to talk, ran back up the road to the compound.
“Yes. Good.” Wayan’s wide grin showed a gap where a tooth was missing. He lowered the basket and lifted the lid. Half a dozen fish, not much longer than his hand, flopped feebly against a wet palm frond.
John didn’t know what to say. If this was a good catch he’d hate to see a bad one. He’d surfed in Bali for years, taking advantage of cheap holidays without giving much thought to the locals who were doing it tough. Nena must have hidden how little money she had, out of pride or embarrassment. It saddened and shamed him that he didn’t even know which.
“Tuti showed me where she goes to school,” he said, to avoid talking about the fish. “It seems…” he paused, trying to be diplomatic “…small. Is there a larger school in a nearby town, somewhere with more facilities? I’ll pay for her fees and transportation. Books, whatever she needs.”
Wayan spit in the dust at the side of the road. “Tuti not go to school now. Not important. She stay home and help with the children.”
“What?” John was stunned. “But…she has to go to school. To learn to read and write.”
“Nena give us money from her job. Now she is gone, Ketut must get a job in the hotel. Tuti look after the baby.” Wayan hoisted the basket on his shoulder and trudged off.
John stared after him. And that was that? No discussion? No exploration of Tuti’s options? Just shut down her life at the age of six so she could be a babysitter? What would happen to that smart little girl with a thirst to learn, who would never have an opportunity to improve her lot in life? Nena, he knew, would never have allowed that to happen. In their brief, irregular email exchanges over the years she’d been full of hope and plans for Tuti to go to high school, maybe college.
He couldn’t let her stay here. But how could he take her away? Wayan and Ketut were good people who would love and care for Tuti as if she was their own. They had little of material value to offer her but they would surround her all day, every day, with loving familiar faces and a home that held a million memories of her mother. Uncle Wayan and Auntie Ketut would be able to tell Tuti stories about her mother as she grew, keeping Nena’s memory alive.
What could he give Tuti besides the advantages of an education, good health care and a high standard of living? Okay, that sounded pretty good. But was it enough? He had no wife to soften the edges of his bachelor existence. And there was no one on the horizon. Would material advantages make up for the family life Tuti would have to give up in Bali?
He couldn’t imagine not being geographically close to his parents and his sisters. To him, the close-knit family life he’d grown up with was as solid an advantage as school. These days the traditional family with mum, dad and two-point-two kids was more of an ideal than a reality but what was the point of ideals unless you aspired to them? Despite the steady stream of women through his life, he did aspire to the dream of a white picket fence. Whether he would find it in time to benefit Tuti was another matter entirely.
But he had his own family to offer her. He knew they would love her and accept her. She might be sad at leaving Bali in the short term, but now that he knew her future here was so limited he had no choice.
Tuti was coming home with him.
He was acting on instinct, but the immediate relief he felt told him he’d made the right decision.
That evening he spoke to Wayan and Ketut about his plan.
Ketut gazed at the ground unhappily.
Wayan said, “Tuti is all we have left of Nena, my sister.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But she’s my daughter.” He paused and added delicately, “I will continue the support payments in Nena’s honor.”
Wayan shrugged as if to say that was beside the point. Then he and Ketut talked between themselves in Balinese. They seemed to be disagreeing. John held his breath. Which side would win out?
Finally, Wayan held up a hand. “Tuti go to Australia. Get an education like Nena wanted.”
“She will visit us?” Ketut added hopefully.
“Yes, every year,” John said, ready to promise anything. He had the right to take her but he wanted their blessing. After further discussion, Wayan and Ketut decided that a cousin from another village would be brought in to help with the baby.
John didn’t say anything to Tuti at first, either about being her father or about taking her to Australia. He wanted her to get to know and trust him.
He contacted the Australian Embassy in Jakarta, filled out a bunch of forms and paid extra for expeditious processing of Tuti’s immigration documents. Luckily he had holiday time saved, a sympathetic district superintendent and reliable deputies in Riley and Paula.
Over the next three weeks, while he waited for Tuti’s visa, he gave her English lessons and taught her how to swim. While her uncle was a fisherman and they lived in a coastal village, Tuti, like most Balinese, was a novice in the water.
The day Tuti learned to float on her back, John decided it was time. When they got back from the beach, he joined Wayan on the shaded bale for tea. Tuti started to skip off to the kitchen. John called her back and asked Wayan to explain to her in Balinese that he was her father. Wayan spoke softly at length. When he was finished, Tuti turned to John.
“Bapa?” she repeated, her small forehead wrinkling.
Wayan nodded and said something else in their language.
John smiled encouragingly. It must be hard for Tuti to accept that he, a stranger from a far-off country, was her father. But she took it calmly, almost fatalistically, once she understood. Nena had assured him long ago that she intended to tell her daughter he was a good man. She must have lived up to her promise.
“Ask her if she’d like to come with me and live in Australia,” John said to Wayan. “She can go to school and swim in the ocean. She’ll have her own room and make new friends.”
Wayan conveyed the information. Tuti’s face lit at the first few words. She nodded, her eyes shining. “Yes!”
John gave her a hug. He’d had her at the word “school.”
* * *
KATIE CARRIED a cup of coffee into her home office, the master bedroom of her two-bedroom house. She slept in the second bedroom because the master was bigger and could accommodate both her artwork and her writing.
The easel that she used to create the acrylic paintings that illustrated her books stood in front of the window to take advantage of natural light. Against the far wall a table was littered with palette, brushes and paints. On the other side of the room she’d set up her computer, bookshelves and a whiteboard to scrawl ideas on. People thought that just because there weren’t a lot of words in a children’s book they mattered less. But the truth was, that made each one matter more.
She slid into her chair and powered up her computer. Lizzy and Monkey were stuck in a swamp where a crocodile was about to eat them. Generally Monkey got the pair into scrapes and Lizzy got them out. This time, however, Lizzy had followed a colorful parrot into the swamp and gotten them lost.
Like all her stories this one had a basis in reality. Years ago she and John had gone out walking after a heavy rain. After hiking through the muddy terrain for a couple of hours, Katie had had enough. Ignoring John’s warning against leaving the path, she’d taken what she thought was a shortcut and had gotten lost. Too stubborn to give up, she’d led them deeper and deeper into the bush.
Thinking about John led her to wonder about Tuti. Who was this girl who lived near a jungle? He liked kids. Maybe in lieu of the family they’d planned he’d sponsored a child. Or maybe Tuti was the daughter of friends he’d made in Bali. She knew he went surfing over there every few years. Riley had told her John was in Bali now, on holiday.
It was strange that John had never married. According to Riley, these days he went out with party girls—the antithesis of who she was. Maybe if he settled down and had a family she would find it easier to move on. But the thought of John married to someone else made her chest constrict.
Which was so wrong because she was over him. The reason she hadn’t gotten serious with anyone else was because she didn’t have time for romance with her teaching and her writing.
Speaking of her writing…she needed to buckle down and get some work done. Lizzy was walking in circles while Monkey swung from branch to branch in the trees above her head, saying he told her so. How was she going to get Lizzy out of trouble? On that hike years ago, by sheer luck she’d stumbled on another path that led back to the parking lot. But luck wasn’t good enough. Lizzy had to triumph using pluck, resourcefulness and brains.
She wrote in a patch of clear sky so Lizzy could track the movement of the sun and figure out the compass points. That way, knowing the road lay to the west, Lizzy could navigate her way out of the swamp.
The phone rang. “Hello?”
“Hey, Katie,” Paula said. “Riley and I are going to try the new French restaurant in the village. Do you want to come?”
“What, now?” She was just getting into the zone.
“It’s six-thirty on Friday night. Not a bad time to get a bite to eat. What do you say? Jamie’s at a sleepover birthday party so I’m free, free, free.”
“You and Riley should enjoy a night to yourselves. I’d be a third wheel.”
“You’re never in the way. We want you to come. Please.”
Katie glanced at her watch. She would be lucky to make her daily word count and get to the gym before it closed. As well as a healthy diet, she’d adopted regular exercise as part of her rigorous regime aimed at achieving maximum health. “Thanks, but not this time. I have too much to do.”
“Has anyone ever told you, you work too much?”