By the end of the road trip we were all exhausted and none of us wanted to be there. There was only one night left before our long drive home. My son was ten and refused to do anything other than play his video game. My wife was glued to her phone and I imagined she was already on dating apps.
The fights started at Mt Kosciusko and continued all through the mountain country. My son had enough of the tension and asked to go home. My wife and I sat in silence watching the road ahead, driving as fast as possible.
I hadn’t meant to let them down. The trip was last minute, a promise I’d made after I’d had to work through our last holiday together. I promised them we’d see the new baby tiger cub at the nature park. When we got there I realised I hadn’t booked tickets. It was meant to have been amazing.
I had apologised and said we’d go back in six months’ time, but they said that by then the tiger would have grown up. They said we’d missed our chance, but I knew I could make it up to them.
There was no choice but to have the last night in a cheap hotel in a small coastal town. We got in just on sunset and my wife and son left to find fish and chips so they could both watch TV and go to sleep. I hadn’t been to that part of the coast before and checked the internet to see if there was anything to do. Perhaps, I thought, there was another rare animal somewhere that I could buy tickets to see. There was a site that talked about the seals and the wildlife. Then I came across an article that claimed it was a good time of year to see the bioluminescence. There were some photos of the glorious sparkles as tiny organisms glowed bright in the ocean, a fleeting and magical light show that the tourists loved if they were lucky enough to catch it. I smiled for the first time in more than a week.
I went back to the hotel, saw that they’d left me a small pile of chips but finished all the sauce.
“Let’s go see the bioluminescence tonight!” I said.
Nobody said anything. My son suddenly looked older, hunched over and sullen, and I realised he was about to become a teenager.
“Please. It would mean a lot to me.” My voice was shaking.
He looked at me, then at my wife, and asked what it was. I explained the science of it, and how magical it looked, and how it was a rare opportunity that he should take. That it would mean he remembered the holiday. He turned back to the screen.
“I promise it will be amazing.”
I didn’t mean to say it, the words just slipped out in desperation. My wife raised her eyebrow and I ignored it.
Slowly he put down his game and stood up to join me.
It was dark out, and I opened the door and headed out. He followed, and I felt a deep dread in my stomach. It wasn’t guaranteed to be out every night, and if it didn’t turn out as expected I knew that he would lose his faith in me forever.
The walk down to the beach felt like miles, but finally our feet were on the sand. We walked closer to the water and stood and watched.
“What happens now?” he asked in a flat voice.
“It will come. Just wait.”
I could feel the sweat pouring down my back and wiped away the moisture from my face. I regretted making him come out to try to salvage a terrible trip. I knew it would make everything worse to have another disappointment to deal with. I put my hands in my pockets as they started to shake.
“Can we go back now?” he asked.
“Just wait a little longer. Please.”
The 15 years of marriage played through my mind, my long nights working and ignoring everything else, how I’d missed a couple of birthdays, then more, then realised too late there was no way to get the time back. I had learnt to promise things, an extension of a kind of imaginary credit. I always planned to pay it back.
“Can we go back now?” He looked at me.
There wasn’t even disappointment on his face, just an apathy that gnawed my heart.
“Fine.”
I knew it was all over.
But just before we turned, the sea erupted in twinkles. The bioluminescent glow looked as though the stars were all planted in the water, the flashes and light something otherworldly just for us, the possibilities of other places and times almost reachable, and in that moment we both gazed stunned into the silent evening.
“Mum said when we get home you’re going to move out.”
I nodded, and the sea shone.
“Can you tell her that we saw this? I don’t think she’ll believe me.”
He shrugged.
“Please. Can you tell her?”
I looked back at the sea. It was dark again, its ephemeral light gone, and we walked back to the hotel.
Fiona Murray is a writer and social worker living in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney.
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