Exotic

~ clean sweep ~

The Sanchez household looked as if a bomb had hit it. The front lawn - strewn with red cups and discarded shoes and cigarette butts - should have been an indication of what was to come, but when Aaron open the front door and I got my first glimpse of the hallway, I let out a tiny, audible shriek.

"When does Maya get home?" I asked him.

He checked his phone. "Six hours."

"We can hit the road and be well on our way to Darwin in that time," I bargained. "I'll get Max. You pack a bag."

He let out an amused little huff, and tugged a pair of sneakers, laces knotted together, off the hallway light. "I'll start in the bathroom. You do the living room."

Aaron looked, and sounded, completely exhausted. I was sure I was projecting the same energy, as I trudged heavily past him, dodging empty cider bottles and crumpled cans of Emu in my path. After a claustrophobic run to Bunnings with Reece, swinging a basket full of red spray paint between the Sunday crowds, he'd dumped me outside Aaron's without so much as a reminder of curfew. I appreciated that the man was picking his battles; it made my life a fair bit easier.

Aaron had asked me about the gauze over my eyebrow, and I'd told him the truth; there was no reason to lie about Reece's suspicious generosity or the source of my injury. I left out most of the details of our conversation, including Reece's therapist. I just told him that I wasn't worried about him, and he shouldn't be either.

We'd picked up Zsa Zsa from the same place we'd dropped him off, out the front of the ER. He had been sporting crutches and a fresh stitch on his bottom lip, which gave him trouble enunciating. His skin was shadowed with bruising and the swelling had gone down significantly. He was also hopped up on painkillers, the nurse attending him had warned us, which made it difficult to talk to him about anything of importance.

"Did the police visit you?" I had tried asking him in the car.

"Mmmm. I had nothing to do with the Duchess's tragic plummet from the battlements," he slurred back, and narrowed his eyes at me in the rear-view mirror. "You have a huge pimple on your forehead."

Determining that I would speak to him about what was to be done with Peter later, I combed my bangs over the spot Zsa Zsa had so kindly pointed out and let Aaron drive to the address he was given. His mother lived in a freestanding house in the suburbs, not a surprise given what Zsa Zsa had told me about the place he grew up. The garden was littered with stone cherubim's, the knocker on the door was fashioned like a cross and the welcome mat was branded with an italicised Bible quote;

Unless the Lord builds the house, the builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the guards stand in vain. ~Psalm 127:1

The Zsa Zsa I knew was such a polar contrast to the place he'd been raised. I would have laughed at him if I'd been there under different circumstances.

His mother was an astoundingly tiny woman, no more than five feet tall, with a short crop of thirsty black hair and boxy figure, answering the door in a cotton orange dress with a pair of waxing strips on her upper lip. Clearly, Zsa Zsa had not told her the extent of his injuries (he'd told her he'd gotten them from fall in the street) because she had immediately taken a dishtowel draped over her shoulder and slapped it across his uninjured shoulder.

After her initial annoyance, she'd invited them in and interrogated Aaron and me over coffee in her crowded living room while Zsa Zsa showered. I had felt pressured to tell at least most of the truth, considering the amount of Jesus memorabilia staring down on me. Even the pillows had his face embroidered on them. It felt like sacrilege to sit on them.