Chapter 1

Bea inched her Falcon forward into the parking space and applied the brake. She'd prepared for a longer drive, but had made it to Mulgrave in 25 minutes. That made her, she realized, ridiculously early. Feeling simultaneously anxious and ruminative, her head found the headrest as she turned off the ignition. Her eyes closed involuntarily, as if to will away the pounding in her heart, the throbbing in her temples. She was so tired, a feeling that never left her anymore. Bridget had pronounced her clinically depressed. Well duh. She adored Bridget, but still wanted to slap her silly for overstepping her boundaries and declaring the obvious. And so here she sits, Bridget quite directly to blame, dearly wishing her friend were with her now. If Bea weren't so bloody ornery, Bridget would of course be by her side, saying all the right things, rationalizing, coaxing, holding her hand, massaging her temples, dragging her physically from the car into the building when it was time.

Slamming her palms into the steering wheel hard enough to hurt, Bea shouted "Fuck," and hit the wheel three more times for good measure. She didn't want to be here. Shouldn't be here. No, she should be at home mixing up sesame chicken and chopping veggies for a quick stir fry. A perfected recipe, dead simple now, and Debbie's favorite. Debbie. Her smiling, beautiful daughter; breezing into the kitchen in her school uniform, slinging her pack onto one high stool and hopping up into the other while Bea chopped at the island.

Hey mum, how was your day? Cut anyone famous today?

A shared, affectionate smile. Debbie's twinkling hazel eyes on her waiting for a response.

Nah, just the usual riff raff wanting shave lines and colors. Busy though. We can make the mortgage payment again this month.

A wink at her daughter to share the standing joke. Their house had long ago been paid off. When Bea finally fled from Harry, she and her small daughter had stayed with Bridget for a while, then set up in St. Kilda, a then sketchy suburb where gentrification was in its early stages, but where Bea could afford a small mortgage on a decent two bedroom house. She had quickly carved herself a niche in the Bohemian mecca as an edgy hair dresser, taking on private clients as well as shop work, until squirreling away enough cash to front a down payment on a drab, vacant salon she finally named Red Beauty. Just a few years later, Bea had transformed Red Beauty into one of the trendiest, funkiest salons in St. Kilda and the money flowed. She'd paid off the house and the salon on the same day. And then she had taken her 12 year old daughter to Luna Park to celebrate with rides, and ice cream and as much junk food as they could stuff in.

Looking out the car window, Bea smiled at the memory and finally registered the sign on the building for the first time:

Australian Centre for Grief and Bereavement

Closing her eyes and biting on a finger to squelch the sharp, visceral pain that suddenly seized her, she succumbed to quiet tears.


"Well, here we are love." Having pulled into a parking spot, Liz parked the car and switched off the ignition. Allie hadn't said a word on the drive from Arrowhealth, just stared quietly out the window. Liz was concerned by this point. Allie had been insistent she didn't need a grief group, that she would deal with things in her own way, on her own time. The centre had insisted on group counselling as a condition of release; needing to know that Allie had support on the outside, and valid coping mechanisms to stay off the drugs. Allie was considered a patient with a high probability of relapse despite her near completion of their long term program. And part of that determination was based on her refusal to accept the magnitude of the loss that had put her back on the addiction path in the first place.

She wasn't my mother, Liz! Those people, in that group you want me to go to, they've lost real family. Husbands, wives, kids maybe, mums and dads. Kaz was my friend. Those people don't need my whiny ass in there talking shit just because I lost my friend. I'll be fine, you just watch me.

So much bravado. Allie was brave, Liz thought. Brave and stupid. Having suffered years of neglect and abuse, and then more years on the street out of her mind on drugs, prostituting herself out to support her addiction, and to occasionally secure some kind of transient shelter, there was no question Allie was a survivor with keen street smarts. It was Kaz Proctor that got her cleaned up. Strung out and battered by a violent 'John', Allie had somehow made her way to the Manly Centre for Women where Kaz had first tended to her, and then basically adopted her. She had taken Allie Novak home with her, nursed her through days of severe drug withdrawal, indoctrinated her in the belief systems of her pet project, The Red Right Hand, and then gave her work at the Shelter to keep her busy. Allie continued to live with Kaz. For three years. Three years of activist work and no drugs. Three years of stability and friendship. Liz believed in the concept that love makes a family. And Liz firmly believed that Allie had lost her family with Kaz's death. What she couldn't understand is Allie's need to downplay that very special relationship.

"You ready love?" Liz reached across and touched Allie's arm gently, hoping for a response. Allie just continued with her staring through the window. Liz followed Allie's sight path and watched with her as a woman got out of her car and slammed the door rather violently. After a frenetic 380 degree turn, the woman then began to kick at her front tire, repeatedly, until she was spent and leaning into the car with her arms on the hood, head bowed, wild red curls covering her face. After a moment, the woman straightened herself, pulled the wild red hair back from her face, took a deep breath, and began a purposeful march toward the Centre's entrance. The hair, the jacket, the jeans and boots; the woman looked badass, and Allie was clearly mesmerized. Liz smiled inwardly; the reasons for Allie's silence had obviously shifted gears and her eyes stayed on the woman until she disappeared into the building. At which point Allie turned to Liz and flashed her infectious, 1000 megawatt smile.

"Shall we get on with it then?" She asked, bright blue eyes full of life suddenly.

Thanks Red, Liz thought to herself. With great relief, she followed Allie's lead and got out of the car, still chuckling to herself. For the most part, Allie Novak was a bright light, a sparkling presence, an intelligent and surprisingly complex young woman, but one thing she was not, was 'subtle'. No, Allie had clearly set herself a new mission. And grief counselling would simply be a means to an end.