Fulfillment(22)

“What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing, why?” he answered dismissively.

“Bryce, you’ve been away with the pixies all morning, and because of that I have been having conversations with myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For example, ‘what car are we taking?’... ‘huh?’” I sarcastically mimicked him. He looked out over the cars parked in the garage, let go of the suitcase he had been dragging and scratched his head.

“I don’t know,” he answered softly. “I’m not sure which one is best.”

All of a sudden, I noticed just how nervous he really was. I looked between his worried face and the kid’s sullen expressions and sighed. Ah fuck it. Take one for the team, Alexis! “Actually, do you mind if we take the chopper?”

Bryce shot an astounded look at me, and Nate’s and Charli’s faces lit up.

“Can we? Really?” They both glanced between me and Bryce.

“If it’s okay with Bryce, and Poppa gives us the all clear to land without spooking the cattle, then yes.”

Bryce appeared a lot less agitated now. “Sure, if that’s what you all want to do.”

I could see he was trying to make out that he would fly us only because that’s what we wanted. I could also see he was now over the moon at not having to choose which car would impress my family the most without it being over the top. Instead, the over-the-top arrival in a helicopter could now be blamed on me, not him, which was exactly my intention.

“Okay, let’s head back up. I’ll ring Dad to find out where to land.”

***

We made our way back up to the apartment, and while Bryce prepared the Crow for departure, I called my dad to get the all clear and instructions as to a suitable landing spot.

Mum and Dad had over 60 head of cattle spread across their numerous paddocks. They farmed beef cattle and always had mothers with calves or pregnant heifers amongst their herds. Dad was a bit shocked at my request at first, mumbling something about ‘what’s wrong with a bloody car’ and telling my mum to ‘shhh’ as she stood in the background and asked what I was talking about. It wasn’t until I explained we were flying there as a way to cheer up Nate and Charli over not being able to spend Easter with Rick, that Dad dropped the annoyed and put-out attitude, instead instructing us to land in the paddock next to the shed.





Bryce buckled us all in and handed out the headphones. Charli automatically started shouting in a tone that resembled a banshee, making my ears curl up and cringe. Nate was using every word of the month he had ever come up with, speaking in what sounded like and entirely new language.

“Sick! I’m stoked. This is gonna be totally epic!

As Bryce prepared the chopper for take-off, I tried desperately to calm down my kids. “Okay, Nate, please speak English. And, Charli-Bear, lower your voice a little. The headphones do actually work, you know?”

“Yep, yep,” she squealed again and bounced a little in her seat as Bryce began raising the chopper.

“Charli, quiet down while Bryce brings up the collective.”

“This is so sick!” Nate slurred with excitement. “What’s a collective?”

I automatically answered my son, as I had secretly researched a little of helicopter avionics. “It’s that stick thing Bryce is pulling up in his left hand. It controls the squashplate—”

Bryce interrupted with a loud laugh. “It’s called a swashplate. Not squashplate.” He kept chuckling.

“That’s what I said,” I snapped. I’m sure that’s what I said. Stupid swash/squash plate/bowl helicopter lift thingamajig. I decided to shut up after that, Bryce was in a far better position to explain to my son—who now seemed very interested in piloting a chopper.

Bryce had looked over at me numerous times during the 40 minutes it had taken us to fly to my parents’ property, obviously still amused at my attempt to gain more knowledge of how helicopters fly. I had stubbornly tried glaring at him in response, but the cheeky loving grin he had on his face was hard to be pissed at. It wasn’t until I pointed to the spot where he needed to land on the farm that our facial expressions traded places. Now I was the one smirking smugly at him, and he was the one displaying agitation, together with wiping his palms on his jeans every so often and muttering under his breath ‘friggin’ sweaty palms’.

As he placed the chopper down with perfection, I waved to my family, who were standing not too far from the shed. Bryce jumped out and gave a kind but subtle wave in their direction, and as he did, I noticed my mother’s wider than normal grin—she may have been 62, but she was still a woman. I watched him walk around the front of the chopper—his eyes meeting mine for a second—forcing a shy smile across his face.