An Unusual Boy

  Praise for An Unusual Boy

  ‘An Unusual Boy is the gripping tale of an exceptional, misunderstood child.It highlights the dark underworld of the internet and the way our systems are set up to serve our least vulnerable members, rather than our most. I found myself glued to this book from start to finish. While reading it, you can’t help but become Jackson’s mother, and the mother of every child who is misunderstood in our society. This book will get people talking for sure.’

  Sally Hepworth, author of The Mother in Law

  * * *

  'An Unusual Boy is a beautifully-written book about a loving mother doing her best to protect her ‘unusual’ neurodiverse child in the most challenging of circumstances. The story is a page-turner, but it’s the powerful descriptions of family relationships and friendship, both toxic and supportive, that will stay with me. Ultimately uplifting and hugely emotional, this is a wonderful and unusual book.’

  Louise Douglas, author of The House by the Sea

  * * *

  ‘A tender-hearted story of loving patience triumphing in the face of impossible odds. Original, engaging and beautifully written.’

  Amanda Brookfield, author of The Other Woman

  * * *

  'An Unusual Boy is the unforgettable story of an exceptional child and his flawed but loving family, told with Fiona Higgin's characteristic intelligence, deep empathy and insight.'

  Virginia Lloyd, author of Girls at the Piano

  * * *

  ‘Absorbing, intelligent, moving and real, An Unusual Boy is a novel with both heart and brains... a story tailor-made for our times.’

  Kylie Ladd, author of The Way Back

  * * *

  ‘Oh, how I fell in love with this charming book! Fiona Higgins manages to strike the perfect balance of humour and poignancy to create a heart-warming and insightful novel that oozes humanity. I defy any reader not to fall in love with young Jackson and his idiosyncratic 'super powers'.'

  Joanna Nell, author of The Single Ladies of the Jacaranda Retirement Village

  * * *

  ‘ An Unusual Boy is not only a compelling read, it’s an important one. This tale of an ordinary family dealing with the complexities of raising an extraordinary child had me gripped from the very first page. Intelligently written, this moving story will have book clubs talking long into the night. Fiona Higgins at her finest!’

  Lisa Ireland, author of The Secret Life of Shirley Sullivan

  An Unusual Boy

  Fiona Higgins

  For Michael, who left too early.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Jackson’s Jives: The Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Book Club Questions

  More from Fiona Higgins

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  1

  ‘Shhh! You’ll wake her up!’

  Stifled laughter, the tinkling of a tea bell and the pungent smell of burnt toast drift beneath the bedroom door. Our three children are whispering outside, impatient to sneak in and surprise me. My hand slides across the mattress, reaching for Andy’s, before the crushing realisation swamps me.

  He’s not here. Again.

  A cold, hard nub of loneliness lodges in my chest. Andy’s overseas trips are an unavoidable by-product of his smashing career success; New York this quarter, London next, Tokyo in the spring. I should be used to it by now, but the thought of spending Mother’s Day solo makes me want to curl up under the covers and refuse to come out. For the sake of the children, however, I can’t. It’s my job to create magic on Mother’s Day now.

  I stare at the paint flaking off the ceiling above our bed. Recalling the early, easy years with Andy, before there were any Mothers’ Days at all. All that spare time spent sleeping and strolling and staring into each other’s eyes. Two languid years of mutual adoration, before my body endured three pregnancies, two breastfed babies and the singular exertions of gravity itself. Back when Andy and I still saw each other, somehow.

  Something clatters to the floor beyond the door.

  ‘Hold the tray steady!’ Milla hisses at her younger siblings. ‘Careful of that teapot, Ruby!’

  ‘Shut up, Bossy Pants!’ Ruby objects, with the trademark confidence of a third child.

  Jackson remains quiet, presumably observing his sisters wage battle, before pointing out in his quiet drawl, ‘She’s woken up for sure.’

  I make an exaggerated yawning sound, a sort of sigh and groan combined, then lie perfectly still. The ruse works: the tea bell rings sharply, the door nudges open and Ruby’s stubby fingers curl around its edge.

  I hear Jackson counting to three in Mandarin.

  ‘Yaaah!’ Ruby bursts forth in all her nine-year-old glory, zigzagging across the room in pink sequined pyjamas and purple fluffy slippers.

  ‘Happy Mother’s Day!’ She launches herself onto my lap and gazes at me with earnest blue eyes. ‘I think I’ve got nits. My head’s itchy.’

  ‘It’s probably just your eczema, Rubes,’ I say, smoothing down her frizzy mass of golden curls. ‘But I’ll check later, okay?’

  It’s only been three weeks since a lice contagion swept through Grade Three. Surely it’s too soon for another?

  Milla enters the room, bearing a wooden tray laden with Pamela’s heirloom tea set, a stack of singed pancakes, several bowls of condiments, and a single pink rose in a blue Wedgewood vase. Milla’s blonde mane is always plaited in two long, perfect braids, a carryover from her netball days, while I struggle to manage a blunt-cut bob.

  ‘Morning, Mum.’ She sets down the tray. ‘Ruby burnt the croissants, sorry.’

  ‘They’re just well done,’ objects Ruby, crawling off me to admire herself in the full-length mirror.

  ‘I hope pancakes are okay?’ Milla murmurs.

  ‘Of course they are.’ I reach out and squeeze her hand. ‘You’re doing a great job, Millsy.’

  She smiles. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  I’m gratified to see this compliment still means something to Milla, given most fourteen-year-olds seem far more interested in peers than parents.

  Jackson files into the room now, carrying a towering pile of presents, his gangly limbs sprouting from too-small pyjamas. Unlike Ruby and Milla, whose flaxen hair, blue eyes and freckled cheeks resemble my complexion, Jackson’s brown hair, buttery skin and startling green eyes reflect Andy’s genetics.

  Jackson whistles through a prominent gap in his front teeth, his head nodding erratically to some internal tune. Setting down the gifts at the foot of the bed, he drops to the floor and rolls into a headstand.

  ‘Careful, yogi master,’ I warn, watching his neck wobble beneath the weight.

  Although Jackson is capable of holding this position much longer than most other eleven-year-olds – until he starts seeing stars – I can’t help but feel concerned. The family therapist we’ve been seeing for almost two years, Dr Louisa Kelleher, points out that ‘children with a low instinct for self-preservation’ tend to cause greater anxiety in their mothers than their
fathers. If Andy were here, he’d simply tell me to relax. ‘Mothers minimise hazards and fathers maximise fun,’ he’d remind me. ‘Just let Jackson do his thing, Jules.’

  Milla moves to the bedside table and begins pouring out a cup of tea, assuring me that she’s ‘warmed the pot first’. Ruby arranges the stack of gifts from smallest to largest, while Jackson flops out of the headstand and smiles at me from beneath a zany fringe.

  ‘Hungry, Mum?’ Ruby seizes a singed pancake and thrusts it under my nose.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say, visualising a warm croissant. ‘With butter and jam, please.’

  Ruby slathers the pancake, passes it to me, then starts on another.

  ‘Whoa, sweetie. I can’t eat more than one.’

  ‘But you ate heaps last year!’ Ruby looks crestfallen.

  ‘That was Dad,’ intones Jackson. ‘He had three pancakes, two fried eggs, a slice of bacon and an apricot pastry.’

  ‘Really?’ I can’t recall any such detail. ‘That sounds like an awful lot for one father to eat.’ Jackson is presumably exercising creative licence again.

  ‘You only had one croissant,’ says Jackson, lying down on the carpet. ‘Dad ate everything else.’

  ‘I miss Dad,’ says Ruby, sniffing. ‘Why does he have to go away for weeks?’ The bereft look on her face tells me exactly how much she wishes her father was here right now.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ I say, kissing the crown of her head. ‘We all miss Dad.’

  ‘I miss our old house,’ Milla says quietly. ‘I liked Erskineville more, Mum.’

  The mere mention of Erskineville – our family’s home of fourteen years and maternal nest for our three precious babes – makes tears well up in my eyes.

  It’s been five months since we swapped our spacious inner-city terrace for this tiny red-bricker in one of Sydney’s most sought-after suburbs. ‘Our coastal cottage,’ Andy likes to call it. His mother spotted it for sale first, encouraging us to move to Queenscliff for the ‘ready-made babysitting’ and the ‘healthy outdoor lifestyle’.

  ‘But this place has so much potential,’ I say, attempting to reassure myself as much as Milla. ‘And the renovation we’re planning will be…’

  ‘Colossal,’ says Milla. ‘That’s what Dad says.’

  As will our debt levels, I reflect.

  ‘How about I open some of these Mother’s Day gifts?’ I ask, diverting the conversation.

  ‘Yesss!’ Ruby squeals with excitement. ‘Open this one, Mummy! Mine first!’

  She pushes a small parcel in my direction.

  I shake it theatrically. ‘What could it be?’

  ‘Look inside!’ Ruby claps her hands.

  I peel open the wrapping paper to reveal a beaded necklace, decorated with faux gems. ‘Wow! Look at these amazing colours and patterns. Did you make this all yourself, darling?’

  Ruby nods, her cheeks puffing up with pleasure. ‘In my accessories’ workshop.’

  ‘Fit for a Kardashian,’ says Milla, winking at me.

  Ruby takes this as a compliment.

  ‘Thank you, Rubes,’ I say, looping the beads around my neck. ‘They’re really beautiful.’

  It’s yet another crafty creation that will join the collection beneath our bed, in a storage box filled with hand-made gifts too voluminous to keep, yet too precious to throw away.

  ‘And you’re really beautiful, Mummy,’ Ruby says fervently. ‘Take a selfie and send it to Daddy in New York!’

  I laugh and pass my phone to Milla, who slides in next to me and extends her arm. Ruby leans against my shoulder, tilts her head to one side and pouts.

  ‘Join the photo for Dad?’ I ask Jackson.

  From his position on the floor, Jackson shakes his head. Fingering the edge of his nostril, his eyes glazed over with concentration or bliss or who-knows-what-exactly.

  Over the years, I’ve come to accept that Jackson’s inner life is largely impenetrable to me. It’s a common reality, I’m told, for parents living with ‘neurodiversity’ – a catch-all term used to describe children who don’t conform to convenient diagnostic categories. In the absence of a definitive diagnosis, Dr Kelleher keeps urging us to focus on the one thing we can control: our responses to Jackson’s behaviours.

  Milla takes a barrage of selfies at multiple angles.

  Jackson stands up from the floor and pushes a huge flamingo-pink parcel in my direction.

  ‘That’s a whopper,’ I say. ‘How exciting.’

  Tearing off the wrapping, I read aloud the words printed on the side of the box: ‘Combining the functions of twelve appliances in one compact unit.’

  ‘A Thermowhizz!’ I enthuse, praying my expression doesn’t betray me.

  Jackson grins. ‘April Kennedy said every mum wants one. But it cost too much new, so Dad bought a second-hand one on eBay. It’s only been used three times, Mum.’

  While I’m thrilled that my son has a new school friend called April Kennedy whom he’s consulting about Mother’s Day gifts, I’m wondering why my husband could think of no better way of saying ‘thank you for being a wonderful mother’ than a machine that weighs, cooks, chops, emulsifies, whips and steams.

  ‘Cool!’ Milla enthuses. ‘Maria’s mum’s got a Thermowhizz. They use it to make gelato and sourdough and puddings and…’

  I’ve heard it all before, on the soccer sidelines of a Saturday morning. Perfect for Bolognese sauce, melt-in-your-mouth soufflés, hummus dip to die for. Wonderful in so many ways, but not my ideal Mother’s Day gift – and a petulant part of me thinks that Andy should have known that, after fifteen years of marriage.

  ‘Where will we put it, Mum?’ Ruby asks.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘The kitchen’s a bit squeezy at the moment. Maybe after the renovation…’

  ‘You don’t like it,’ Jackson announces. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not true,’ I say, attempting to salvage the situation. ‘I’m sure I’ll love it once I use it.’

  Jackson looks unconvinced.

  ‘There’s one more thing.’ Milla passes me a pink envelope. ‘It’s not much, sorry.’

  Inside is a crisp square of white cardboard, with a haiku poem penned in Milla’s neat hand:

  MOTHER’S DAY

  Her arms always there

  Smiling warm, strong and mighty

  Keeps giving her love

  ‘Oh, Milla.’ I pull her into a hug, blinking back tears. ‘That’s… your best yet.’

  Poetry-writing has become one of Milla’s primary pastimes since moving to Queenscliff.

  Ruby looks concerned. ‘Are you sad, Mummy?’

  ‘Glad-sad,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I’m so happy I cry a bit. Is that the poem you’re entering into the competition, Millsy?’

  Milla shakes her head. ‘I’m working on a different one for that.’

  ‘More pancakes, Mummy?’ Ruby motions at the remaining pile.

  ‘I’m too full,’ I reply, patting my stomach. ‘I can’t, darling, sorry.’

  ‘But I can,’ says Jackson suddenly, seizing a doughy round from the tray and biting into it with gusto. ‘Yumbo!’ he declares, washing it down with a sip of lukewarm tea from my cup, before starting on another.

  I giggle, watching Jackson persist through every rubbery mouthful – swallow and sip, swallow and sip – until three pancakes have been wholly consumed and Ruby hurrahs with delight.

  ‘What do you want to do today, Mum?’ Milla stretches out her long limbs across the bed. She’s growing womanlier by the week, and I’ve seen men starting to notice her. ‘Something special for Mother’s Day?’

  ‘I have to go into work,’ I remind her. ‘I’m singing in the Mother’s Day Concert at Care Cottage. And you girls have your gymnastics gala this afternoon, remember?’

  ‘We know,’ says Ruby, in a bored tone. ‘But can’t we do something special just for this morning?’

  A few uninterrupted hours on the couch with a novel I’ve been aiming to read for about three years would be special
enough.

  ‘What about going for coffee?’ asks Milla. ‘We could walk down to Queenies or Beanster.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I say.

  ‘Can we ask Nanna Pam, too?’ Ruby asks. ‘For Mother’s Day?’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ I say. ‘Shall we send her a message?’

  I’d have suggested it myself, had Andy been here. But without him, I doubt that Pamela would actively choose to spend much time with me. Despite being married to her son, I’ve always felt thoroughly inferior in Pamela’s presence. She’s clever, multi-lingual and so well put together, while most days I’m a dishevelled wreck.

  ‘I’ll message her,’ says Milla, reaching for my phone.

  Watching Milla compose the message, I marvel at her double-thumbed agility. ‘Make sure you remind Nanna Pam that Dad is overseas, okay?’

  Milla nods. I hear the swishing sound of a sent message.

  ‘Let’s get ready,’ I say. ‘It might take Nanna a while to get back to us.’

  Milla and Ruby climb off the bed, while Jackson wanders over to the window.

  ‘Can we build our street library later today, Mum?’ asks Milla. ‘We’ve been postponing it forever.’

  ‘Better to wait until Dad’s back,’ I say. ‘I’m a singer, not a builder.’

  Milla looks crestfallen.

  Back in January, Andy agreed to build a street library – a small wooden box designed for neighbourhood book-swapping – in the front yard of our home. But the hardware has been sitting untouched in the shed for months now, awaiting that unlikely moment when Andy isn’t jetlagged or deadline-driven or both.