Unseen Messages

Estelle soaked up the indigenous knowledge as if she’d turn into a natural healer. She learned that palm trees Fijian name was Niu and the leaves from the sparse guava plants could be pulped and used for dysentery, which was ironic because if too many of the unripe guava fruit were eaten they gave constipation.

As our house evolved with indoor plumbing, septic systems, and hot showers, we opted for the expense of installing a saline purifier and internet satellite to stay in touch with the outside world.

Our many Skype calls were to Pippa.

For so long, I’d worried about her mental health. But as the years turned her from a quiet eleven-year-old into a sensitive teenager, I knew she’d never be boisterous or carefree. She carried too much sorrow in her heart, but she had wisdom, too. Wisdom to know that life happened, and it couldn’t unhappen.

She was alive. She had a life with her grandmother and friends at school. And she visited us every year and each year was easier.

Having her in our lives (even in small doses) was more than I’d hoped for.

At night, Estelle researched new skills to continue evolving our new way of life and relayed titbits of plants we didn’t know, educating ourselves on our island.

It was a humbling reminder that even though we’d become so dependent on technology, we’d done okay without the World Wide Web. We’d done it together through common sense and the willingness to try.

But we were also careful.

Those ingredients meant we were able to turn plants (that at first glance didn’t look edible), into a smorgasbord of eateries without an encyclopaedia or mouse click.

And thank God we had a lot of supplies, because currently, those supplies had been claimed.

Christmas, once upon a time, had been ignored.

However, since we’d been back, that had all changed.

Our finished two-story house had become more than just a home for my family but an idyllic holiday spot for our loved ones.

I was proud of that.

Proud of its unassuming position on our beach, a few metres away from our original (well, second original after the fire) home. That house was now a children’s dream hang-out with hammocks and littered seashells.

Vitu na Vonu was more than just our home. This uninhabited island now housed a family. It’d evolved with us into a wonderful haven. And regularly hosted happy events within its reef-protected boundaries.

“Are you coming?” Coco popped her head around the kitchen island. Her golden ringlets were salt-crinkled and wild. “They want the lobster and told me to get you.”

“Impatient, are they?”

She giggled. “Yep. Me, too. I’m hungry.”

“You just had a prawn cocktail.”

“Don’t care. Still hungry.”

I rolled my eyes. At six (almost seven), Coco had sprung into a willowy, younger version of Estelle. My wife said there were elements of me in my daughter, but all I saw was the woman who owned my heart. From the bleached blonde hair to the high cheekbones. The only thing I noticed were the eyes, which had turned more blue than green.

“Oh, and Grandpa wanted me to tell you that Finnek wants his juice.”

The mention of my two-year-old son warmed my soul. The fact that my father was here to celebrate Christmas with us even more so. He’d left England a year ago, moving into a small bachelor pad I’d built on the opposite side of our island.

The side where Conner and his parents had been honoured.

My dad was still lonely for my mum, but at least, he had a family, sunshine, and a new existence to nullify the old.

“My ears are burning. Who’s talking about me?”

I wiped my hands on a tea towel as my dad appeared.

In his arms sat my little boy.

The moment Finnek saw me, his chubby hands strained for me to take him. His sky-blue eyes watered with pain as his bottom lip wobbled. “Ouchie!”

I plucked him from my father’s embrace. “What happened?”

“Little tyke took off too fast. Face planted in the sand and scuffed his knee. Again.”

This was a weekly (if not daily) occurrence. Finnek was a walking accident. His coordination skills had a lot to be desired. While Coco took after Estelle, Finnek took after me with his lanky limbs, dark hair, and rascally smirk. We should’ve called him Mischief.

Luckily, his big sister never let him out of her sight.

And as Estelle had ballooned with Finnek’s pregnancy, I’d never let her out of mine. We regularly went to the mainland for check-ups, and when she got too big to brave the sea, we paid the doctor to come here.

The pregnancy had no complications, and Estelle spoke about having another birth on our island.

I’d flatly refused.

Two weeks before she was due, we travelled to Nadi and stayed in a local hotel, close to a hospital, and took it easy. We swam in chlorinated water rather than salt and ate food prepared by others.

And when she delivered, it was in a sterile room with medical professionals and every modern apparatus required if anything went wrong.

It made me feel ten times better knowing that others with expertise were helping rather than just me and a night-shrouded sea like last time.

Another benefit of spending two weeks on the mainland meant I finally took the plunge to have Lasik eye surgery to permanently remove the need for glasses.

When we’d first moved, I’d ordered ten pairs, just in case. I never wanted to go so long without seeing well again.

However, swimming crusted the lenses, sweat fogged them while I worked, and humidity wasn’t kind to the hinges.