Published in The Potato Soup Anthology 2021

​As she gazes at the photo, the memory of coconut oil almost smells real. Her parents wore their tans like medals as they posed in front of their second-hand camper. She was there too, just a little tyke at the time, believing that the world was her playground to explore.
The next album is of Spain. This time it is Rosalie who is the little tyke, while she and Malcolm smile over her with their proud –as-punch expressions. Janice begins to flick through, marking her favourite pictures with an orange sticky tab. She will need to be conservative with her selections, there is only so much space available in two suitcases.
Rosalie appears in the doorway. With a shock, Janice is brought back to reality as she regards her now grown daughter and the new look she has given herself.
“What have you done?”
“It’s no big deal.” Rosalie replies. “It’ll be hot in Queensland.”
Rosalie’s obsidian hair that usually hangs like a blanket around her shoulders is now bluntly short. Janice expects that it will appear playful, set against a yellow sundress and a brightly coloured mask but under the current circumstances, it appears desperate and wild. Janice coaxes Rosalie back to the bathroom to make a few adjustments at the nape of her neck. Her eyes catch the half used bottles of expired perfume in the mirrored cabinet. These days her only perfume is disinfectant and bleach.  
Perhaps she too will change her hair when they begin their new life. She wonders if Malcolm will approve. She doesn’t want to upset him. It has been four years since they have shared the same air; since they have breathed in each other’s presence. She has heard, however, that there are still some beauty salons in Queensland. It would be so nice for someone to touch her, even if it were just to wash and cut her hair. It would be so nice for Malcolm to touch her, after all this time.
Two suitcases each. That is all they are permitted. There is no time and no money to put things in storage, and really, what is the point? With each passing day, there is less chance that they will ever be able to return. The looters can have a field day with all that remains.
For the past week Janice has been playing a game of elimination. She puts everything she loves into the centre of her lounge room. It dominates the space and the miniscule suitcases in the corner cower at the weight of it all. She picks up two objects at random. This time it’s a small china vase that belonged to her grandmother and a framed photo of Rosalie, Malcolm and herself at the beach.
“Which do I love more?” she asks, putting on a Northern English accent that reminds her of her father.
He would have chosen the photo, but then, she was going to be with Malcolm and Rosalie, and there were beaches in Queensland. So the photo isn’t so precious. It goes to the elimination pile and the vase lives to see another round.
It isn’t healthy to skip the allocated walk. Janice knows this. Despite the enormity of the task that still needs to be completed, she obligingly dons her thick mask, wraps a blue tartan scarf tightly around her neck and pulls on her woollen jacket. The collar scratches at her neck and she readjusts the scarf. Rosalie is down the stairs seconds later.
“How is the packing going?” Janice asks as she squirts sanitiser into her palms and then buries them in her jacket.
“Getting there,” Rosalie replies.
 The bitter winter engulfs them as they step outside.
“I can’t believe that we will be with dad in less than a week!” Rosalie pulls her coat tightly around her.  “Are you nervous?”
Janice considers the question for a moment. Nervous. She hadn’t thought about it that way.
When Malcolm had packed his own two bags all those Christmases ago, had he been nervous? Did he realise then, that he would be locked out, unable to return? He’d had a choice. They’d had a choice, of sorts. But with Janice and Rosalie both without jobs, Malcolm had been their only hope. The application process had been extreme to say the least. Close to 40 pages and four months of waiting. Finally, with mixed emotions, he had been granted the chance to take on the job that had been offered to him almost six months prior.
Usually, Janice and Rosalie would meander, taking advantage of the time allowed outside. Today the cutting wind prevents any enjoyment in the routine. They walk the fastest route, along the chain link fence, heads bowed at the cold blast that pushes against them. Posters, signs and padlocks of different shapes and sizes adorn the fence. The signs are interjections and commands, ‘Wash your hands for the greater good!’ and ‘Keep your distance’. The handmade posters are illegal. The most provocative are usually torn down fairly quickly, but they can’t keep up with the production. Janice reads one that has remained for over a week now, ‘Prisoners in our own homes!’ She continues along the path in silence and wonders about the padlocks. She imagines herself adding to the eclectic collection; a symbol that she too lived on this side of the fence, once. The thought sends an unexpected shiver of fear through her and she shakes it out. Rosalie looks in her direction with suspicion.
As they turn a corner, two men cross to the other side of the street. Her eyes meet theirs for an instant but Rosalie won’t look up. They may be Rosalie’s age and Janice aches for the loss of opportunity that Rosalie has endured. She hopes that there will at least be a chance for Rosalie to meet someone in their new life.
They continue until they reach the wrought iron gates that are now permanently open. The diggers within are also a permanent fixture, humming away as they move dirt from one plot to the next. The women walk along the centre path until they reach the familiar road to the right. Still they have another 600 metres to go until they find their destination. There are so many to visit now. Five in this row and then they need to go further down the main road until they can see the other four.
Both Janice and Rosalie have a fine-tuned system. With only a set time allowance, they have around three minutes to visit each grave. They all look the same and it can be tedious. Janice spends the time reading the headstones and then searching up a memory that she may not have thought about for a while. Sometimes she gives herself a theme, like food. She walks from grave to grave summoning up a moment in time for that person.
Today, morbidly, her brain repeats the word death, and she can’t escape it. She stares at her mother’s grave and recalls her final day. She can see the clear walls of plastic, and her body, which is so petite in the large white bed. Her face barely visible due to the ventilator. It was quick for her mother. There hadn’t been time to exchange words. Her father was different. He had a week to grieve his wife before he too was struck down. The hospital bed, surrounded by thick clear walls was the closest Janice had been allowed in twelve months. Before he went in, he had called her. A video call. His hacked coughing terrified her and the inevitable was clear. He’d been granted six final days in hospital. Janice visited him twice. His final breathless words were strained and brief.
Malcolm has escaped that horrific reality. Being the distance that he is, he’s had a perfect excuse for not visiting in the last hours. He doesn’t fully understand the unfairness of being so close, yet so far away from loved ones in their final moments. There are only a few cousins left now and they are all working towards their own Visas. Neither Rosalie nor Janice have seen them in person for at least a year. Janice looks at her watch. They need to start moving back. She’s been questioned before when only out by five minutes. Luckily she was only fined rather than detained. There are rumours that detention, even for half an hour, can be your death sentence. She whistles in Rosalie’s direction but the muffled sound is taken by the wind. It doesn’t matter. Rosalie is just as careful with her time and doesn’t need the reminder. Together they take the second route back to the apartment, passing the anonymous soldiers who line the streets.
Time is running out and Janice needs to make the final call on the things she will pack. She goes back to her photos and takes one from each album, it’s a hard decision but one she must make. She creates a new album full of memories. Memories of the people she has lost and the freedoms that she enjoyed. Malcolm has requested a painting from the wall. It takes up so much space in her small suitcase, she climbs the stairs to seek out Rosalie. Perhaps she has some extra room. Rosalie is sitting on her bed. Her suitcases are zipped and tight, their contents straining against the fabric. She is looking at an old National Geographic, her brows furrowed.
***
Janice wakes in a cold sweat. She walks unsteadily to the bathroom and splashes water over her face. Another nightmare. She picks up the thermometer and aims it at her forehead. The shrill beep is an affront in the still, sleepy morning. 36.5 degrees. A flashback from her dream. A chart with her temperature recorded again and again. She banishes the thought as she switches off the light and heads to the kitchen.
While the kettle whirs and takes its time, Janice finds her numerous bottles of pills and begins her morning. The little lumps stick uncomfortably in her throat as her protesting muscles force them down. The dream will not leave her. Plastic and glass everywhere. Monitors, tubes, masks. She’s in a hospital bed. Malcolm and Rosalie’s anguished faces look in through the transparent walls. A newspaper headline flickers to mind: ‘First case in Queensland since 2023’. That’s her. She knows this without it being said. It is her nightmare after all.
Rosalie is up early too. The two sit in silence across the bench, too anxious to say a word. Janice won’t dare tell her about the night. She wonders if Rosalie was able to sleep. Rosalie fixes herself a coffee, the smell of the instant granules, turning Janice’s stomach. She misses Malcolm’s fresh coffee. The four suitcases are standing by the door, they have less than four hours before they must leave.
Janice takes her shower first, washing her hair and body thoroughly. Her right leg seems to jiggle uncontrollably and she directs the hot spray over her thigh in an effort to calm it. She’s broken a few of her own rules this morning. The long hot shower creates steam and dampness in the bathroom. But who cares! Let the mould grow. They’ve had their final phone call with Malcolm whose nervous energy was almost palpable through the handset, and now the countdown is on.
Finally, there is a knock at the door. Very precise. 9:30am as instructed. Two soldiers greet Janice and Rosalie coldly. Their faces indistinguishable behind the protective masks. They hold up thermometers for the women and a thousand ants feel like they’re crawling over Janice’s skin. She manages to avoid scratching. They stay standing in the doorway.
Satisfied with their temperatures, the soldiers then produce swabs. The women open their mouths compliantly and long sticks are pressed to the back of their throats. Both Janice and Rosalie gag but stay in place, the scraping intrusion familiar. Next it is their nostrils. This one is worse. Janice feels the burn that seems to touch back into the tender place connecting her nose to her throat. Usually she would sing out in distress, but she won’t in front of these two. The door is closed in their faces and they are left to wait. Five minutes feels like an hour as they wordlessly stare at the back of the door. Memories of the dream, and images of her mother and father torment Janice as she waits. Her skin prickles with sweat despite the cold and she begins to worry that they will come back to her with a positive result. How can she be so hot right now?
The knock, identical to the previous one, signals that the soldiers have returned. It’s good news. Their results are acceptable. Janice and Rosalie are given masks sealed in plastic. The soldiers watch as they rip open the packaging and attach the covers over their nose and mouth. Another squirt of sanitiser and then they are led to a van. The icy air whips around them but still Janice feels hot. They are alone in the back of the van and the windows are tiny. Not much to see.
“How did you sleep?” Janice finally asks Rosalie.
“Not so great,” she replies.
“Me neither.”
They attempt more conversation but the tension between them makes talking difficult.
“I don’t feel well.” Janice says
“You’re fine mum. Don’t stress.”
The airport is so different to how Janice remembers it. It is quiet and sterile. Perspex walls have been built, leading people to the different counters. The soldiers leave them and the women follow the signs and path to the first counter. Rosalie has the documents. She has checked them numerous times at home and at least three times during the trip over. They present the paperwork to the screened counter and wait. Janice goes to bite her nails but then realises it is not possible. She clenches her jaw instead.
They walk through the Dettol coated scanners and gates, and are finally led to a small waiting room. Just enough room for the two of them really. Rosalie is getting excited. She pulls out her book and tries to read. Janice doesn’t even bother. She stands and looks out of the window, huge aeroplanes are parked at different entrances. The itchy feeling returns and she indulges in a little scratch while no one is looking.
“I’m going to miss mum and dad,” Janice says.
“They’re headstones, mum.” Rosalie doesn’t look up.
“I don’t know how I’ll manage the heat.”
“Mum, think about the freedom. Think about how nice it will be to manage the freedom. And dad! We’re finally going to be with dad.”
Janice paces across the window. Rosalie doesn’t want to hear about her fears right now. The planes are so big, so heavy, how can they possibly fly in the sky? She stupidly recalls an old plane disaster film she once saw. She imagines breathing masks falling from the ceiling and panicking flight attendants. But would it be like that now? There might not be flight attendants, and how do the oxygen masks fit over the masks they already wear? She counts the runway lights in an effort to block out the thoughts.
Someone appears at their door. A flight attendant, just like the old days, slim and pretty with a smart suit and hat. The only difference is the matching face shield she now must wear. She does a final temperature check and provides another squirt of gel for their hands before leading the women to the plane’s gate. Janice’s right leg is shaking uncontrollably. Rosalie notices and frowns. Janice gives it a subtle little punch and marches on. Passports are inspected one final time and then Rosalie takes a step over the threshold ready for her new life. Janice hits a wall. Her leg won’t move. Rosalie goes to grab her hand but then remembers that they must not touch.
“Miss?” the attendant enquires.
Janice doesn’t respond. Her breathing begins to labour but she tries to hide it. She stares at the tunnel leading to the plane. She stares at Rosalie. Images of hospital beds, gravestones and plane disasters tumble and crash.
“Mum!” Rosalie urges.
Tears pool in Janice’s eyes. Tears spring from Rosalie’s.
“Mum!” she shouts, trying to snap Janice back to reality.
Deep breathing isn’t possible. Her breathing in fact is becoming shallow and her head feels light. She pictures her home, back in the city, dark rain sloshing in the doorway. She needs to be there, where everything is familiar and normal. A lump of pain rises in her throat.
“Rosalie,” she croaks, “I’m sorry.”
“No!” Rosalie screams, tears now streaming down her cheeks.
The attendant looks worried and confused, she doesn’t know how to react. Her concern about Janice’s actions is evident and she is reaching for the internal phone.
“I can’t. I can’t go with you.” Janice’s voice is mildly calmer now that she allows the words to leave her lips.
Rosalie presses her fingers to her eyes.
“Please mum,” she says, straining to keep her voice controlled, “we need to be together. You, me and dad. There is no life here.”
Janice takes a deep, shaky sigh.
“I love you, Rosalie. Be happy. Give your father a hug for me.”
She blows a goodbye kiss to Rosalie, turns around and walks away to the sound of Rosalie’s shrieking cries.
 

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

“Nothing to worry about.”
Her four-year old sobs, his fear real but the threat is not. His mother valiantly removes the cricket that clings to his favourite Thomas t-shirt and order is restored. She picks him up and carries him inside to play with his sister who is constructing the next Guggenheim with her Lego. He is happy again.

Coiling herself into the green leather armchair, she pulls the lever that extends the footrest. Her legs feel like lead and she relishes the sinking of her body as gravity pulls her into the worn cushioning of the chair. She has so much to do, but she just needs this moment of rest while her two children play so sweetly.

The bright sun shines from the skylight above her, warming the skin of her exposed arms. She yanks out the sensible hairdo that is scratching at the back of her neck and lies back.

She smiles lazily. Look at them, sitting side by side, digging through the Lego mountain in search of the perfect piece. She should take a photo- one for the album. But her phone is on the bench, and this sit-down is just too precious.

The weight that began in her legs has now spread to her eyelids. This is the perfect time for her to-do list, with the kids so content. Just a minute or two, she promises and allows her eyes to close. She meditates on the twinkling sounds of hands swimming through Lego, soft humming and intermittent chatter.

Time ticks on and she knows she should get up. Her children’s voices morph into dreams of holidays and fantasies, until their voices disappear altogether.

Her dreams take a new shape. Shadows prickle her skin, and her mind wanders to more ominous thoughts. There’s a click of a door, and footsteps. The children. Did she lock the front door? Because sleep wasn’t in her plan. She needs to pry open her eyelids. But then maybe this is all a dream?

She lucidly meanders through deep restfulness and cautious warnings. To wake or not to wake, that is the question.

A cry echoes from a distance. She shudders.  

“Mummy! Mummy!”

Like wading through a pool of tar, she drags herself out of her slumber. She sits up, her eyelids still glued shut, and as she pries them open, panic sets in. Lego is sprawled all around but no children.

Her hair swirls wildly around her face. She falls out of the extended recliner, hitting her shin on the leaver as she scrambles and shouts for her children. She runs to the front door but then hears noises from behind and changes direction.

“Where are you?!”

The bathroom! She skids on her polished floorboards and turns into the bathroom. Her daughter is lifting her four-year old to the sink as he rubs his hands under the streaming tap. The remanent sound of a flushed toilet ends its cycle.
​
“I did a wee-wee,” the boy says. “Nothing to worry about.”

Photo by Michael G on Unsplash

​Fifty dollars stuck to the whiteboard.
She frowns at my frown as if I have no right to be mad. I hate her right now.
“Do we have a problem?”
“No Miss Brushtin.”
Heat rises up my neck. The sounds from my classmates are ricocheting around me. She has no idea what she’s done.
“Perhaps we better step into another room?” she points to the small space between our classroom and the next.
The talk. I don’t want it. I know her mind is made up, and the moment she sends that email to my dad I am dead meat. I crouch in the corner of the triangular room, burying myself in pillows.
“I’d appreciate you look at me when we talk.”
Why would I want to look at her?
She waits, her arms crossed. I know I’ll win the silent game; she can’t leave the class for long. Already I can hear Danny shouting across the room and I see Miss Brushtin’s mouth twitch in irritation.
“If you don’t tell me what’s going on then I’m going to have to form my own conclusions.”
“You don’t get it,”
“I can’t hear you when you speak into the pillow.”
“He’s going to ground me!” I shout.
“Well,” she says carefully, “if you’ve done something wrong then perhaps that’s a fair consequence.”
I gasp and start choking on my phlegm and tears. Okay, maybe I’m hamming it up a little but I’ll do anything to get that fifty back. It’s literally life or death but she wouldn’t understand. She holds out tissues and tells me to take some deep breaths. Screw her breathing! This is an emergency. I snatch the tissue box and start belting it across my forehead.
“Stop it, stop it!”
She wrenches it from me and I sink my head into my hands.
I don’t know if it’s the sobbing or head whacking that does it, but she finally agrees to let me be the one to tell my dad. She’ll be checking tomorrow to see that I did. I’ll have to think of something good. He said that if Bitsy got out one more time it was over. And I can trust him not to lie.
After school I grab the fifty and pedal as fast as my legs will allow. I need to get to the pound before close. I need to get Bitsy home before my dad arrives.
A gruff guy with mutton chops takes me out the back. The money shakes in my hand but he’s not ready to take it. There is yelping and barking all around. I peer urgently into each cage. It’s the last in the row and my beating heart feels like it could burst. There he is, my four-legged friend, throwing himself at the cage door.
“Bitsy!” I shout.
He licks my fingers in gratitude as I clutch the bars in one hand and thrust the fifty-dollar note at the ranger.

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

Trembling hands peel back the foil encasing a special brownie. She will need to face them soon, but first, something to calm her nerves. She breaks a piece of the pungent cake and puts it to her lips. It’s chalky and dry but that really doesn’t matter. She waits for it to take effect.

The door opens and she shudders at the trash talk that immediately fills the classroom. Please be away, please be away. The mantra bounces around her head and she chases it down, shoving it to the back of her mind. She eats a little more brownie and then wraps it up. Her eyes fall on the larger foil package that she has also brought today. Just in case.

She spies Phillip across the room. He locks eyes, his expression mocking.

‘Miss me, Miss?’

He’d received a three day suspension for shoving her out of his way. The second temper tantrum in a month. The week before, he’d snapped his pencil and thrown it at her. He lounges in the back row with Sally on his lap. Highly inappropriate but she won’t ask him to move. Not again. Instead she calls on Sally.

‘Find your own chair please Sally,’

Sally rolls her eyes and slinks off his knee, not before kissing him square on the mouth to the hoots of the students around them. The teacher takes a moment to visualise the calming tonic flowing through her veins. She will get through this lesson.

‘Take out your answers to last week’s quiz please.’

She set this as homework and braces herself for the complaints and excuses that always ensue. A fork hurtles from the back row and hits a boy on his ear.

“Phillip!” Her voice is shrill. The brownie can’t protect her from everything. “This is your one and only warning!”

“Chill Miss.” He responds.

“Calm down,” Sally jeers.

Before she knows what is happening, the fork flies back and hits Sally in the forehead. All bets are off and Phillip lunges over his desk, slamming the perpetrator’s head into the table.

The teacher’s blood pressure spikes instantly. “Call the office!” and she’s running to intervene. But what can she do? She’s half Phillip’s size.

Thankfully the principal and police are on standby for this class. Five head slams later and reinforcements have arrived to separate the boys. The principal has Phillip restrained and there is blood seeping from the other boy’s face.

The teacher’s hands tremble once more as she picks up Phillip’s backpack. She extends it to the principal as the sounds of sirens grow louder.

“I think you should take a look at this.” She produces a weighty foil package from his bag.
​
A flash of confusion on Phillip’s face is noticed only by her. The package is unwrapped and thumb-sized green buds spill from the foil as a police officer enters the classroom.
 

Alice stares through her unwashed windows pressing her warm mug lightly against her cheek. The rain is pounding to get in and she winces at the cracked window that has been taped with Gaffer and black card. A derisive laugh escapes her. Eleven months. She could get that fixed.

Howling wind is pushing the trees. The thunder rolls and the skinny trunks of the river gums thunk together. Her cat Pixie purrs on her lap like a tractor, unaffected by the storm. 

She watches the boughs dance and sway. Eleven months, the same memory on replay but she is sure the words change each time she recalls them.

An ominous crack. Alice stands to look further out into the forest. Which tree? Which limb? Pixie is not impressed at the disturbance and scuttles off to find a better resting place.

“I couldn’t wait to leave this place.”

Alice knew it wasn’t the happiest home but how can a mother know whether to stay or leave when there are children involved. A loud bang on the roof that makes Alice start. A heavy branch tumbles from the gutter and falls past the window.

She exhales. There is nothing she could do then and there is nothing she can do now.

“You were absent and I had no one to tell. You left me to fend for myself.”

Alice searches for the truth in this. She wasn’t absent. Yes, she had a career that she passionately pursued, but she was there, ready to listen.

The huge messmate closest to her house groans. Surely that tree is no risk with its wide girth and U shaped branches. But water is pooling around the base and the angle isn’t how Alice remembered it.

Eleven months. Alice hasn’t seen her since. Eleven months and Alice has been alone in this house.

“Too late,” she said. “You left him too late.”

But when is the right time, Alice wonders. And now there is no one. What was the point?

That tree is definitely swaying. Are they the roots Alice can see? The thunder is more potent and flashes of white light illuminate the sky with increasing regularity. Alice’s eyes are fixed on that tree now. The rain continues to pound horizontally against her thin windows.

“I won’t make the same mistakes you did.”

Still a knife to Alice’s heart as she remembers tyres ripping up her gravel driveway, rocks flying at her window. Eleven months. How much longer will she be punished?

Her mug needs a refill but she can’t take her eyes off that tree. Her own hands claw at her chest as she sees cracks in the trunk which is now leaning. A monster’s tentacles breaking through the earth and there, right before her eyes, that strong, reliable giant comes crashing to the earth with a deafening bellow.
​
Then everything is muted and Alice wonders why she never noticed the cracks before.
 

Rocks crunch underneath as Samuel and Isabelle thunder down the wet gravel road of Washington Court. And despite the inevitable, Samuel still clings to the hope of a lazy Sunday morning at his local café.

 “Bunny, all I’m saying is that we’re tired. Can’t we give this house a miss?”

“I am tired…” her voice squeaks, “but this could be The One.” Isabelle is relentless in her quest.

They pull into number fifteen and see two cars leave. Isabelle grips Samuel’s hand, her manicured nails latching on like a cat.

“It’s popular! I knew this was the one.”

He extracts his hand and turns off the ignition. “Stay calm and remember our list.” From her dreamy look he knows that his words have sailed right over her.

Ignoring the rain, she strides inside. Samuel hurries behind, removing his shoes first.

“Welcome,” a suited woman extends her hand and Isabelle sniffs in disdain. “I’m Diana. Can I get you to fill in some details?”

“My fiancé will do that,” Isabelle waves her hand dismissively. Diana passes the pen and Samuel smiles, meeting her gaze. The blue of Diana’s eyes bore through him and Samuel’s cheeks heat as her return smile gently dissolves his integrity.

Doors and cupboards bang open and close. Isabelle is calling. Covert glances to Samuel suggest Diana understands, and she gestures for him to follow.

They reach the kitchen.

“I want to see if gran’s buffet will fit on that wall. Measure it Sammy.”

He extracts his tape measure and obliges. Diana describes the features of the house and her soft husky voice is a stark contrast to Isabelle’s cockatoo pitch.

Samuel throws questioning wide eyes at Isabelle when the price is revealed. Like a full balloon, their inflating budget is near bursting. Her lips purse in response. He keeps quiet.

Isabelle’s gasps of joy increase with every room they view while Samuel, trailing strategically behind, enjoys the view of Diana’s swinging hips.

“Sammy,” Isabelle’s eyebrows thread together and her mouth forms an O. “For da baby.” Her voice has taken on a childish impediment as she stands in the centre of a pale yellow room.

“Perfect.” Diana agrees.

“We’re not expecting,” Samuel clarifies. “Just planning.”

Isabelle pouts.

They’ve explored the inside but it is too wet to look in the yard.

“It’s filthy outside.” Isabelle scowls as she watches the rain.

Diana raises an eyebrow and Samuel looks for a solution. His eyes land on the umbrella hanging from the coat hooks. A little cheeky; it belongs to the house, but valiantly Samuel takes it and opens it up. Isabelle looks at Diana with a smug smile as he escorts her through the deluge.

Samuel returns and Diana stands back allowing him to step in close to her. After shaking off the water, he slowly replaces the umbrella. As he begins to thank her she reaches for his hand. Her fingers linger on his before she hands him her card.
​
“Call me.” Her blue eyes twinkle.
 
Photo by Tierra Mallorca on Unsplash

The dank and musty air tickles Sally’s nostrils as she is marched like a prisoner down the basement stairs. The bright light reveals an unremarkable room with dusty boxes, a card table and some chairs scattered around. If Sally had known Hannah was coming, she’d never have accepted Karlee’s invitation. Karlee’s loyalty to Hannah is a blemish on her typically kind personality.

Sally tries to supress the impending sneeze, but tickling the roof of her mouth doesn’t work this time. Her triple ‘Ah-choo!’ has the other girls sniggering and Sally’s cheeks flush.

Hannah sets down a board with the inscribed letters A to Z. Next to it, she adds a packet of Tim Tams.

“Fire for warmth, food for sustenance and water for life,” She directs and clicks her fingers at Sally, while Karlee lights three candles. Fumbling, Sally produces the bottled water she’d been instructed to carry. The three girls take their seats.

The little flames dance and Hannah hits the lights. Shadows flicker around the empty walls. Sally doesn’t want to be there but doesn’t want to leave.

“I’ll just watch.” Her voice is a squeak.

“You can’t. We need three.” Hannah aims her familiar smirk at Sally.

Karlee shrugs sympathetically and takes a biscuit. Hannah slaps her hand.

“They’re for the spirits, stupid.”

She orders the girls to place a hand on the glass. Karlee goes first and Sally reluctantly follows. Hannah’s hand clamps down on the top.

“Our beloved spirits beyond this earth, we summon you here today.”

Sally doesn’t want them to feel her racing pulse but she can’t stop the tremble in her hand. The glass begins to move, gently scraping as it slides over the board. Sally thinks her heart might stop altogether.

“Are you moving that?” Hannah hisses, looking pointedly at Sally.

“No, of course not!”

The glass continues, spelling out a word and the three girls whisper the letters.

“H. E. L. L. O. Hello.”

“Who are you?” Hannah asks.

Again, their hands are pulled from letter to letter.

“Mr. Cruel.”

Sally tries to withdraw, but Hannah’s claws dig in, preventing Sally from leaving the circle.
Karlee looks intensely at the glass, chiming in with Hannah as they ask their gruesome questions. Sally has some questions of her own but doesn’t trust her voice.

“Who is your next victim?” Hannah asks.

The next three letters reveal S. A. L.

From nowhere, a flurry of wind blows out one of the candles. Sally gasps and in that instant a cockroach springs onto Hannah’s face, landing above her eyebrow. The girls scream, all three hands come off the glass; Karlee is close to sobbing now. Hannah continues to squeal, not moving to action.  Surprised, Sally grabs the glass, brushes the insect from Hannah’s forehead and traps it in the vessel.

 “Just a roach,” she says.

Flicking on the lights, she reveals the unremarkable room.

Photo by Malik Shibly on Unsplash

He’s pouring a drink. He’s just learned he’ll be a father. The plane only touched down two hours ago. I wonder if this was the right time to tell him.
 
For a while the secret was just mine and hers. Even when her stomach lurched each morning, while I bounced around inside her, she was happy. And he was oblivious.
 
He’s the silent broody type, my dad. Finally he speaks.
 
“This wasn’t our plan. How?”
 
Later at dinner, they keep up appearances. The other couple unaware as they share the seafood platter and toast their combined 40ths. She puts her hand on his thigh and he pushes it off, annoyed. Their friends head to the bar for another round. My mother tries again.
 
“It’s my last chance, please be happy.”
 
“You never mentioned it before.” He says gruffly but allows her hand to stay this time. “We agreed no children.”
 
The tension is thick and the couple wave from the bar, concern on their faces as they observe the strained conversation.
 
“I don’t think I can be a part of this.”
 
Shock. I never imagined he’d opt out. She’s shocked too. She knew he would be upset at the secrecy but was sure she’d talk him around.
 
When the couple return, the charade continues. It’s awkward and I can feel my mother’s stomach churn. She barely touches her food and neither does he. Their friends have noticed.
 
Over the next few days, there are arguments and fights. Their holiday companions have left for the island early. They can’t bear the silences any longer. And this holiday is nothing like it was meant to be. We, my mother and I, were hoping that it would be a joyous occasion. Sure, there would be the initial shock but we were never prepared for this.
 
He says he’s going to leave.
 
My mother sobs and begs.
 
It’s not until the fourth day when there is a shift in his attitude. I’m not sure if it is the sight of a Vietnamese family clinging to each other atop a motorcycle. Or perhaps it’s in the gallery amongst the paintings and photos of young children at war.
That night he concedes. He will stay. Relief is visible not only in my mother’s face but also his. I can feel it too, coursing through my physical being. Everything will be alright. We will be a family.
 
They take the next plane to the island. After an emotional night filled with promises and forgiveness, they can’t wait to tell their friends. They hold hands as the plane takes off, smiling at each other with their revised life plan. The pilot too, sits back relaxed, as if he knows the news he is carrying.
 
And then a jolt. A bird is sucked into the plane’s engine; its life over in a flash. My parent’s hands now grip in terror.
 
The plane tumbles from the sky. Our family over in a flash.

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

 
“What were you going to say?”

Those unsaid words haunt me. I want to throw my damned phone into the swelling ocean! Now my heart beats loud and strong. Thump, thump, thump - like a drum announcing me and my narcissism. But on that day, it was silent and still while yours quietly wept.

“Nothing.” You replied as you looked down at your lap.

We sat, surrounded by mundane small talk and the pervading lilt of Dido playing through obnoxious speakers. I was hot. Were you hot? I think your cheeks were pink, a little flushed. But you didn’t take off your green jacket. I love that jacket.

And you went to talk. We’d been coy and quiet while the waiter created a buffer with her questions and intrusions. You choose a sticky scroll and I envied you as you bit into the soft and doughy bun. But I was too proud to join you.

Another interruption when your cappuccino arrived with its heart shaped cocoa design. That waitress annoyed me. Yesterday. Now I wish… well I wish it were me delivering your coffee with a smile.

My cruel words cut your golden glow. I saw it dissipate like a storm cloud blocking the sun as I told you about my ‘someone else’. And you were going to say something. I saw my reflection in your welling eyes, your lips parted, your fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Then my god-forsaken phone rang. And it was her ring tone. I know my mouth turned up before I could stop myself. And you caught it. I saw how it pierced you, like an arrow hitting its target straight through the heart.

Her words were as thick as honey while your razor sharp stare bored into me. I averted my gaze. I didn’t want to face your accusation while I allowed the delicate perfume of her seduction to envelop me and take me away from you.

I didn’t hear the words you wanted me to know, instead a wistful, gentle sigh is all I remember. I didn’t know, as I watched you leave, your unsteady steps through the door I can no longer bear to be near, that it would be the last time I watched you go.

I want to throw this wretched phone into the icy sea! But your voice is locked into the small box and I know I never will part with it. It will be my cross. The message I keep are not the words that I missed. Those words were stolen.
​
And how was I to know, when you touched my fingertips and I withdrew my hand so thoughtlessly, that it would be the last time your skin would connect with mine?
Now my hopeless tears join the fierce waves that you loved. Too late.
 
Photo by Gayatri Malhotra on Unsplash

“Thank you boys.”

The teacher’s voice trembles. Robbo organised the gift. He’s got an awesome poker face. Kit, on the other hand, is struggling to keep it together.

“You have to open it now miss.”

Jason barely conceals his laugh. She doesn’t have the guts to say no. Kit imagines her clammy palms and feels a rush through his body. He grins at his mates. Everyone else is craning their necks to see but she is purposefully sitting down at her desk now, so they won’t be able to. Still, the boys gather around to catch her expression.

“I hope it’s something nice.”

She’s trying to get in on the joke, act like she doesn’t care.

“You’ll love it!”

That’s Robbo again. He hates her.

She slowly pulls off the ribbon and tears open the paper. There is a plain box inside and Kit can’t stop the squawk that bursts out of him. Nervously, she opens the box. Her face turns white. The boys start laughing and other kids rush over to get a look. She slams the box closed before they can. Kit and Jason slap Robbo on the back in congratulations, the rose was a nice touch. She still hasn’t spoken. She’s staring at the box. Match point to them. Kit is pumped. Tonight they will celebrate.

Finally, she stands. She goes to leave but then takes the box at the last minute. Damn, they wanted to show everyone. She walks out of the room without a word. Minutes later the coordinator is at the door. The box is under his arm. No surprise there, but the fun is definitely over. It was worth it though. They follow him out. As they pass the staff bathroom, Kit hears someone heaving from inside. She deserves it, the tight arse bitch.

They’re suspended for the last week of the year. Who gives a shit! Kit walks home with his phone in his hand, victorious. The lads have a lot to say. They’ll head into town later.
As he approaches his house he can hear the yelling. The bin on the curb is overflowing with beer cans and his dad’s roaring streams out of the window. Why don’t they close the windows? His mum is cowering inside the lounge room while his dad spits abuse.

“Worthless slut!”

She screams something back, trying to sound tough, like she doesn’t care, but Kit can hear the tremor in her voice. He tries to talk his father down, but he already knows that sticking up for his mum is a mistake. He cops a shove which sends him tumbling on top of her. She cries out in pain or anger, Kit can’t tell. He apologises and tries to pull her up. She won’t let him. She doesn’t want to get up.  She doesn’t want to do anything. She’ll just let the insults punch into her, again and again. Like she always does.

Photo by Rich Smith on Unsplash