by Tabitha Bird
‘Hello,’ a shy voice says, peeking around the tree.
I’m shy too.
Middle Willa waves me through the ocean-garden and into her backyard. ‘No mummies or daddies, just us Willas and some drawing. What do you say?’
‘Daddy won’t be mad?’
She stands tall. ‘Grammy told me that Daddy doesn’t own creativity. He’s not the boss of art. Besides, you are in my backyard now and there are no daddies here.’
There’s a breeze now, and I notice little bits of sun here and there.
Middle Willa drags a rug and pillows under the mango tree, and I watch her unfold the picnic blanket and take some jam drops out of a container. It’s afternoon, but not so late that bugs are singing.
Summer is coming. So is my birthday. The sun is slower to creep behind Mount French now.
A pillow lands at my feet. Middle Willa has tossed it to me. ‘So, you’re a picture-book-maker?’ she asks.
I take a jam drop. ‘Kinda. I make the pictures for Lottie so she won’t be scared. Only, she doesn’t want to hear so many of them these days.’
‘Want to show me how you make up stories?’
Boy, do I ever. I shove the jam drop in my mouth and munch it quickly.
Wrapped in the rug are pencils that slide out of a wooden box, pastels and watercolour paper. Middle Willa holds the dimpled sheets in her hand. Fabulous, amaze-a-loo paper. Quietly, I sit beside her and decide not to get out my broken crayons. Mango leaves make shadows on my bare legs. I try not to talk, but I have one of those questions inside again. A juicy, bursting one.
After a few moments I say, ‘Can I use your pencils and paper, too? I don’t think I draw like Daddy. I don’t want to hurt the paper or screw it up into balls or anything.’
I cringe, ’cause what if Middle Willa growls at me or says I’m just a little girl, and what would I know?
‘Of course you can. And you’re right, your drawing is nothing like Daddy’s.’ She tears off a piece of paper and places it on my lap.
I don’t pick up a pencil. ‘Daddy said my drawing shouldn’t have green-haired people and doesn’t have much aspective.’
Middle Willa sighs. ‘The word is “perspective”. And if anyone is lacking perspective, it isn’t you. You can draw people with rainbow hair if you like, honey. Nobody here will say it’s silly.’
Middle Willa draws clever lines that curve around all the space on the page until flowers appear on the paper. She tells me the name of the plant she’s sketching, the one in the ocean-garden: kangaroo paw. The flowers are shaped like claws, a bit like a kangaroo paw, if you squint and turn your head sideways maybe.
‘Wow. You’re amaze-a-loo.’ Staring at my own empty page, I ask, ‘But how do you draw like that?’
‘Well, I’ve been playing with this drawing thing lately. You get quiet and look at what you want to draw. Then you notice small things. Don’t try to see the whole picture. See the little shapes inside the bigger ones, the lines that link shapes, and the picture will take care of itself. Life’s often about noticing the beauty of little things. You know who told me that?’
All I’m thinking is that Middle Willa’s long black hair is pretty. Maybe I’ll grow mine again.
‘Grammy. Want to know what her word of the day was when I told her I was drawing today?’
I nod.
‘Voluminous. Means huge. I’m so happy you’re here with me, you know?’ Middle Willa stops talking then and goes back to her paper, but she hums as she draws.
The mango tree stretches its branches out, like someone yawning. Seagulls in the branches hold pencils in their beaks and make squiggles in the air. Colourful lines loop like ribbons where they draw.
Shapes? I think about Middle Willa’s hands, the way they made a big circle when she hugged me. About her eyes and mouth, the shape of her lips turned upwards. And I draw Middle Willa with giant blue wings. Suddenly, my garden is full of little wings linked together.
The garden hums with flittering wings, and Middle Willa laughs.
For a long time, we say nothing. We are noticing the beauty of little things.
‘Did you see the pods on the kangaroo paw flowers are furry, too?’
‘You mean buds?’ I ask.
‘No, they’re pod-shaped and furry like a paw. See the tiny hairs on each pod?’ Middle Willa points.
‘Are they your favourite flowers?’
‘No, I like clover. I used to like roses, only they were very fussy. They want raised garden beds, well-drained soils and plenty of food.’
‘They can’t eat. You’re making that up.’
Middle Willa laughs. ‘Am I? Tell me, how do you make up stories again?’
My mouth flaps like I’m catching a fly. ‘You forgot?’
‘Yeah,’ Middle Willa says. ‘I forgot so many things.’
‘Well, you see something normal and then you imagine up stuff. Like, in my garden there are lots of kangaroo paws, only they have kangaroo faces and pouches with joeys inside. But what if the flowers were scared? What if the roses were meanies and they had a pouty face and grumped and growled and poked their thorns at each other? And you pretend they have swords in their leafy hands.’
‘That’s good!’ Middle Willa claps. ‘You are, how do you say it, amazing-loo at this?’
‘Amaze-a-loo!’
She continues my story. ‘And what if the kangaroo flowers are sick of the roses being such bullies and poking them with thorns and swords, and then one day they stand up for themselves …’ She looks off into space.
‘Can we be picture-book-makers forever?’ I ask. ‘I never want to go inside.’
‘You really want to do that when you get big, huh?’
‘Uh-huh! Please don’t forget again. Pinkie promise?’
Middle Willa links fingers with me, and I see something wet on her cheek. She smells so good, like apples and strawberry jam. I want to tell her that I’m so sorry I hurt Lottie and I hope she can fix it all. But I don’t know if she’d get mad.
After a while she says, ‘I’d better go home. Dinner to make and boys to feed.’
‘That’s so sad. The kangaroo paws in my story have stopped jumping now and the joeys have crawled back into their pouches. Even the roses have dropped their swords.’
Middle Willa ruffles my short hair. ‘Do this again?’
I can’t say my words ’cause they’re all soft and achy, and ’cause I think I might like me when I get bigger. She slots coloured pencils into the wooden box. They stand together like a well-behaved rainbow. It’s so sad when she closes the lid on them.
Heaving the picnic blanket under one arm and the pillows under the other, she waves bye as I run back through the ocean-garden and into my own backyard. The ocean breeze blows the sand dry and the garden closes. I pick a bunch of shells for Mummy. Tonight I’m going to take her through the garden. Middle Willa will know what to tell her, ’cause she’s a mummy too.
Frog Dog licks my face when I come back inside. ‘Sorry, Froggie. You were asleep. Thought you looked so happy on your little cushion.’ It’s dark inside so I turn the lamp on in the living room.
Mummy rushes by, grabs some rolled-up money from down the back of the couch. Amaze-a-loo, I didn’t know we had money hiding there. I follow her into the dining room. ‘Mummy, shells for you!’ I open my hand.
She waves me away and runs through the kitchen and down the hallway, her handbag over her shoulder. Is it a running night? A hiding night? Mummy pushes past.
She’s gone, back down the hallway. I run and get the bags under my bed, still there from ages ago when we packed them.
‘Lottie? Come! We are really going this time!’ But she’s not under her bed.
Mummy’s in her bedroom and now I hear him in there, too.
More roaring and banging about. And then Lottie’s voice. Dropping the shells in the hallway, I pull at bits of my short hair. If only haircuts could make me as big as Daddy, if only gumboots could make my footsteps loud
.
Frog Dog is crouched behind me as Mummy rushes past again, holding Lottie by the hand.
‘I know where to go.’ I pull her arm when I catch up. ‘Come on. There’s a special way through my garden.’
‘Quiet!’ Mummy turns the lights out in the hallway.
‘You better not have those girls, Ebony! If you leave, they stay with me. Hear that? Get back here, woman. Leave me and you will never see those girls again.’
Lottie makes muffled sounds, like she has her hand over her mouth, but I can’t quite see.
Daddy’s footsteps. Mummy lets go of Lottie and races to the front door, but he blocks her path.
‘Mummy, wrong way! We have to go to the mango tree.’ Lottie and I are in the living room already, waiting to race out the back door.
She tries to run back, but Daddy grabs her. I flatten myself to the wall, close my eyes. Frog is barking. I can’t even tell her to be quiet.
There’s a crash and when I open my eyes Daddy is crouched down in the middle of the dining room holding his head and the lamp is broken. Mummy grabs my arm and pushes Lottie outside. ‘All right, Willa. Where’s this secret way through the back garden?’
She clip-clops across the deck. I race into the kitchen to fill my jam jar with water, then sprint outside. ‘This way!’
Frog is in front of me, yapping, growling, roaring.
We get to the garden and I slosh the water all around. The garden glows blue and as Lottie and I rush past the rocks around it there’s the fog that always comes, and then we are in another backyard. But when we look behind us Mummy isn’t there. I go back.
‘This way!’ I yell.
She trips on the mango tree’s roots, but when she stumbles past the edge of the ocean-garden she’s still in our backyard, while Lottie and I have crossed into one of the Willas’.
‘Girls? Where are you?’
I don’t understand. Mummy can’t follow us. Then I remember what Middle Willa said. Only the Willas and children can see each other. Maybe only kids and Frog Dog can go through the ocean-garden to the other Willas’ backyards. I carried mangos through the garden, though, and crayons. What if I hold Mummy’s hand? I pull her arm. But it doesn’t work for adults who aren’t Willa. Mummy can’t escape.
Lottie races back to her.
Daddy is standing by the mango tree now, and he grabs fistfuls of Mummy’s hair and drags her back inside.
‘No!’ I stumble after them, Frog barking.
As I step through the back door, Daddy throws Mummy to the ground and grabs my shirt. ‘Trying to help Mummy escape, were you?’ His breath in my face.
‘Let go! Let. Go. Letgoletgoletgo!’
Frog bites. She holds on even as he kicks. She bites and bites and bites. Lottie stands frozen on the back deck. Daddy pushes me further into the house, into the dining room, Frog still biting his leg.
And that’s when it happens. When the world ends.
A bash. A yelp.
Then nothing.
I’m outside, screaming. Frog is in my arms and she won’t wake up.
A thud in my ears, my arms, my body. I’m not real anymore. I’m a thudding sound. Beating with the loud world.
Mummy bangs into me, her car keys poking my arm.
‘Go inside,’ she spits. ‘You heard what your father said. If I leave, you girls stay.’
There’s this little girl, standing on the back deck with broken Frog Dog in her arms. She follows Mummy to the front of the house. She’s watching a car drive away. She’s yelling at the car. ‘Stay, stay!’ She puts Frog Dog down. Her fists are full of rocks and leaves and she’s throwing them at Mummy driving off. Is Mummy gone forever or for tonight or for a little while? The girl doesn’t know the answers so she throws rocks so hard she bites her tongue.
Lottie screams somewhere inside the house. I run up the front steps to the door.
It’s locked?
He’s got Lottie.
I bang the door, bang my fists. Bang my head.
I throw a jar full of water at the mango tree.
Middle Willa opens the back door and turns on all the lights. ‘My goodness, it’s you. What hap–’
She doesn’t finish her word. Frog is in my arms, her leg bent the wrong way. My leg bent the wrong way. Blood on her fur. Blood on my fur, too. Blood out her ears. Out her nose. Me too. Me too.
Chapter Thirty-nine
1990
Willa Waters, aged 33
Super Gumboots Willa squeezes my hand. We stand outside in the dark under the mango tree, in front of us a small hole dug by torchlight. I hold Frog Dog’s little body close, as if life might somehow seep from me into her. I put my head close to hers and for the last time my tears make splotchy marks where my face rests against her fur. I crouch down, her body in my arms. Super Gumboots Willa shines the torch in Frog’s face and kisses the top of her head. Those buggy eyes will never open again. She’ll never eat cheese and crackers, never be tucked inside my shirt while I climb the mango tree.
I look at the little girl I was: eight years old and alone. ‘Mummy does come back the next day,’ I say.
But Super Gumboots Willa doesn’t move. She’s too young for mummies that leave and come back later. Too young to lose her best friend. Too young for all the things she faces with no one by her side. What can I do for her? She needs a Frog Dog. She needs me.
Slowly, so slowly, I lower Frog Dog into the grave. We sprinkle dirt over her broken body.
Super Gumboots Willa melts right into my arms.
‘Want to say any words for Frog?’ I ask.
But she stands with silent tears drowning her face.
I look down at Frog. How can I say thank you for never leaving my side, for biting my father’s leg that night and trying to save me? I pause, searching for my finest words. Good enough ones will have to do. ‘We are gathered here this evening under the mango tree to bury our best friend, Frog Dog.’ Breathe, just breathe. ‘She came into our world and loved us with every drop of her tiny self. When she barked we know she roared. And when she was beside us we had swords.’
Super Gumboots Willa adds, ‘Cardboard swords. Best kind.’
I nod and we fill a jam jar with water from the garden tap. As Super Gumboots Willa holds the torch, I shovel the dirt on Frog’s grave and together we drizzle the water. ‘Today, as we lay her body to rest, I want to say two things. Frog, we won’t ever forget you or your funny bullfrog snoring. And I promise you, Frog, Super Gumboots Willa is not going to be alone. I will stand up to her dad.’
‘You will?’ She throws her arms around me. A salty breeze stirs.
‘I will. I’m taking that man to counselling and I am going to confront him.’
She shines the torch in my face and I move her hand so the light isn’t in my eyes. ‘Does that mean you’re gonna get him with a sword and make him say sorry and stop being mean? Can I come too? I want to see you do it. Besides, I’m big and brave because I am a boy now.’
I stroke her hair. ‘Tell me about that. Why are you a boy?’
‘Because they’re much better than emotional females,’ she says quietly.
I stand up, thinking about those words. My father’s words to me, to my sister and to my mother. Many times over. Females to be controlled, to be used.
I look down at the little girl I was. I know her eyes are full of so many things, questions that stick together and threaten to burst. Fears. I remember the darkness. She is learning that the value of being a female is less than nothing. It’s about time I challenged that. ‘Hmmm,’ I say. ‘I guess that’s fair enough. Boys do make better mudpies.’
‘Girls can make them, too.’ She peers up at me.
‘But not like boys; they throw worms into the mix. Girls are afraid of worms.’
‘I am not!’ She stamps her foot.
‘And after they’ve made worm pies, boys like to squish mangos in their fists and make ice cream for their mums.’
‘Hey, I did that!’ She sniffs.
‘And everyone knows how high boys can climb and that boys make up the best stories ever.’ I smile gently, hoping she’ll see what I mean. ‘Boys try to protect their sisters and help their mums and save them from their dads.’
‘That’s me – I do that!’
‘I see. Well, perhaps you’re right. You really are a boy now.’
‘Why are you being horrible? I am not. I am me.’ She pokes her torch at me.
I shine the light in her face now. ‘And you are a girl?’
She stomps her little foot again.
‘A girl who is standing here with me, burying her best friend, and has grown up brave enough to confront her dad?’
She nods and crosses her arms, but a shy smile has worked its way to her face and she wears it beautifully. ‘Oh, I’m a girl!’
‘Yes, you are. An amaze-a-loo girl. And we are going to learn exactly how fabulous that is. I am going to take my very girly, tree-climbing, worm-pie-making, storytelling brave self and confront our dad.’
Chapter Forty
2050
Willa Waters, aged 93
The puppy arrived late this afternoon, after my dinner. Eden’s gone to bed and I am asleep, only I am not. I think a lady my age should be able to live each day as long as she wants. Eden’s keys for the back door are in her handbag in the living room. She has rules about my walker and me going anywhere without her, especially since I won’t let her get a fingerprint locking system or whatever the newfangled thing is called. Anyway, who died and made her the Old-People Police?
Very carefully, I line a basket with blankets and place the pocket-sized dog inside. ‘Hush, now,’ I tell the pup. Then I fill my old jam jar with water, put the basket on the seat of my walker, get the keys and turn on all the outside lights. My house still has switches you flick. The day I can’t flick a switch will be a sad one indeed.
I slipper-shuffle down the back ramp. My fingers tingle as I water the garden around the mango tree and the ocean’s cloud-waves lick my legs.
When the fog clears as I hobble past the rocky garden edge, through a little path that’s been cleared so I don’t stumble, I can see torchlight. Middle Willa stands under the mango tree, her arm around the little girl wearing gumboots. They come closer and I see their eyes full of water that keeps coming and coming as they shine a light on a mound of dirt.