Whiteland

by Rosie Cranie-Higgs

  Kira drapes her coat over Romy’s mottled shoulders. ‘She needs it more than I do.’ She brushes the falling snow from her skin. Shivers skitter through her, a hollow ache settling into her teeth. She replaces her arm around Romy’s bony waist. ‘I’m Kira. This is Romy. We’ve been staying at Les Sapins.’

  Bracing her limbs, she picks up her pace. Her sister isn’t heavy, but she’s taller and supporting none of her weight. Coffee, woodsmoke, hotel fires. Kira pictures anything, everything, whatever. Mathew, merrily whistling Christmas songs off-key. Romy’s current favourite song. We dance around the halls as ghosts, and leave our spirits here.

  Not helping.

  The look on Anna’s face when they first drove up here, and she opened her arms to the air. With a grunt, Kira tightens her arms around Romy. Her muscles are starting to strain. Vin cuit, custard creams. Her own current favourite song. You hunt like a wolf in the dark and the snow.

  Not helping.

  If I’m a shadow, will you be happy?

  Good God.

  ‘Listen to me.’ Callum matches her struggling march. ‘Put your coat back on. Your parents will be up the creek even more if you both get hypothermic.’

  He looks pointedly at the side of her head. Just as pointedly, she ignores him.

  ‘Kira,’ he insists. ‘Kira, she’s already frozen. She needs to be inside before she’ll warm up. You’re going to make yourself ill.’

  ‘Shut up.’ He may be right, he may not, but she can’t take that chance. She won’t. ‘I’m not going to risk her getting worse, so leave it.’ Readjusting her arm, she pulls Romy closer. ‘It’s not much farther. I’m fine.’

  Not without a noise of disapproval, he quiets. The mist eddies. The road levels out. As the train line sifts into sight, Kira’s heartbeat speeds with her feet. Hurrying, stumbling, shuffling, anything. Her head has started to pound.

  Anneliese.

  The word slinks coldly back into her mind. Anneliese. A place? A person? Something she misheard?

  Later. The air clears briefly over the tracks. Kira fixes on the blue-sky gap, and gritting her teeth, she breathes. Everything jitters. She should have had breakfast.

  ‘Let go.’ Scooping Romy off her feet, Callum hoists her into his arms.

  ‘Callum!’ Kira staggers, throwing out her arms, tugged off-balance on the ice. He’s toting her sister over the line like a lolling, raggedy doll. Romy’s caked hair drags on the tracks. Her cracking lips are parted, her jerky limbs bare. Kira’s throat burns. Her mouth is heavy. Her skin is numb. ‘Callum!’

  At the hotel gate, he ignores her. With shivers rocking her body and her piercings whipped with cold, Kira stumbles across the train line. Oh, Romy. Oh God, oh, Romy. What have you done?

  The restaurant’s heat hits Kira like the cold. Shocked from ice to inferno, she quickly begins to burn.

  Olive-skinned and pixie-small, Hazal shrieks from the kitchen door. Three tables’ worth of people stop talking. The silence is a clap.

  ‘Kira?’ Hazal’s hands freeze in midair. Romy lies limp in Callum’s arms. Callum breathes in gasps, and Kira feels like falling. ‘Callum? What happens?’ She flutters her fingers at the ramshackle couches. ‘Is that—bring her to chairs. Fast. Fast! What she…?’ She indicates a scarlet sofa, looking back to Romy. Shallow breathing, ashen skin. Hazal blanches. Kira’s stomach twists. ‘Put her there. I get your parents.’

  Shoes slapping, Hazal scurries away.

  ‘And clothes!’ Callum shouts after her.

  ‘Clothes.’ Fingers fluttering, Hazal click-clacks up the stairs, her low heels far too loud. ‘Yes. Oh, my…’

  ‘Hold her cheeks.’ Stamping his boots on the Bienvenue mat, Callum lowers Romy to the couch, taking a seat by her feet. Kira sinks down on Romy’s other side, among the smothering throws. Manoeuvring her sister’s legs to face him, he lifts her feet and rubs. ‘Hold them,’ he urges. In a wavering daze, Kira barely hears; it’s so much worse than the first time. ‘We need to warm her skin. Rub a little; not too hard.’

  Kira’s fingers are alien, unwieldy, but she chafes Romy’s cheeks between them. Callum nods. ‘Like that, yes. You don’t want to make her face sore. This…’ Wriggling his coat off, he tucks it over Romy’s arms, slipping her stiff, white hands beneath her pyjama shirt. At the touch upon her stomach, she puffs a small gasp. ‘That’s good.’ He smiles fleetingly. ‘Very good. She’s conscious.’

  ‘Romy?’ The stairs erupt. Ignoring the handful of staring diners, Anna shoves through the tables in a rush across the restaurant. Mathew and Hazal creak down behind her. ‘Romy? Oh, my—’ Anna scrapes a hand through her pale hair. She shoots a frantic look at Mathew. One hand rubs his chapped lips, staring at the sofa, a knot of clothes hanging limp in the other. ‘Call an ambulance. Mathew. An ambulance. She needs to get to a hospital.’

  ‘She needs to get changed.’ Callum glances up. If this feels awkward to him, he doesn’t show it. ‘I need her clothes. Or you can do it. Hers are just…’

  Clotted with snow. Part frozen, part soaked. Kira chills just thinking about it, how they’d feel against her skin.

  ‘Dad.’ She manages one word, just one, and holds out her hand for the clothes. ‘Please.’

  ‘What happened?’ Anna looks between them all, as Callum shields Romy’s modesty with his coat and Kira manoeuvres her limbs out of the sodden, crusted pyjamas. Her brain can’t compute this, any of this. Her parents fade out. The hotel fades out. She numbs herself to getting Romy into a sweatshirt, banning the sense of violation that comes with having her sister exposed, if covered, mostly, by a coat. This is madness. This is madness.

  ‘Hold this.’ Callum nods at his coat and takes the tracksuit bottoms, changing Romy so fast he could be a doctor, or at least someone used to crisis. ‘Thanks.’ He takes the coat back and drapes it over his lap. Kira’s mind remains dull. Oh, Romy. Oh, God. ‘That’ll help a lot. We…’

  Callum’s voice fades out. Kira rubs her eyes as Anna’s fades back in.

  ‘…Have to book new flights,’ she says, gripping Mathew’s arm. Forever seems to have passed, but it’s not even a minute. The cuckoo clocks tick on. ‘She can’t travel like this, can she? Can we even travel in this?’ Scooping up Romy’s dropped socks from the floor, she bends to work them onto her daughter’s feet. ‘Mathew?’ She glances up and straightens. ‘Can we?’

  Mathew’s mouth opens and shuts. His cogs are struggling, the face of Kira’s mind: one daughter frightened, one semiconscious, bundled beside this unfamiliar boy.

  ‘Ahem.’ The unfamiliar boy clears his throat. It sounds so much like a stage cough that Kira shuts her eyes. ‘You can travel. Snow doesn’t stop the Swiss.’

  ‘Mm,’ is all the response Callum gets. Knees crack. Jeans creak. Kira opens her eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ Mathew says as if he hadn’t spoken, crouching beside the couch. ‘I think…’ He runs his tongue over his teeth. ‘I think she’s just cold.’

  An open silence falls. ‘I’ll…’—Callum fumbles in his pocket—‘…um, get on to the ambula—’

  ‘“It’s all right?”’ Anna’s eyes become moons. Her voice scratches at hysteria. ‘“She’s just cold?” How can you say that? Look at her, Mathew! Look at her!’

  Dropping into a shaggy armchair, she reaches for Romy’s leg. Her fingers judder.

  Mathew sighs. ‘I’m looking at her,’ he says quietly, pulling a reindeer-patterned throw over Romy’s torso. Kira watches him. This is how it always goes, and normally, it’s a comfort. Anna panics. Mathew forces calm. He rationalises. Now, though, his face is a battle. An epidemic. A war.

  It’s so much worse than the first time.

  ‘She’s okay.’ Taking a breath, Mathew strokes Romy’s arm. ‘She’s warming up fast. The best thing to do is what they’re doing.’ He looks up at Kira, still faintly massaging Romy’s cheeks. At Callum, doing the same to her legs and feet. His face sags, soft around the mouth, before he stitches it back into control. ‘What happened, Kira?’


  Kira glances at Callum. He’s on the phone, speaking French, no help for her at all. ‘I don’t know.’ She shakes her head. ‘I really don’t. It just…’ She bites her lip, droops into the couch. She sounds and feels guilty. ‘It all just happened. I was looking for her, and I…ran into Callum.’

  Mathew stares through her. ‘It always just happens,’ he murmurs. Turning away, he leans forward, resting his forehead on Romy’s. Kira fights, and fails, to keep her face as tight as his. If Romy was awake, she wouldn’t allow this; affection is her personal vampire, risky to associate with and downright dangerous to invite inside. Now, though, she looks like a child, letting Dad kiss her goodnight.

  Kira twists her fingers into her cardigan. ‘Callum…’ She swallows. Every word is a block in her throat. ‘Callum was bringing her back from the forest. She was asleep under a tree or something. I don’t…’

  Her skin grows hot, and she stops.

  ‘An ambulance is on its way.’ Callum steps in before Kira burns up. It’s too easy to feel guilty when you’re not. ‘Even with the snow. It’ll be here soon.’

  Silent, Anna nods. Mathew lifts his forehead from Romy’s. ‘Where did you find her?’ he asks without looking up, brushing Romy’s cheek. ‘In the forest?’

  Callum is doing a very good job of showing only minor discomfort. He shifts on the sofa, one hand flexing. Again, it’s too easy to feel guilty when you’re not. ‘Aye.’ He looks between them all. ‘Near part of l’Ermite. The…the…’ he flounders. ‘Um.’

  ‘The walking trail,’ Kira murmurs. ‘With the wooden hermit statue. We’ve done it.’

  On Romy’s face, something flickers. Starting slightly, Kira drops her eyes. Romy’s snap open.

  Kira goes cold.

  ‘Romy?’ Anna whispers. Sliding down to her knees, she removes her daughter’s hands from her stomach and enfolds them in her own. ‘Thank God. Are you all right? What happened?’

  Slowly, Romy turns her head. Anna flinches. It’s a tiny movement, but a flinch nonetheless. Romy’s hands fall to the couch. ‘Romy?’ she repeats, uncertain. Kira’s stomach twists in time with her fingers. ‘Are you—are you all right?’

  Romy shifts back to face the ceiling. Kira’s breath catches in her cooling chest. Her sister’s mouth lies slack. Her eyelids are heavy hoods, her eyes shades deeper than their normal, ice-light blue. They’re as blank as if they’ve been carved from slate, as dark as if there’s nobody there. Empty enough to be nothing but seashells, left by the tide on a barren shore.

  ‘I got lost.’ She sighs. Her lips barely move. Her eyes flutter shut. ‘Sorry.’

  Silence. Although her skin is hot, Kira grows colder. Her insides could be chunks of ice. Romy’s face is pinched and waifish, hollow beneath her cheekbones. The ice splinters and spreads. It’s as if she’s not there.

  Something’s very, very wrong.

  ‘Right.’ Whether he’s looking elsewhere, or choosing not to see, Mathew stands up. ‘Suitcases.’ He slaps his thighs. The noise is jarring, the motion more so, and even he flinches. ‘Come on, Annie. We can find out details later; the important thing is that she’s okay. Her colour’s coming back already.’ He smiles down at Romy. Kira catches his eye, and he looks away quickly. ‘See?’

  Callum raises his eyebrows but says nothing. It’s a lie chock-full of bravado. He can see it, Mathew can see it, and Kira can see it, but she clings to it regardless. Her father forces calm. He rationalises. If he was to let that go, then…

  ‘She can’t have been out that long. Don’t worry.’ Gently pulling Anna to her feet, Mathew kisses her worry-pale cheeks. ‘She’ll be okay, and we need to catch our flight.’

  ‘Swiss doctors not cheap.’ In the kitchen doorway, Hazal dries up a mug. ‘Not always good, too.’

  Mathew turns his hand palm up. ‘Even more reason to get going. If she’s not completely better by tonight, we’ll take her to the doctor. I promise.’

  He puts a solid arm around Anna’s shoulders. Staring straight ahead, Anna’s eyes are fixed in the way that says she’s either uncomprehending or unconvinced. It mirrors Kira’s mind, the over-brightness of his voice, but hugging Anna to him, Mathew carries on. ‘First thing tomorrow morning, I promise.’ He breathes a whisper, a kiss into her temple. ‘She’s going to be okay.’

  Casting a last look at Romy’s disconcerting stillness, he leads Anna away. They return up the groaning stairs. Hazal returns to the kitchen, and the diners return to their business. Kira and Callum are left alone.

  In the silence, Callum sighs. ‘Your father.’ He stops. Kira glances at him, away from the galloping reindeer blanket. He looks like he’s faced with a furnace. ‘He doesn’t seem that concerned, I suppose.’ He furrows his forehead. ‘Should I have introduced myself? I’m not sure he looked at me more than once. It was all…’

  He clicks his fingers pensively, one, two, three.

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Kira lets her head sink into the cushions. If she’s the furnace he felt he was facing, he clearly doesn’t know how to light it. ‘Very “business as usual.”’ She tugs a light lock of hair, snow-damp. ‘I guess it is.’

  Callum just nods, releasing Romy’s feet. Flushed red, they’re a stark contrast to her face, tinged with grey and wan.

  Kira traces her dry lips. The cold is as dehydrating as the sun. ‘She wanders off a lot,’ she continues, for lack of anything else. He deserves an explanation; he’s the reason Romy’s here.

  He’s the reason she’s alive.

  Kira kicks this away. She is alive, and that’s what matters. Gently, to not make Romy flinch—and also, if she’s honest, a little wary herself—she returns to rubbing her sister’s cheeks.

  ‘Dad’s trying…’ Her voice sounds wonky. Kira swallows and clears her throat. ‘I…I guess Dad’s trying to react the same as always. Keep calm. Keep Mum calm. Fix things that need fixing when it’s all under control. It’s too serious this time, but he won’t admit it. He just wants everything to be okay.’ She pauses. ‘He wants us to be okay.’

  And by us, primarily Romy. Kira’s hands drift still. Romy, Romy, Romy: lost, found, lost, found. Wherever she goes, and however she gets back, the important thing is always that she’s fine.

  A man and his granddaughter, spotting her by the roadside and driving her home. She was lost and drunk to the moon and back. The memory clatters through Kira like her sister clattered through the door, slurring at the man to bugger off. She’s fine, she was walking, she didn’t need help. The well-meaning neighbour, who came across her in the park one night. Even a friend from school, who rang Kira when Romy flipped and slipped out of a sleepover. Endless people, endless wandering. Endless suggestions that Romy get help for the darkness that opens its maw, chews her up, and turns her to spit and acid.

  Out of some sort of stubborn pride, she won’t. She’s fine.

  Except this time, she isn’t. Kira’s frail calm teeters. ‘Romy’s okay, isn’t she?’ She looks up at Callum. Shivers of panic begin to fizz. ‘She’s going to be all right? You know what you’re doing?’ Her eyes fall on Romy’s pink feet. The bony shins poking out beneath the blanket, her thin shoulders, warming through. ‘Is Dad right? Can she, I don’t know, travel? Can we go home and take it from there?’

  She squeezes Romy’s arm. Her sleeping sister is warmer than she is.

  Sleeping?

  Something’s wrong.

  Stop. Kira breathes in, clenching her stomach, and out, long and slow.

  Callum doesn’t answer straight away. ‘She’s all right,’ he says, scanning Romy’s body. Kira’s chest spikes. It comes out as all right?, his expression unreadable…far too unreadable to be anything but false.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks sharply. His hands return to Romy’s blooming skin, lightly tracing patterns of distraction. ‘Callum? What’s wrong with her?’

  He looks up. Her thoughts leapfrog. Patterned with melting snowflakes, thick, wild hair falls below his ears, matched by brown eyes wide and pe
rplexed. Twenty, maybe? Twenty-one? Old enough for serious stubble, for none of the acne on the boys at sixth form.

  Shh. Callum looks away, up and down Romy’s body. It’s warmed up to normal, bar the stillness and her pale, pale face. Kira forces herself to focus. ‘She’s fine,’ he says. ‘Absolutely fine. It’s just…’ He gestures at nothing. His forehead creases. ‘It’s just that when I found her, she was ninety percent snow. She must have been there for hours, which probably meant she was there overnight. I only saw her because I tripped over her foot.’ He raps his knuckles on his knee. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  Kira looks between them. Her chest tightens, as taut as a drum. It’s not just panic; it’s certainty. Something’s so very wrong.

  ‘Meaning what?’ She looks between them. What could be a smile brushes Romy’s lips, the smile of a dreamer in a pleasant dream. If she’s awake, or aware, she’s ignoring the world.

  Callum runs a hand across his head. It leaves his hair even wilder than before, and Kira blinks. ‘Meaning she shouldn’t be okay. Look.’ Pinching the top of Romy’s left sock, he pulls it off. ‘Her feet are red, but her toes are still white. She’s got frostnip.’

  Kira watches as he puts Romy’s sock back on. It really is like she’s a child. ‘It sounds like there’s a “but,”’ she says, dropping her eyes, fighting her worry, picking snow from Romy’s hair.

  ‘There is.’ Callum’s hand hovers over Romy’s. Gesturing vaguely, he shakes his head and rubs his stubbled mouth. ‘She’s just…frostnip is normal, right?’ He looks up, not waiting for her to say she doesn’t know what frostnip is. ‘Covered by that much snow, though, and being out overnight…’ He shakes his head, again, again. ‘She should have full-on frostbite. She shouldn’t be warming up so fast. She shouldn’t be, you know, pink.’ He nods at Romy’s face, still pale but heating. ‘It’s not—oui, ça va.’ He nods at a couple in the doorway, hovering with questions for eyes. ‘Elle va beaucoup mieux.’

  He returns his attention to Kira. A beat, two. Thinning his lips, he sighs. ‘Sorry for the bluntness, but your sister should be dead. I thought she was, at first.’ He gestures at empty air. ‘I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. She’s okay, whether or not she should be. Maybe I’m wrong about the snow. Maybe it fell from a tree and hadn’t been on top of her long. But still, to be outside in those…’ He nods at Romy’s pyjamas, crumpled on the floor. ‘Ahhh.’ He slumps into the sofa, scratching his head. ‘I’ll take your dad’s lead. The main thing is that she’s okay.’