Small Spaces

by Sarah Epstein

  “I even built some little houses out of twigs and bark so my fairies would have somewhere to sleep at night,” she says. “My brother – your dad – was cutting the grass one day and he mowed straight over the top of them.”

  “Oh no,” I say. But what does any of this have to do with Sparrow? I wonder if he’s listening to this story. He might have the cellar door cracked open so he can hear everything we say.

  “I was so upset,” Aunty Ally says, “because I thought my fairies were inside those little houses. I cried and cried. My mother told me I was overreacting. And my brother never had to apologise. No big surprise there.”

  She flicks cigarette ash into the sink, her lips pressed small and tight like she has something yucky-tasting in her mouth.

  “My point is, I was different. I’ve always been different to them.” She moves back to the table and stands over me, reaching out to place her hand on top of mine. “It’s okay to be different. But sweetheart, take it from me – your parents just won’t understand.”

  “If I–”

  “Trust me,” she says with a firm voice. “No more talk about this.” She leans down and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “This will be our little secret, Tash.”

  15

  NOW

  The first week of March brings with it windy mornings and rain-soaked evenings, creating a much smaller window of opportunity for photography after school. I’ve taken far too many images of silos against storm clouds, none of them addressing the theme of Dreamscapes for our art project, and all of them too bland for my university submission folio.

  Tim usually wants to tag along with me when I head out to take some shots, but Mum invariably keeps him occupied. There’s always homework or chores or some other thing that prevents him from coming, all of them much less blatant than Mum telling me, “I don’t trust you.”

  He looks at me now with a sad puppy-dog expression as I load up my backpack with art books and photography magazines.

  “Where are you going this time?” he whines. “You promised to play Minecraft with me.”

  “I will, buddy. When I get home later.” I slide my camera case out from underneath his hand. “I have to go to Morgan’s house to work on our project. We’re supposed to show our art teacher some work in progress next week.”

  Which is a problem since we’ve got a whole lot of nothing to show so far. Rachael refuses to spend any time on it, using class collaboration sessions bent over her journal, while Morgan and I toss around half-hearted ideas about futuristic worlds and desolate wastelands. We tend to get sidetracked talking about books we’ve read or what shows we’re currently binging on Netflix. We spent most of yesterday’s art period trying to guess each other’s least favourite bands and foods, delighted in our joint dislike of Coldplay and coriander.

  “Why are you doing school stuff on a Saturday?” Tim asks, shadowing me down the staircase and into the living room. “Are you going to be there all afternoon?”

  I feel bad that Tim’s dismayed at this prospect while I’m trying to keep a lid on my excitement. Morgan invited me a few days ago after telling me his parents were driving to a wedding in Coffs Harbour for the weekend. The idea of hanging out with him for a whole afternoon outside of school resulted in a new T-shirt purchase and twenty minutes of hair styling after this morning’s shower.

  It’s not just seeing Morgan that has me full of nervous energy. Today will give me an opportunity to see Mallory again too.

  “I’m not sure what time I’ll be home,” I tell Tim. “Maybe Dad will play with you in the meantime.”

  Dad glances up from his newspaper and pats the couch for Tim to sit next to him. “Your mum will probably like to know if you’ll be here for dinner,” he says to me.

  “Yes, she would,” Mum says, appearing in the kitchen doorway. “Where are you off to?”

  “She’s going to Morgan’s house,” Tim sulks.

  Mum arches an eyebrow just enough for me to know she has an opinion about this.

  “You do realise I know Morgan is the Fisher boy,” she says. “You conveniently left that part out of the introductions a couple of weeks ago.”

  “It didn’t come up,” I say, as I fiddle with my backpack’s shoulder strap. “Anyway, what difference does it make?”

  Mum folds her arms and lowers her voice. “You know why it makes a difference. You don’t need things derailing your progress.”

  My eyes dart towards Tim, hoping this cryptic conversation is going over his head. Thankfully, he’s reading the newspaper’s comic strip over Dad’s shoulder.

  “And,” Mum says, “the Fishers don’t need to know about a certain embarrassing police interview from 2008.”

  “I’d never say anything about that,” I mutter. “Morgan and I are in the same group for an art assignment, so it’s not like I can avoid him.”

  Mum purses her lips like she knows avoiding Morgan is the furthest thing from my mind. She saw how he looked at the shops with his green eyes and boy-band hair.

  “We should move your check-in session with Dr Ballantine forward a couple of months,” she says. “In light of all this with the Fishers moving back to town. Not to mention what happened at Watergardens with Tim.”

  “Elaine …” Dad starts.

  “Great!” I blurt, yanking the straps on my backpack way too tight. “I can talk to her about Willow Creek while I’m at it. Because, guess what? I’m going up there for a visit.”

  “Watch your tone, Tash,” Dad warns.

  “Willow Creek?” Mum says. “You didn’t actually return Ally’s call, did you?”

  “She’s invited me up there next weekend. I said yes.”

  “What?” Mum jerks her hands to her hips. “Were you actually going to ask permission, or were you just going to sneak off without telling us?”

  Dad sets his newspaper down. “Tash mentioned something to me about it.”

  “Oh, well, terrific Richard,” Mum says. “Were you ever going to let me know?”

  Dad shrugs. “I don’t think it’s such a bad idea.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “You two could use a break from one another,” Dad says. “A couple of days apart could be just what you need. Plus, we don’t even know how much longer the old house will be in our hands. Tash may as well enjoy the place while she still can.”

  Mum gives Dad a look that could sour milk. “And everything that happened there–”

  “Happened almost a decade ago,” Dad says firmly. “She’s not a child any more. She’ll be perfectly fine.” He slides me a meaningful look that implies, I’m going out on a limb here, kid. Don’t screw this up.

  “You think associating with your sister is in Tash’s best interests?” Mum asks. They seem to have forgotten Tim’s on the couch, listening with eyes as big as saucers. “She can barely sort out her own life.”

  I regard Mum curiously. I’ve never heard her let loose about Ally in front of me and Tim before. It’s usually only snide comments to my dad under her breath when the two of us are around.

  “Tash is almost eighteen,” Dad says. “She won’t be reliant on Ally and can look after herself.”

  I’ll be doing exactly that since Ally won’t even be there. I neglected to mention that part to Dad.

  “Well,” Mum says, snatching up a coffee cup Dad hasn’t finished with, “I’m so glad the two of you are making decisions behind my back.” She marches into the kitchen.

  “She’ll come around,” Dad says to me. “Eventually.”

  I think of my university plans, my chance at an independent life. “I seriously hope you’re right.”

  *

  I’m not sure if it’s eagerness to see Morgan or desperation to get away from home, but I pump the bike pedals so hard I’m sweating by the time I reach Banksia Avenue. I only realise, as I roll into the Fishers’ driveway, this morning’s blow-dry is now limp and stringy. When I take off my backpack, I discover two large damp circles in the armpits of my ne
w T-shirt.

  I yank my faded hoodie from my backpack and slip it on to hide my sweat marks even though I’m warm all over from my ride. Sucking in a deep breath, I press the doorbell.

  This is still just a homework session, Tash. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  The timber door swings open and my excitement takes a nosedive. Rachael Tan steps forwards and leans against the doorframe. A red sundress settles gracefully around her hips, her legs bare from her thighs all the way down to her matching red toenails.

  “You look disappointed to see me,” she says, smirking. She fiddles with one of her loose silky plaits. “I’m sure you’ll get over it. Nice to see that ratty old hoodie’s getting another run.”

  She disappears inside the house and I feel myself deflate like a punctured balloon. I don’t know why I expected it would be just me and Morgan. We’re working on a group project – it makes sense he’d invite Rachael too.

  I follow music to the back of the house, to a rumpus room that was closed off during the Fishers’ party. There’s a foosball table, two plump couches and a huge flat screen TV.

  “There you are!” Morgan says as I hesitate in the doorway. He’s bent over a coffee table with books and papers spread out in front of him. Rachael drapes herself across a cane armchair beside the bi-fold doors leading out onto a bright patio. Christopher lounges across one of the couches nursing a packet of Doritos and surfing TV channels.

  “Hey, Tash,” he says, clearly bored. “Please tell me you three aren’t really doing homework when there’s a computer market on at the town hall.”

  “Afraid so,” I say, trying to hide my own disappointment that this homework date is actually all about homework and nothing to do with the date part.

  “He carries on like that swap meet’s not on every month,” Morgan says, standing to greet me.

  “Not the point,” Christopher replies, pitching a corn chip at Morgan’s head. Morgan lunges and manages to catch it in his mouth to much whooping and laughter. I lower my backpack onto the floor with a thud and Morgan’s attention swings back to me. His face is adorably flushed from his corn chip victory.

  “You brought photography books?” he asks, raising hopeful eyebrows. “‘Cause I’m seriously struggling to come up with anything here.” He leans in close to lower his voice. “And the only thing Rachael’s researched is which Kardashian has the most cellulite.”

  He winks at me and my pulse flickers. I want it to mean something more than Morgan’s affable nature.

  “Dunno how much inspiration these will be,” I say, unloading books beside Morgan’s sketches. He’s agreed that if we stick to our strengths – his drawing and my photography – we might be able to merge the two somehow. I take a seat next to him on the couch and we pore over the books for a while, earmarking pages that catch our interest. The sun-drenched room is warm, almost stuffy, and I wish I could take off my hoodie. I wish I’d worn an eye-catching red sundress and toenail polish. I wish a lot of things, none of which are going to happen.

  Before long Rachael has persuaded Christopher to hook up the PlayStation. The two of them embark on a noisy mission of butchering aliens, and it becomes harder to concentrate on the project.

  “Sorry about this,” Morgan murmurs. “It was Mum’s idea to invite them over to keep me company. She organised it with Mrs Tan before I even knew about it.”

  “Isn’t Mallory here?” I say, picking at a fingernail. I try to keep the sulkiness out of my voice. “It’s not like you were going to be all alone.”

  “Mal’s not exactly a big conversationalist,” Morgan jokes with a subdued smile. “Mum thinks we both need more contact with the outside world.”

  Shifting in my seat, I place the book I’m holding onto the coffee table. “What was it like in Brisbane for the two of you after you left here? Was it hard?”

  Morgan looks at his knees as he mulls over an answer. “Probably easier for me after I got over missing this place. No one in Brisbane knew about Mallory’s disappearance. No one was pointing accusing fingers at me and I could make friends without worrying kids were trying to get close to me out of morbid curiosity.” He slides me a sheepish look. “I got to start afresh where nobody knew me.”

  I nod earnestly, because this is exactly what I want for myself.

  “For Mallory, though, it wouldn’t have mattered if she was in Brisbane or on the moon,” Morgan says. “There’s no such thing as a fresh start when your past keeps haunting you on a continuous loop.”

  His words could be describing me too. I feel a melancholy connection with Mallory, like we’re both tethered to that one horrible summer.

  “Does she have any friends?” I say. “Did she have anyone to hang out with in Brissy?”

  “She mostly talks to people online,” Morgan says. My face must give away my surprise because Morgan chuckles before he goes on. “When I said she doesn’t talk, I just mean she’s non-verbal. Mal texts and emails, and she’s on Twitter and Instagram all the time. Although I think it’s less about socialising and more about lurking.”

  “Sorry, of course. I just thought … I don’t know what I thought.”

  “She’s not good with face-to-face stuff,” Morgan says. “She definitely prefers her own company. Not a big fan of outside.”

  “That’s called agoraphobia, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Like the opposite of you and your fear of small spaces,” Morgan says. “You and Mal should get together and swap phobia stories.”

  I smile. “In an uncrowded room that’s neither too big nor too small.”

  Morgan snorts. “Exactly.” His smile fades a little and he looks down at his hands. “I might just check on her, see if she needs anything. She won’t come down if there are people here, even if she’s starving.”

  “I’ll do it if you like.” I knock my knee against Morgan’s. “Then you can tell your mum you both socialised today. I can take a plate of food up to her like I did at the party, if you think she’d be okay with it.”

  His head tilts as he considers my offer, perhaps assessing me for ulterior motives. At this very second, I have none. All my burning questions for Mallory have been drowned out by a desire to show her she has a friend in me if she wants one.

  “Promise I won’t bore her with my phobia stories.” I grin to reassure him. “Not until at least our second conversation.”

  Morgan gives a small laugh. “Okay. Let me text her first, give her a heads up.” He reaches for his phone on the table and smiles sheepishly. “I know, it’s kinda weird – this is how we communicate most of the time, even at home.”

  “Here, let me.” I pull my phone from my pocket. “You grab her some snacks and I’ll text her. What’s her number?”

  He recites it to me as we make our way out of the family room. I can feel Rachael’s eyes burning a hole in my back as we go. When we reach the kitchen, Morgan rummages through the fridge as I compose my text message.

  Hey Mallory. Morgan’s making some food for you. I’ll bring it up if you like? –Tash.

  I glance up to find Morgan’s laid out half the fridge’s contents all over the benchtop. I grab some grapes, strawberries and a wedge of cheese. “Got any crackers?”

  He searches the pantry and returns with a box of Jatz. I arrange everything on the plate while Morgan steals two crackers and stuffs them into his mouth.

  “That looks pretty good,” he says through bulging cheeks. “You should get a job with a catering company.”

  I flick a tea towel at him and he swerves to dodge it, cracking us both up. He grabs a can of lemonade from the fridge and places it on the benchtop beside the plate.

  “Okay, run along,” he teases, shooing me with his fingers. “Go and make friends.”

  Rolling my eyes and smiling, I balance the plate with one hand while Morgan places the soft drink in the other. He holds onto the can for a second longer than he needs to, compelling me to look up.

  “Thanks, Tash,” he says. “It means a lot that you w
ant to reach out to her.”

  *

  Morgan’s words gnaw at my conscience as I climb the staircase. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m doing this for myself as much as for Mallory. I just don’t know how many opportunities I’ll get to be alone with her, so I can’t squander this chance now that it’s presented itself.

  Her door is ajar when I reach the end of the landing, and there’s no noise inside the bedroom when I tap lightly with my knuckle. Assuming she’s in the bathroom, I nudge the door open to place the plate of food on her desk.

  The blinds are pulled against the coppery afternoon sunshine, giving the bedroom a muted glow like a candlelit cave. It takes me a second to realise Mallory is curled up on the bed under a knitted blanket with her eyes closed. Her head is angled against the pillows, white earbuds nestled in her ears, her straw-coloured hair framing her face like a halo. Her skin is so pale it’s almost translucent. I see shades of the six year old I followed around the carnival nine summers ago.

  “Mallory?” I whisper, unsure if she’s sleeping or zoning out to music. Her phone is on the floor beside the bed. I move a step closer. “Mallory?”

  Her eyes don’t open as she shifts on the mattress, her right leg stretching and knocking a small book onto the floor. A pen slips from its pages and skitters underneath the bed.

  The notebook lands on its spine with its pages splayed open. As I bend for it, my jacket rides up, hood flopping over my head as I strain for the pen. It’s a drawing journal filled with dozens of black ink illustrations. Even in the dim light, I can appreciate how exquisitely detailed they are.

  Straightening to a stand, I flip through the pages. There are two recurring themes: a canopy of trees viewed from the ground looking up, tree trunks bowed in exaggerated perspective, and an ornate Victorian wardrobe like something from one of the fantasy novels on Mallory’s bookshelves.

  The images of the wardrobe far outnumber the pictures of trees, each one subtly altered as though Mallory is still tweaking the design. Carved flourishes in the wood, delicate floral borders, the size of the doors, the number of drawers. In some drawings the wardrobe is overlaid with a grid, as though viewed through a panelled window.