Small Spaces

by Sarah Epstein

  Mrs Fisher reaches up and wipes hair from my damp cheek, tucking it behind my ear. “You should stay the night here, sweetheart.”

  I draw in a shuddery breath and shake my head. “Thank you for dinner.” I haul myself to my feet. “And I’m just so sorry. For everything.”

  “Oh, Tash–” Mrs Fisher smiles sadly, “–it was just a broken plate.”

  Mr Fisher insists on driving me home and dashes off to find his car keys. As his wife has one more stab at coaxing me to stay, she’s distracted by something over my shoulder.

  “You’ll look after her tonight?” she says, her brow softening. “Are you sure?”

  My pulse kicks up a notch. I don’t want to be alone with Morgan – I’m too confused. I need to call Sadie. I need to call my parents.

  I spin around to tell Morgan no, but it’s not him in the doorway clutching a backpack and pillow. It’s Mallory.

  She doesn’t look at me as she nods once for her mother.

  34

  THEN

  20 DECEMBER 2016

  TRANSCRIPT FROM THE OFFICE OF DR INGRID BALLANTINE, PHD CHILD AND ADOLESCENT PSYCHIATRY, NEWCASTLE CHILDREN’S CLINIC

  PATIENT: NATASHA CARMODY, 17 YEARS OLD

  IB: You’ll be starting your final year of high school soon.

  NC: Mm-hmm.

  IB: How do you feel about that?

  NC: Great.

  IB: That “great” sounded a bit flat.

  NC: Did it?

  IB: It did. Do you have some reservations?

  NC: Nope.

  IB: Have you been feeling anxious about it?

  NC: Nope.

  IB: Your body language is interesting to me.

  NC: Is it?

  IB: You seem very guarded today. Closed off. Do you not want to be here?

  NC: Not really.

  IB: Why’s that?

  NC: I don’t think I need to come here any more.

  IB: I see.

  NC: …

  IB: You feel you’re coping well with your anxiety?

  NC: Yep.

  IB: And there have been no recent incidents?

  NC: Of …?

  IB: Bad dreams. Claustrophobia. Panic attacks.

  NC: All one hundred per cent under control.

  IB: I’m not sure you really believe that.

  NC: Here’s the thing, though – no one’s ever really tried to understand what I believe.

  IB: Can you explain what you mean?

  NC: I’m tired of explaining. Let’s label me cured and call it a day.

  35

  NOW

  Mr Fisher insists on switching off the car and walking us to the door of Ally’s house. Any faint hopes I had of my aunt materialising while I was out are dashed by the empty driveway and dark windows. I hadn’t left the verandah light on for myself earlier, and in my dishevelled state it takes me three tries to get the key into the lock. Mr Fisher offers to come inside and help us get a fire started; I assure him we’ll be fine with the oil heater. He smiles and says, “I’ll stop fussing and leave you to it.”

  He lingers in the hall until we’ve drawn the curtains, stipulating that Mallory keep him and her mother informed via text that everything’s okay. I assure him that Ally will be home soon, although I don’t really believe it. But I don’t want to be alone. Mallory and I barely know each other and yet her presence is already a comfort.

  “Don’t worry about that son of mine,” says Mr Fisher as he’s leaving. “He’ll get over himself and apologise for whatever he’s said to upset you. I’ve never seen him happier than these last few months.” While I know he’s trying to cheer me up, instead I feel crushed.

  After Mr Fisher leaves, I feel the full weight of Mallory’s wide-eyed appraisal. I’m glad she’s here, but why did she offer to come? Should I feel wary of her too?

  There’s something about the way I felt connected to her across the Fishers’ dining table that makes me think Mallory is here because she knows I need someone in my corner. If her brother has been enacting some kind of revenge these last few months, my gut feeling tells me Mallory’s in the dark about it all.

  I lead her into the kitchen. “Do you want tea? Hot chocolate?”

  She ponders this, then spies the red wine bottle sitting on the table. She moves to the sink where two glass tumblers are upended on the draining board.

  “Really?” I say. “After my classy performance in front of your parents?”

  Mallory shrugs and plonks the tumblers on the table in front of me. I almost laugh as I pour two generous glasses. I mean, what the hell, right? Things are a complete mess – may as well get messier.

  We both take a large sip at the same time, and it occurs to me this could be Mallory’s first taste of alcohol. I suddenly feel big-sisterly and responsible for her. As much as I’d welcome oblivion right now, I need to slow Mallory down.

  “Pyjamas?” I say. She places her glass down and gives me a thumbs up.

  Upstairs, I offer her the bedroom I slept in last night, and insist we flip the sheets and use the pillow she brought with her. I choose Ally’s room to sleep in because the only other upstairs bedroom is missing a mattress. We take our time getting changed, and I double-check all the windows and doors, trying not to be obvious about it. Mallory taps my shoulder when I bypass the downstairs guestroom, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

  She frowns at my hesitation before throwing the door open and marching across the room to check the window herself, pretending not to notice the way I grimace at the moonlit window seat like it’s a monster.

  I find us two of Gran’s crocheted blankets, and we take our drinks into the living room. I select an old nineties rom-com on TV while Mallory texts her parents goodnight.

  “Thanks for keeping me company,” I tell her, and once again I feel like I’m on the verge of tears. Mallory nods and gives me a curious half-smile. She leans over and grabs my phone from the coffee table, tossing it lightly into my lap. She types something on her phone and mine chimes in response.

  What happened tonight? Why are you so upset?

  When I glance over, her upturned eyebrows echo the concern of her text message. At this moment, I know nobody could understand me better than Mallory. How can I put this into words, though? And how can I voice suspicions about her brother?

  Long story, I text back. It’s complicated.

  Why don’t you start with tonight? she asks. What did you and Morgan fight about?

  Sliding her a guilty look, I take a large swallow of wine. “He’s upset with me because of what I told police on the day you disappeared.”

  And next thing the words are spilling out of me like a sickness, like a demon needing to be purged. I explain about the two weeks I spent here when I was eight, inventing Sparrow, my ensuing troubled childhood and years of therapy. I go into detail about what I recall from the carnival.

  “I didn’t know Sparrow was imaginary until later,” I tell her. “I didn’t know that no one else could see him. I swear, when I watched him lure you away from that toilet block, it seemed as real as the nose on my face.”

  Mallory considers this. She frowns into her glass as she takes another sip.

  “I just don’t want you to think your disappearance was some kind of joke to me,” I say. “I didn’t mean to waste police time. I told my parents and the police what I truly believed had happened. I really wanted to find you.”

  Mallory picks up her phone.

  At least you tried to tell them something.

  Tilting my head, I consider this. There are so many questions I’ve wanted to ask for years, and now I have my opportunity.

  “Why couldn’t you tell anyone anything?” I say. “Why did you stop speaking?”

  I sip from my glass while Mallory composes her reply.

  My therapist calls it traumatic mutism. Mum said whenever police tried to question me about what happened, I’d seize up. Ever since then it’s like my brain just doesn’t know how to do it any more. I
block on words and end up gaping like a goldfish. Kind of a mess, tbh.

  “What about that stuff in the newspaper?” I say, glancing up from my phone. “I read in an article that you told police you thought you’d been asleep for most of the time you were missing.”

  Mallory nods as she types a response.

  Felt like I’d been asleep coz there were so many blanks between leaving the carnival and waking up in the national park. Police psychologist had me draw what I could remember – apparently lots of pictures of me lying down with my eyes closed. Then a whole bunch of the bush.

  I shift on the couch. “Like the trees in your journal?” I ask, before remembering I’m not supposed to know about those. “I’m sorry, I glanced through it when it fell off your bed that day you threw the lamp at me.”

  Mallory chuckles at the memory and I find myself sniggering too. I don’t know why it seems so amusing now – it certainly wasn’t at the time.

  “So what about the vintage wardrobe drawings?” I ask. “Is that a memory too?”

  She shakes her head as she types her reply.

  It’s weird. I have this picture of it in my mind but don’t know how it got there. I keep refining the details. Can’t get it down on paper the way I see it in my head.

  “Maybe you want to be a furniture designer,” I joke. Mallory smiles and shrugs. She eases back in her chair and sips from her glass again. “You can’t remember anything else about those missing days?”

  Mallory considers this for a moment before wedging her glass between her knees to text with both thumbs. Halfway through her message she pauses, her cheeks aflame.

  Only snippets. Certain smells. Dozing inside a moving vehicle with a radio playing. This is gross, but I think I remember wetting my pants a few times. Maybe even crapping them once. Don’t know what state I was found in and I’m too embarrassed to ask Mum if that’s the case.

  I muster a sympathetic smile. “I wet the bed too as a kid. I even had an accident at Rachael Tan’s birthday sleepover, if you want to talk about embarrassing. Be thankful your memory’s sparing you the details.” As soon as I say it I realise how insensitive that sounds. “Sorry. I don’t mean that. It must be so frustrating not being able to remember things that have happened to you.”

  Mallory drains her glass. She sits cross-legged as she types her next message, squinting at the screen as though she’s having trouble reading her words.

  Doctors say I have dissosssive ammeesia.

  “What?” I say, looking up from her message. She re-reads what she typed and we both erupt into giggles. She tries again, taking her time with every character.

  Dissociative amnesia. Linked to my speech issues too.

  “Wait,” I say, fumbling with my phone. I almost drop it. “I’ve heard of this. My shrink brought it up with my parents when they were worried I was making up stories to block out a traumatic event.”

  Mallory nods and continues typing. It takes her a long time to compose the message, her thumbs more sluggish than before.

  Been told I still have memories of what happened but deeply buried. Every now and then a small detail comes to me, usually triggered by a sound or smell.

  “Like what?”

  Like when you leaned over my bed that day I threw the lamp. No idea why I was scared. Just knew I should be.

  I shift in my seat. Mallory’s already typing another line.

  Couldn’t see your face. Something to do with the hood?

  “The hood?” I say. “You think it could be a memory?”

  My mouth doesn’t seem to cooperate and my words run into one another. Mallory shrugs. She leans over to place her empty glass on the coffee table, missing by several inches. It thumps onto the rug. She blinks at it slowly, mildly amused.

  “That’s funny,” I tell her, yawning. “Sparrow always wore a hood. He was wearing it when I watched him take you away.”

  In my head this feels significant, but the words come out sounding slurred and silly. I know we’ve had a serious conversation about something, and right now I can’t put my finger on exactly what we discussed. Mallory smiles lazily like I’ve told a joke, her eyelids heavy. All of a sudden, sleep seems like the best idea in the world.

  We manage to haul ourselves up the staircase, propping each other up for support. I feel a different kind of drunk to earlier, less warm and floaty, more sluggish and heavy. I feel like everything I’ve consumed tonight is churning in my stomach like gruel.

  As I wait for Mallory to use the bathroom, I break into a cold sweat. I stumble into Ally’s bedroom to search her wardrobe for a knitted cardigan. Ally’s smoke-infused gardenia scent engulfs me and I’m hit with a wave of nausea. I manage to swallow the rising acid in the back of my throat long enough to ensure Mallory makes it safely to her bedroom.

  She’s practically asleep on her feet – I shouldn’t have let her drink. She’s only fifteen and so tiny. I didn’t realise one glass would have this effect.

  “Thanks for being here,” I tell her, feeling an impulse to hug her. She’s like a rag doll in my arms, swaying limply and allowing Ally’s cardigan to swamp her.

  I’m just about to release her when she stiffens, her whole body as rigid as a board.

  I let go of her. “You okay?”

  Mallory doesn’t move. Her bleary eyes travel from my head to my feet and all the way back up again. She’s looking at me like she’s never seen me before, like she’s wondering how she even got here.

  “You need to sleep,” I tell her, nodding towards the bed beside the window. Something about the way she’s looking at me makes my stomach fold over itself. My mouth floods with saliva and I hurry towards the door.

  “‘Night,” I manage, before stumbling into the bathroom just in time to throw up.

  36

  THEN

  It’s as black as night inside the wooden box. Blacker. I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. It smells like damp towels and onions and sweaty socks. And what about all those costumes piled up on the muddy ground outside? Colourful shirts and fancy jackets, curly wigs and feathers. They’re probably ruined now. It’s going to look like my fault.

  This was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have said yes.

  “Ten seconds is up,” I tell him, banging my fist against the lid of the trunk. “I did it! Let me out.”

  The box tips on an angle and I slide towards one end. I get all bunched up and my forehead hits the end of the trunk. White dots ping around in front of my eyes.

  “Ow!” I yell, thumping the box’s side with my arm. “Stop it.” My knees feel bruised where they press into the wood. “I want to get out!”

  Everything jolts and I hit my head again. There’s a sharp pain in my neck like a pinch. I jerk back and forth like the box is being dragged. Where is he taking me? He never said anything about this.

  This isn’t part of the game.

  “Open it!” I yell, except it doesn’t come out very loud. My head is on a weird angle and it’s hard to get any air in.

  The box jolts again. He’s ignoring me.

  I can’t breathe in here.

  What if I’m running out of air?

  He told me he’d do this. He said if I didn’t play in the cellar he’d lock me in a box and I’d starve to death.

  “Please! I’ve changed my mind. Let me out!”

  The box stops suddenly and drops onto the ground. I can’t hear anything except a pounding noise in my ears and my breath bouncing off the wood. My arm feels weak as I raise it one last time to bang on the box’s lid. The side of my hand hurts and my throat is sore like I might cry.

  “Please let me out!”

  Too dark, too dark. Don’t run out of air.

  Be small.

  Breathe small.

  “Please.”

  I can’t hear anything. What’s happening? Is he ever coming back?

  I don’t want to starve to death.

  I want to tell Mum and Dad about the things Sparrow’s done.

 
; I want to meet my new baby brother.

  There’s a muffled voice outside the box. Somebody swearing.

  Is that–? Can that be–?

  “Dad?”

  Maybe all that shifting and bumping was me travelling through time and space! Maybe Sparrow kept his promise after all. Maybe he really is magic. I’m finally home and the two weeks at Aunty Ally’s house was all a bad dream.

  “Dad!”

  The trunk’s lid is yanked open. There’s blue sky above me and I squint at the sunshine.

  “Git the hell outta there!” a voice growls.

  I blink at the bear-like shadow leaning over me. Not Dad. Definitely not Sparrow.

  “I’m sick of you kids playing hide-and-seek back here,” the voice says, as I push myself to my knees. “This is not a play area, you hear me? Performers only. Git outta there and run on back to your folks.”

  A large red glove appears in front of my face. I grab it and it helps me out of the trunk. A man with a painted clown face and curly wig tuts at me as I stare around feeling dizzy. Sparrow was dragging me somewhere.

  Any minute now he could come back.

  “Sorry,” I say, backing away from the clown. He flicks a hand at me as though he’s wafting away a fly.

  I run away from the big tent and into the crowd of people along sideshow alley. I don’t want to be here any more. I need to find Morgan Fisher and everything will be okay. I saw him earlier at the dodgem cars with his parents and sister. They live in Port Bellamy too, and if I ask nicely they might take me home with them.

  I hold in my tears as I hurry back towards the food trucks. I try not to think about my sore knees and that stinky dark trunk.

  I keep one thought in my head to help me run faster.

  Find Morgan.

  Find Morgan.

  Find Morgan.

  And find him before Sparrow finds you.

  37

  NOW

  I wake up stiff, my shoulders aching, and for one horrifying moment I fear I’m back inside the box. The surface beneath my right side is unrelenting, my cheek mashed against something cold and rigid. I crack one eye open. It’s not the suffocating pitch black of the trunk that greets me, but the sombre light of dawn. I shake off the remnants of my dream and realise I made last night’s bed out of the bathroom floor.