by Grant Stone
Bree bangs on my door and opens it without waiting for a response. ‘What are you up to?’ Her voice is confrontational, goading.
‘Study,’ I say, not making eye contact, filling in a worksheet.
‘You study a lot.’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ I respond, aiming for monotone.
‘Well, why are you baking all the time? No wonder you’re fat!’
That gets me to my feet. Not because I’m particularly sensitive about the subject, but because I am twenty-seven and used to having my own apartment, and wearing a suit to work, and people being at least superficially courteous, and I have no time to be insulted by a child – a child! – who’s been keeping me awake at night with some crazy imaginary dinosaur.
I pause, breathe, aim for calm, make my voice low. ‘Bree,’ I say. ‘You need to go now.’
She hovers there in the doorway, momentarily, then silently turns and walks away, each footstep, though not particularly loud, unmistakeably deliberate. I shut the door after her, shaking with rage or guilt or probably both. I’m not sure if she was crying.
Later in the evening, while Bree bashes away at something upstairs, I’m in the living room messaging a friend. Martin looks up from his laptop.
‘How’s Bree seemed to you lately?’ he asks. I think quickly, wondering if he’s heard something, but he’s talking to me like another adult and doesn’t seem at all annoyed.
‘She’s been ... okay.’ I choose my words carefully, worried of saying anything that will cause offence. ‘She talks a lot about her dinosaur, and I think this meteor they’re talking about on the news is scaring her a bit.’
Martin nods, evidently thinking. ‘She’s quite private from us. I guess that’s just being a teenager, but we were wondering if you’d picked up on something we hadn’t. I know you’re not close, and we don’t expect you to be, but you’re a little nearer to her in age, and maybe you can see some things we can’t.’
He pauses, and I say nothing in the silence. I feel lost; afraid of not measuring up when they clearly want something from me, but equally afraid of intruding.
‘When Bree was two years old we lost her.’
I frown as I parse the translation. I know when people say they lost someone they usually mean they are dead, but that’s clearly not the case here. But Martin continues.
‘She was in the garden, the gate was shut. Sue was watching her, she was there and then she wasn’t. We didn’t know what had happened. All the obvious answers – abduction, running away – made no sense. She couldn’t have gone far by herself, but surely Sue would have seen if someone took her. They had helicopters out with infrared and teams of volunteers searching the bush, appeals for information ... but no sign of her.’
He closes his eyes, briefly, remembering.
‘But then you found her?’ I say. It’s half a question, half a reassurance. I’m feeling slightly nauseous – the police helicopter with its infrared in this family’s past, the police divers in mine. Only with a different ending.
‘She just turned up. The next evening. A little muddy, but unharmed. She seemed to have been fed. She couldn’t have come back on her own, but there was no sign of anyone else. The doctors told us – they told us there was no indication of abuse or anything like that.
‘So the best answer we could come up with was ... there’s a woman down the hill, has lots of cats, you know the type. Harmless, but she doesn’t like going near people, always does her own thing. We think maybe Bree wandered down there and she fed her and let her sleep, and then she realised she had to return her. But ...’
‘You don’t believe that?’
‘It’s the best answer we have. Bree used to talk about it all the time when she was younger – I’m sure she didn’t remember it, but she pieced together what she was told. Children like anything that makes them sound special. She hasn’t spoken about it for a while. I hope she’s forgotten...’
‘You think it’s related? To the dinosaur?’
He pauses. ‘Well I sometimes wonder if it had an effect. I probably shouldn’t say this to you, but they say that anything that happens before you’re three has a particularly big effect. At some fundamental level. I wonder if it’s ... unbalanced her a little. She’s a good kid.’ He adds the last sentence hastily.
I shuffle uncomfortably, wanting to be anywhere but here. I think I probably need to go bake something else. Bree’s words still sting a little, antagonism hanging in the air, shadows and wisps of the petty arguments and wind-ups Thanh and I would engage in. But for now I just have to say something to try and calm the anxiety lurching in us all, even if I don’t really believe it.
‘I think she’ll be okay. I know why you’re worried ... the dinosaur thing is unusual, but lots of people lose their way a bit when they’re her age. I think she’ll find it again.’
AS DAYS GO BY, I’M becoming increasingly uncomfortable and distracted. Nightmares I thought long gone are flaring up inside my brain, memories surfacing at inconvenient times.
I attribute it to lack of sleep, resolving to find somewhere new to stay – even if I will forfeit a board payment – if things don’t improve. I can’t believe how little the constant noise bothers Sue and Martin. I may be closest to Bree’s room, but the house is not particularly big; there’s no wall insulation (no insulation at all, I’m increasingly suspecting) and sound carries easily. Near every night I’m woken, sometimes multiple times, by the sound of heavy footfall, growls, roars, thumping, and something that sounds like a wild animal eating. I consider, briefly, that this could all be an attempt to drive me away, that Bree’s behaving like a spoiled child who can scare off any nanny, but I suspect in reality I’m just not that high on her list of concerns.
I think that when class starts again on Monday, I’ll be fine, that I’ll perk up and put my best foot forward, but I catch the bus in a sleep-deprived haze. By ten o’clock my head is throbbing. Katja walks me round the corner and pushes me into a taxi. Words seem to have deserted me; I barely manage to recite my address to the driver in stilted syllables.
No one is home. I let myself in, kick off my shoes, close my bedroom curtains and collapse onto the bed, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling in the semi-darkness. I feel more vulnerable in every respect right now, much more than I did at home. I drift into sleep over and over, but noises come from the next room, chomping, and soft growls which startle me awake. Eventually I force myself up, my vision fuzzy, knock on the door, Bree, are you there, but there is only silence.
I drag myself downstairs, trailing a fleece blanket with me, hoping this is not some breach of etiquette, because I can never quite work out where I fit between guest and visitor and family member and resident, let alone apply New Zealand norms to my role.
Then again, presumably building a dinosaur next to someone’s room is a breach of etiquette in most countries.
I prop myself up on the sofa with my laptop, pulling the blanket over me, nibbling at a slice of ginger loaf. Everyone seems to be talking about the meteor, but I’ve had enough of hearing about it. I open up a season of CSI I downloaded a while ago but haven’t yet had time to watch, telling myself it’s English practice. Just in case I ever need to talk to someone about a crime scene.
A child is bawling outside. The crime scene thing is looking increasingly likely.
I’m not sure which department investigates murdered dinosaurs.
Eventually, even watching TV becomes too much. I keep closing my eyes and thinking that I’m drowning, waking from a daze as if fighting for breath. Finally, and with relief, I fall into sleep. I sleep most of the afternoon, then make some instant noodles and apologetically excuse myself from the evening meal before I clamber into bed, cold and clammy, exhausted. Sue asks if I have a fever, if I need her to take me to the doctor, but I brush away her concerns. The streetlamp is orange, a slightly eerie glow through my curtains. The cat rustles and leaps as if chasing something, but I don’t get up to check, and f
all into sleep.
I’m woken, later, by a loud whisper, tapping on my door. Cam, Cam. I need your help. I lean over to switch on my regulation desk lamp, pleased to find that my headache has cleared and I have only the usual level of just-woken-up grogginess. One minute. I pull on clothes, whichever I get to first. The family may walk round in their pyjamas, but I don’t feel comfortable with that, not here.
Bree slides in, her blonde hair tangled and unusually frizzy, a child in her arms. She stands awkwardly by the door. Bree is fully dressed, as if she’s just got home, or as if she expected something to be happening tonight. I look at my phone: almost 3am. Bree leans against the wall in tight jeans, a low-cut top, her eyes anxious beneath the mascara’d lashes. She clutches the child to her chest awkwardly. Though the girl makes no obvious signs of unhappiness, she must be uncomfortable; her arms and legs hang loose rather than clutching, as children almost instinctively do at that age.
‘Sit down,’ I say, because I can’t bear to look at that awkward pose any longer. Bree hesitates before perching at the end of the bed, the child still in her arms. The child is dressed in pink dungarees over a white top, her hair loose but with a bow clipped in one side, a smear of mud on her right cheek.
‘Where ... who is she?’ I ask. I reach out and put my hands under the girl’s shoulders and pull her away. I have heard no sounds from her and Bree obviously has no clue (only child, I guess) how to take care of her, so I need to make sure she’s okay. She turns her head, looks at me for a moment before scrunching up her face as if to cry, but mercifully thinks better of it, letting loose only a few tearless sobs. I rock her, feel her forehead, place my hand on her chest to check her breathing and scan her for injuries. She seems fine.
‘I need you to help me with her,’ Bree replies. ‘She needs to go back home.’
‘Of course she does. Who is she?’ I’m aware that exasperation is showing in my voice, and that it may well be counterproductive, but at this point I’ve no interest in containing it.
‘It’s complicated.’
Teenage stubbornness at the worst possible time. I want to shake her. Who knows what she’s done, what she could possibly be implicated in – or implicating me in?
‘Bree, the child. Is she a relative’s? Did you just find her? Do you know who her parents are?’
‘She’s a relative’s. She got out of her garden and got lost so I’m looking after her.’
I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘That’s great. So they live nearby? Let’s go and take her home – I’m sure they’ll be relieved to have her back.’ I touch Bree’s hand lightly, as if to guide her up and to the door.
But Bree shakes her head. ‘She can’t go back to her parents yet. I kept her in the shed yesterday but I can’t keep doing that – the wood’s full of splinters and she cries heaps.’
I take a deep breath. Bree means well, but ... I just hope it’s a long time before she considers having her own children. I take a deep breath.
‘Okay, Bree, listen to me. If there’s something wrong, if her family have been mistreating her, you need to talk to your parents about this. I know it’s hard when you’re related to them, but you’re fifteen years old, Bree, you can’t just sort this out by yourself.’
‘I can!’ Her voice is still quiet, but desperately insistent. ‘I’m exactly the person who needs to do this, but ... I need you to help me.’
Suddenly crashing begins next to us, the sound of glass smashing and wood splintering. The house seems to shake to its foundations, the walls visibly vibrating. I duck down, my body bent over the child’s as she starts to cry. The initial shock is followed by a series of loud thuds which send smaller, but still terrifying, vibrations through the house. I hear a yell, footsteps from the other end of the house. Bree grabs the child and runs, her footsteps echoing against the wind as she takes the stairs two at a time, made louder with the weight of the child still between her arms.
THE NIGHT WIND IS SHARP. I’m in mismatched clothes; sneakers, knee-length cotton skirt, long-sleeved T-shirt, my hair loose. I round the corner at the end of the street, run up then downhill, making for the bush, steep land not yet surrendered to housing, muddy under foot. I push through someone’s gate, climb the fence at the back of the yard. Bree can’t have gone far, not with a child in her arms. I use my hands to steady myself, pull my way through the thick bush. I scan the darkness; a rustling in one direction and then another as I haul myself another metre up the slope, find enough ground to stand upright on.
‘Bree!’ When my voice comes it is laughably faint; even with the urgency of the situation I’m afraid to shout in this darkness. A bit louder: ‘Bree!’ I pull out my phone, which I managed to stuff in my bra as I left, but its light is of minimal help.
I catch a movement, drag myself over. Scratches all over my bare legs. The cold air aching at my throat. Bree clinging desperately to the child.
‘Bree, come on, let’s go home.’ I hold up my cell phone, illuminate her tear-stained face with bluish light.
‘The dinosaur left,’ she says, looking upwards at the hill. ‘My dinosaur. I tried to look after it well. I fed it three times a day. I created it – it never would have existed without me. No one cares about it like I do.’
I take a risk. ‘There was no dinosaur in your bedroom, Bree. I know this means something to you, something important, and I can help you with that, but ... dinosaurs are extinct.’
Bree chokes a little, softly.
‘I looked up your dinosaur. The Titanosaur? They grew to forty metres long? How long’s your bedroom? A tenth of that?’
‘There are other dinosaurs. Maybe it wasn’t a Titanosaur after all. Besides, they’re smaller when they’re young. I hadn’t had it very long.’ Her tone is defensive, but her voice is quiet.
‘What are you scared of?’ I ask, gently, betraying none of my frustration.
Bree looks upwards, up at the sky, and I can tell she is desperately trying to make it clear that she fears nothing. ‘Don’t assume I’m scared just because you are.’ She pauses. ‘That meteor’s going to arrive soon. It’s a near-Earth asteroid not big enough to hit the ground – I’ve been reading about it. That’s good because if they’re bigger they can cause all kinds of problems. Extinctions.’
‘Dinosaurs are extinct, Bree. Not us. We’re going to be fine.’
‘It’s going to explode here. Right above us. Soon. It’s ...’
‘You can’t know that. I watched the news too – the scientists say it’s not possible to predict where it will be, but most likely over ocean. We probably won’t even see it at all.’
‘Won’t you listen to me? Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I don’t know things. It will be here, I can sense it ...’
I bite my tongue. I’m not going to argue about the plausibility of sensing a meteor, not out here in the cold and dark. My priorities are to get the baby back to its parents (who must be frantic by now) without getting into any trouble myself, to get Bree home and ideally get her some help, because this kid is really not okay, and to get more than two hours’ sleep before my test tomorrow.
Not necessarily in that order of importance.
I’m suddenly almost uncontrollably homesick. Not for Hanoi, for my small but modern apartment, or the friends I would meet up with after work. Not for speaking my own language again, rather than having to think before every word; or even for my parents and my grandmother, and the house she was born in and never left. My homesickness is for something longer ago, before the turtle and the lake, for a life I’ve never really mourned. Children are resilient, they said, they are used to going along with their parents’ decisions, they adjust. I’d adjusted well, they said.
I’m homesick, right now, for a time when I didn’t have to make decisions, because I’m tired, so tired. For the drive back to my grandparents’ house, Thanh getting increasingly carsick next to me, his excited voice as he opened the door before we’d quite stopped (even though he was told not to) and charged roun
d the vegetable plot to the front door.
But now I’m thousands of miles away, and I’ve embraced change – a career, a new language, any number of new countries beckoning me – because that was how I could absolve myself. By being adaptable, and not crying when we gave away Thanh’s clothes, or every time my father struggled to talk.
My eyes are adjusting to the darkness. There’s just the three of us out here in the middle of the night, our breathing audible over the wind, running far too many thoughts through our heads until it seems like everything else just falls away, as if we could be standing forever, out here, in inadequate clothes against the winter air.
The explosion above throws us to the ground. Bree, with an instinct I’d never have guessed she had, falls on top of me, sandwiching the child between our bodies, sheltering her from the blast, then immediately sits up. Sounds shake through my eardrums. The light above, just for an instant, illuminates the whole suburb, the green of trees and white of houses, searing on to my eyes, red and yellow shapes lingering on my retinas against the darkness.
I hear glass smash, broken glass blown out of windows, smashing into bedrooms and onto the road, raining down and the tinkling goes on and on. Then the sirens start, one after another to form a chorus, every burglar and vehicle alarm in the suburb. Footsteps out on the street, yells rising above the sirens.
The child begins to cry, bawling at the noise surrounding her. Bree comforts her gently. Then she looks up at me.
‘We’re losing her.’
What do you mean losing her, I’m about to say. She’s fine, just shaken, a bit bruised at worst. But Bree is already running, limping slightly. Lights are coming on but the sirens are still going. I make after her along the road. She’s weighed down by the child, but her legs are longer than mine, and we’re almost at the gate by the time I catch up with her.