Jan Goldie
Ingrid and Toby bound into the kitchen. They’ve been hanging out in Ingrid’s room. I suspect she’s been showing off again.
Since the takeover, they stay close. They don’t fight like they used to. It’s as if they’ve realised each other’s value. Now, one month later, it’s just as well because we spend a lot more time together. Locked inside.
They’re excited today. It’s Ingrid’s birthday. Their faces light up at the sight of the feast I’ve spread out for lunch.
‘Cupcakes?’ says Ingrid. I hold her tight for a few seconds. Her lanky ten-year-old limbs wrap around me, squeezing my bones in a fierce hug.
‘Oh,’ I groan. ‘You don’t know your own strength.’
She pulls away in a rush. ‘Sorry, Mum. I always forget.’
‘Honey, it’s fine!’ I rub my ribs. They’re bruised badly. I ignore the impulse to check. I’d rather Ingrid didn’t worry. I don’t mind. As they say, love hurts.
The kids sniff the cupcakes and look longingly at the bowl holding the last of the maple syrup.
‘Just a minute while the water boils for a hot drink,’ I say.
‘You should get Ingrid to show you how fast she can move now!’ says Toby excitedly.
I realise it’s more than the birthday that’s keyed them up. I throw Ingrid a stern look.
‘It’s nothing, Mum. How did you manage to make cupcakes?’ she asks, playing it down.
‘I had some sugar saved, especially for birthdays.’
‘Will I have cupcakes on my next birthday?’ Toby asks.
A lump sticks in my throat like a river stone wedged in a pipe.
‘Toby, I don’t know if we’ll have any sugar left by winter ...’ If only I’d done a big shop the week of the takeover. If only – my guilty mantra. Like a bell tolling on and on.
‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he says.
Ingrid changes the subject. She’s become adept at this. She takes cues from my downturned mouth, jumps into the abyss of my unfinished sentences.
‘Toby, this can be your birthday lunch, too!’ she laughs and takes Toby’s little hands, whirling him around like a human airplane. He giggles and squeals and she spins him higher. His toes nearly touch the ceiling, as she too hovers above the ground. Carefully, she slows the circles down and plops him, laughing, in his seat. He puts on a party hat.
I watch it from a distance. Like most days, I feel fuzzy and indistinct. It’s as if the world is a movie and I’m an unwilling extra. My neighbour Pete says it’s a reaction to the takeover, a kind of long-term shock. He says it was like that in the last war, too. To me, it feels more like grief.
Ingrid pushes the gas barbecue closer to the table so we can benefit from the heat. The water’s almost boiled.
I peer at the tiny blue flames. At first barbecue food was a novelty. No power, candles, watching the stars while we ate outside, using up everything from the freezer. Now finding gas is a constant stress. I might have to swap to wood. I don’t like to take the kids outside too often, though.
‘Mum?’ Ingrid draws close, whispers in my ear. ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Yes, honey?’
‘Mum, I can hear things now,’ she says in a low voice.
I reach for the Milo, trying to keep calm. ‘What sort of things?’
‘People fighting.’ Sometimes we hear our neighbours arguing. Most people are good: in our neighbourhood they even share vegetable gardens. But over the main road, it’s a different story. There are people who’ve lost everything. Desperate people.
‘OK.’ I put a quarter teaspoon of Milo in each cup.
‘Mum, please let me help. I think the fighting is getting closer. We need more food. We need gas. I can look after myself.’ She grips my shoulders, hard.
‘I won’t put you in danger,’ I tell her.
‘But I can see in the dark, now,’ she says, pride in her voice. She gives me a little shake to emphasise her point. Her grip tightens. She’s hurting me. Her hair floats around her head, as if it’s full of static electricity.
‘That’s handy,’ I keep my voice casual. In a flash she’s behind me. As her hand grasps my arm, she gives me a shock.
‘I can do things really fast,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘And I’m very strong.’
‘But how?’ I say. I still my fear and turn to face her. I know it’s a question neither of us can answer.
‘I just can,’ she says, and releases me. My arm feels numb.
‘Mum, can we start?’ asks Toby.
‘Of course, honey.’
I light a precious match and Ingrid blows out her candle. The kids tuck into their cupcakes. I try to smile. As Ingrid eats, she cocks her head to one side, listening.
I think back to the first time I knew she was different. I’d woken at four a.m. Something felt wrong. In the glow from the nightlight, I could see she wasn’t in her cot. In a wild panic I ran my hands across the empty sheet, even checked under the bed. Then I switched on the overhead light and saw her. Above me.
Still swaddled and murmuring in her sleep, my sweet baby was floating close to the ceiling. Fast asleep and unaware.
My heart beating hard, I climbed the side of the cot and gently dragged her down. I was so scared she’d fall that I didn’t even consider how she’d got there in the first place. Her tiny eyelids flickered open at my touch. I rewrapped her blanket and put her back to bed.
‘Mum, these are so good!’ says Toby. ‘I wish we could have them every day. Can we—’
A loud banging on the door startles us.
‘Open up!’
Toby and I freeze. Ingrid leaps to her feet.
‘Open up or we’ll knock it down!’ yells a man. Glass shatters as a hammer breaks the stained-glass panels either side of our front door. Toby screams. I reach for Ingrid but she’s not there.
‘We’re coming in!’ shouts a woman.
A hand appears through the narrow gap.
‘Get away from my house!’ Ingrid’s voice is loud and confident. She’s outside.
‘Ingrid? No!’ Toby and I rush to open the door.
‘Leave now!’ Ingrid yells, approaching the strangers. Her face is red but her eyes are emotionless. Her hair stands on end, surrounding her head in a blonde halo. The strangers hesitate.
‘Get lost, kid,’ says the man. He lifts the hammer.
Ingrid comes at him so fast I have to squint to catch her movements. In a blur of kicks and jabs, he’s down on the ground. Blood drips from his nose. The woman runs to her husband, screaming.
‘Brian! Brian! Oh my God! What did you do?’ she yells at Ingrid.
Ingrid stares at the blood, stunned. She raises her eyes to meet mine. She’s back. ‘Mum,’ she mouths, tears welling.
I leave the woman to tend to her husband and take the kids inside. We close the door on their mutterings and keep watch as they limp away.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Ingrid.
‘I know.’
Toby leans over and whispers something in Ingrid’s ear. She gives a sad smile.
‘What did you say, honey?’ I ask.
Ingrid straightens. ‘He said I kicked arse.’
‘Toby!’ I find a brush and shovel to sweep up the glass, finding comfort in the mundane job. How would we defend ourselves from the weather – and worse?
‘I did help, didn’t I?’ Ingrid pleads with me. Why isn’t she terrified, like I am?
I shake my head, but deep inside, I know she’s right. She could be useful, to us and many others. ‘Ingrid,’ I say, rising to my feet.
She turns her tear-stained face to meet my gaze. Her bottom lip quivers.
‘Come here.’
I pull my strong, fast, ten-year-old daughter towards me and kiss the top of her head. Toby hovers nearby and I draw them both in for a group hug.
Something warm and unfamiliar surges through my veins. It stings as it reaches my heart, but I like the feel of it.
If love hurts, then hope burns.