So I’m all alone now. Auntie sleeps, Dad fixes the barn ceiling, Mum’s dead and the summer holidays aren’t over yet.
Dad cooks bad food, like sausages still frozen on the inside. He can’t make pancakes, either. He gets a recipe off the internet, but the result is still a pulpy mess. We eat greasy, sugar-coated pancake-pulp.
Dad huffs, annoyed. ‘Must have been a bad recipe. I did everything just like it said. And these pans of Annu’s! Why doesn’t she buy new pots and pans, what with all that money she’s got? But then, there’ve been none on special offer anywhere. Still, they taste kind of…Don’t you think they taste like pancakes, Saara?’
‘I suppose.’
Dad takes to banging his feet against the bars of the bed again, and the doctor grants him more sick leave. Dad forgets to enrol me for swimming lessons; I was supposed to learn front crawl this summer. By way of consolation, he buys me a bagful of autumn clothes.
I stand in front of the mirror in a new turquoise shirt. My wrists poke out of the sleeves. The legs of the jeans are long enough, but I can’t do the button up.
‘They’re quite nice, aren’t they?’ Dad says, looking at my mirror image.
I turn to face him, then tear off the clothes. The shirt collar is so tight I can barely get my head out. Hasn’t he bothered to look at me all summer?
‘Stupid! You can’t do anything right!’ I shout, marching out of the room.
I’m so annoyed I don’t talk to Dad all evening. Even though he’s made macaroni bake for tea. The macaroni is hard and white. It stands on the plate, a cube cut out with a knife.