15 JULY 1997
The gate banged to a regular rhythm in the breeze. Amy watched it from the kitchen window where she stood immobile, unflinching from the heat of the sun which burnt her face through the glass.
The girls had run in from the canal. Flying over the grass as if a wolf were chasing them. They had pushed in through the back door, past her standing at the sink. Amy turned her head to the sounds of their voices upstairs. Laurel was crying, she thought. She should go up there and see what was wrong. Somehow, though, it was as if the heat of the afternoon was like molasses, fixing her to the floor, dripping through her and congealing at her feet. Even breathing was difficult, the air hot in her lungs as if she were on fire inside.
‘I’m sorry!’ she heard one of the girls yell. Perhaps Rosie. Her voice was higher, it still had the timbre of a baby’s. Amy’s forehead creased. She really needed to go and see what was wrong.
She turned and moved one foot, sliding it across the linoleum, her bare toes sticking to the dirt that covered the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see something dark by the door, a puddle of rust. She dragged her other foot to meet the first and bent slowly to the stain. She straightened, frowning, and pulled the back door open. Another patch of colour spread across the stoop. She mustered the remaining energy she had and stepped outside into the garden. Across the grass, wide gaps between them, were more dots of brownish-red.
Before she knew it, Amy was at the gate, bringing her hand with surprising speed to grab it, stopping it mid-swing. She held it open and moved slowly outside the garden’s boundary. A solitary chirp above in the trees accompanied her as she moved softly underneath the branches beside the canal, her feet gliding over the mulch and shingle.
As she walked, Amy felt her heart thumping inside her. It was an unfamiliar sensation. For months, she had been dead, banked down by cotton wool soaked in unhappiness. Now, though, as she watched the splashes of colour continue, leading her on, she could actually feel the blood swimming in her veins, bringing life to her arteries, her limbs.
When Amy reached the end of the trail of spots, she looked down at the dead girl for a long time. The girl’s eyes were black, unseeing and cold. Blood had crusted along her hairline, the skin around her earlobe pulpy like coagulated porridge. Her limbs were extended in a star shape, hands thrown up next to her face. Amy’s gaze travelled over her, taking it all in.
A rustle back down the path caused her to glance up. Outside the gate, balancing on her toes, was Rosie.
She stood there, her fingertips resting on the wood to steady herself, her dark hair reflecting the light of the sunbeams picking their way through the trees.
Amy looked at her daughter, drinking in her beauty, drinking in her obedience, warm and peaceful like something you could always, always depend upon.
She smiled at her, a genuine smile that lifted her face, caused her eyes to crinkle, in a motherly way, she thought. And Rosie smiled back, nodded quickly and then darted back through the gate.
The bird above Amy took flight, its wings ripping through the branches, startling her, making her blink. She felt the air kissing her skin, goosebumps flowing down her arms as she wondered again about the baby on the ground. Wondering what it had taken to make her little body so damaged and broken.
Amy turned and began to make her way back to her garden, thinking of her daughters, and particularly of her little Rose-Red. Such a precious girl.
And always so very eager to please.