Phantasm - Wattys 2017

-2-

She is five now, and she stands in the scrubby garden with her mother, while the sky chokes with sunlight, and I am a withering, waiting thing, by the stump of a tree. She smiles, dimples, brown hair, teeth with gaps in them, and maybe she is perfect. She holds a dandelion.

Oh, my heart, when I see the girl, it expands.

Her mothers hair is limper now, she hasn't washed it yet, she has stains on her dress, but she doesn't have another one, will the playground mums stare at her? She doesn't know. She knows that she's getting creases on her forehead, though.

She bends down, kisses her daughter on the forehead, and leaves, to the kitchen, to sort the dishes, or to her bedroom, where she sits on her bed with her old computer and tries to write a CV, or to the bathroom, to open the cabinet and retrieve her beloved pills.

I can't exactly describe the way I move; its a sort of shifting, sweeping movement, an ash cloud blossoming into the air, I am that sort of dark mass. But in whatever way I move, I move towards her, small, golden and brown, honey and chocolate, all the sweetness in the world. I look at her and her face changes, her eyes become less glinting, her mouth setting itself in a sterner curve, her brows together. She now has the contemplative look of a critic, shuttered, opinions grasped towards the chest, withdrawn.

And I know, instinctively, that it's because of me.

Now she is standing in a playground, scuffed knees, grey socks, her book under her arm. It's Alice In Wonderland, small blue copy, her mothers. She looks on the red-brick expanse, painted patterns on the concrete, rushing children on scooters and mums huddled together, discussing the carefree lives of their children. She's scared of going in there, of the older boys with grimaces on their faces, and the other girls looking at her judgementally, pityingly, cautiously, dismissively.

In truth, she just doesn't want to be looked at.

I am next to her, she can't see me, but I am there. The edge of me touches her shoulder, and I feel, in the emptiest sense, her warmth, the lingering strands of hair on her backpack, her fingers gripping the blue spine of her book. She is scared, but I will help her, she just has to avoid attention, just ignore them, they'll ignore you, that's what you want, isn't it?

Quick kiss on the cheek from her mother, off you go now. Be nice to the other kids. Don't forget your lunch. Have a good day. A bell rings, shrill, screaming, she flinches. Bodies tumble past her now, older girls with plastic hair slides, boys with footballs, little brothers and sisters on scooters shrieking as they circle around the playground, before their mothers make them leave. Teachers shouting, unfamiliar faces, harsh words pounding in her ears.

All she needs to do is sink, sink. Underneath the surface, underneath the crowd.

Maybe they won't see her there.

There, I know, is a shelter. Silence is her sanctuary.