Demi's Afghanistan

[Demi’s Dad struggles to cope with his trauma from the Afghanistan war, and Demi and her mum struggle with the change in him. When Demi’s Dad disappears, will she and her mum continue to love him, and try to find him? ]

Demi had just had her tenth birthday the third time her dad came home from Afghanistan. She grasped her Mum’s damp hand as they trembled with longing to see his face, outside customs in the Brisbane airport. Her first leap into his arms on previous furloughs had been at home, but this time she had come to the airport. She shut her eyes and imagined his strong arms, and his smell which reminded her a little of the damp clay with which she made play cakes as a preschooler, always decorating the tops with dandelion daisies.

He was around a lot then, she thought.

She remembered how his presence would fill the house and make Mum hover like a bee around a flower. He had been born down south: I’m a Melbourne boy, he always said. He had come into the world on the street outside the front room of a red brick, cast-iron-lace trimmed, terrace house on a narrow street full of similar houses in Fitzroy. He had shot out of his mother so fast, her grandfather said it was like going for the mark at football. He would often try to recreate the scene at the front of the terrace house with the lady next door standing under her porch light gazing over the low sagging palling fence, wondering why the ambulance never left the street. The van was in motion, when the officer with the beefy arms called out, “Stop, and get back here, the baby is coming!”

Afterwards they had taken her grandma, to the hospital. The surprised duty doctor who was expecting to help with a delivery, frowned with confusion, and then arranged a sterile room for an after-birth exam. “He pronounced them, ‘Well, safe and sound,’ and congratulated the veteran Ambulance Officer. That man was happy. Later his wife brought your grandmother a crocheted baby blanket.”

The story was part of their family lore and the lively way he told it, part of her grandpa. He had died a few years back. When she thought of him, she could still fell herself curled into his warm lap, sensing a family happy for one another.

She waited for him, her dad: an excited happiness tingled through her body. The great, white tarmac-bordered complex, with its occupants rushing in all directions carrying baggage of all kinds, fascinated her. The echoing voices through the public address system gave messages that jumbled together and blared out. She clutched her Mum’s sweaty hand.

Then she saw Dad and moved forward, her curls bounced, and feet flew. She embraced his waist, crying ‘Daddy.’ He bent down and held her, then putting her away from him said, “My Demi has grown. Wow, you look so pretty.”

Then he and Mum hugged so long she wished they would stop, and then they started kissing. Demi could not take her eyes of them even while she was aware of onlookers. Mum kissed him again, and whispered, “My Michael is home.”

They walked slowly to the nearest bench and sat down pressing themselves together, as if the three of them were a chain of paper dolls shaped to never be separated. Her cheek was pressed against his chest where she sat on his left side. Her cheek was burning from the indentation of a button on his uniform, but she could feel his heart beating steadily.

There they sat until her mother asked, “How did the flight go?”

“As good as could be expected but I didn’t sleep much. God, I’m glad to be on home soil.”

“Well, I guess we’d better get you out of the airport then, and back to the house.”

Demi remembered her dad had not spent any time in their current house. The move had been made about a month into his eighteen-month tour. “Daddy, remember I wrote you about our new house. You will be able to enjoy the big verandah. I like looking out at the street.” She swung his hand, and he gripped her hand tighter. “Mum helped me decorate my room with cushions and a dream catcher we made together. I want you to see it!”

He did not answer though she could feel the callouses at the base of his fingers and could not hear his voice. When she pulled past him to look into his face his eyes were sad, underscored by dark shadows.

When they arrived home, her dad sat on the wide wooden porch, surveying the street lined with cars and renovated 'Queenslander' houses. He chose the seat next to hers, partly screened by a vibrant Bougainvillea that was trained between the posts.

He sat drumming his fingers against the arm of the Adirondack chair and seemed to be waiting for something. She chatted for a while about school, the race she had beat the boys in, her friend Beth’s new bike, and going to Spotlight to get soft floral cottons for the cushions. During her account of weaving the dream catcher, her dad gave her a tense smile now and then and nodded. Finally, she gave into his silence and climbed onto his lap. She snuggled up, resting her head against his chest where she could feel his steady heartbeat.

Her friend Beth came by on the new pink bicycle with twenty-inch wheels. She came close to the porch, calling “Demi, look at these stickers I got to put on the frame.” After pausing to say hello to Demi’s Dad she chattered about the ride she was about to take with her parents. Demi did not move from her father’s lap or say a word. Beth kicked at the pedals, and then standing and pushing off, rode down the street and around the corner.

A noisy old car passed opposite them in the street. Dad shuddered.

Dad threw Demi to the ground. She screamed. He crawled over her and along the verandah and dropped behind a fuchsia bush. Mum appeared. “Demi, are you ok?” She helped her daughter up. “I was just fixing lunch.” The sharp smell of onion was strong on her palms and Demi turned away.

“What happened?”

Demi pointed to the end of the verandah. Hand in hand they walked together and looked down. There, wedged between the boards and the vibrant fuchsia bush was her father, grasping an imaginary rifle, trembling. Drops of sweat fell from his temples and his face was turned away from them. The grip of her Mum’s hand tightened, and she saw tears edge their way out of her Mum’s eyes and down her cheeks. They crouched down, and Mum noticed that a ragged splinter had gouged itself into Dad’s left palm. The broken skin was red and puffy around it.

He was still staring into space, and did not blink when Demi whispered, “Daddy.” Mum sniffed, and turned to Demi, “Grip his left hand and shoulder, hard. Use your whole weight.”

Raising her voice she said,

“Michael Wade,” her Mum said, “Michael Wade, it’s lunch time, Michael!”

Minutes crawled by. The humming of cicadas grew louder, and it seemed like the disembodied voices of their near neighbour grew softer. Demi yanked her free hand from her Mum’s grip. Her fingers felt sweaty and crumpled. Her Mum seemed frozen, leaning forward like a doll stuck on the bonnet of a car. Demi shut her eyes and pictured the wedding doll on the car at her aunt’s wedding the previous month. She blocked out the feeling of her father pushing her down.He snapped to attention, and Demi plopped down beside him like a ragdoll, filling the rough branches of the fuchsia scratch her soft skin.

She felt a hand on her head. It was not her Mum’s hand. Her eyelids fluttered open. Her Dad was bent towards her with dried flowers and leaves smeared over, and fragments falling from, his shirt.

“I’m sorry sweetheart. Oh Demi, I’m sorry.”

His face was red, and his eyes were watery. She remembered her Mum stroking the back of his head.

The following day Mum said Dad had a doctor’s visit. Demi pouted at her Mum.

“I thought we were going Christmas shopping.”

Her parents took Demi to Beth’s place, which made everything not so bad though she would rather have been watching the decorative lights change on the Christmas tree in King George Square with her dad. He had said he missed that in one of his emails, Mum said. Her parents were gone all day. She came to the point where she did not want to watch another movie with Beth.

That night at dinner Mum and Dad were quiet and unsmiling. After she finished telling what happened at Beth’s house, the only sound she could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock that Mum got from grandma. She was surprised to see her parents had left food on their plates. When the clock struck seven times, Demi asked if she could have dessert. Demi was still eating her vanilla ice cream, which they allowed her to have even though she did not finish her French beans, when Dad got up from the table without a word and turned on the TV. Later, Dad took two pills from a white bottle and kissed her goodnight from under a throw rug which covered him as he stretched out on the loungeroom couch . It was the second night he had not gone into the beautiful bedroom her mother had prepared.

Later, Demi heard whispers, and she crept to the living room door. At first, she could not make out what her parents were saying. Then her mother spoke louder, “Michael, come to bed, it is more comfortable there.”

Dad sighed. “Sue, it’s easier for me to sleep here.”

Dad kicked the cat off the couch, and it came and jumped on her bed. The last thing Demi heard was her Mum slamming the bedroom door. The house slowly settled its' creaking. The only sound she could hear was her father’s heavy breathing. She drifted into sleep.

When morning came, Demi was huddled against her Mum’s back. She had a dim memory of waking in the night and looking for her Mum.

Mum said, “Hello sleepyhead.”

She giggled and tried to wiggle her arms right around Mum. She lay still and listened to her father’s heavy breathing again. Pressing close, she asked,

“What’s wrong with Daddy? Why is he taking pills?”

Mum lay on her back, her fingers brushed against Demi’s.

“You know how strange Dad acted the other day— “

“Yes, he scared me Mum. I have a bruise on my back.”

“Your father didn’t mean to hurt you. He has something called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“What is that? Why does he have it?

“It’s something that can happen in the mind of a person who’s been through a very bad experience.”

“Like going with the army to Afghanistan?” Demi’s voice trembled.

“Yes, and seeing people die.”

“Has Dad seen people die? “

“Yes, three of his friends died, just a month before he came home. It’s like his mind won’t let him stop thinking about what happened to them.”

“Poor Daddy.”

The men sat on the house verandah: men with solemn faces and shorn heads, in “militant solidarity” Mum said, drinking from long-necked brown bottles and playing cards. It was the third weekend in a row they had been there. Mum had become angry, Demi could see. Mum retreated to the lounge where she sat and read a magazine. Demi was not upset about them being there. The one called Kelly had given her chocolate: he said it was the same sort the troops had given the kids in Afghanistan. She sat on the front steps of the verandah until it seemed the men forgot she was there.

Kelly asked her dad, “How are things with the Mrs?”

Her Dad shrugged. Kelly’s mate Nicolo piped up, “Don’t get chucked out like Smith did. He slept on different people’s couches for six months.”

Demi’s Dad stood up. Kelly grabbed Nicolo’s arm, “Settle down. Smith’s Mrs didn’t like him before he joined the army.” He squeezed Nicolo’s shoulder, and nodded toward me, and Nicolo raised his hand and grinned, “Hey there.”

After that she went inside and sat with her Mum for a while. Later, she escaped her Mum’s grim expression and drooping posture by a permitted visit to Beth’s house.

That night her parents shouted. She remembered shuddering beneath the blankets in her bed; something smashed in the kitchen. Her Mum’s voice sounded high and whiny.

“Please Michael get some help. Please.”

“You want me to have visits with that head doctor at veteran’s affairs.”

“Yes.”

“Why? I’m OK; I’ve got my mates. They understand what I’ve been through.”

“Some of them need help as much as you do.”

“Are you knocking my mates?”

“No, some of them have been through trauma too, and need a professional’s help. That’s all.”

“What would you lot know about fucking trauma?” Her dad was roaring.

“Please, Michael, please”

Demi buried her head under the pillow.

Two days later when Demi came home from school Dad was gone. She thought, Maybe he'll be here for dinner. With his mates.

At the dinner table, she waited until her food was cold. She began to fidget with her fork, the stainless steel tapping, tapping against the painted wooden dining table.

"Demi, stop it, eat your food! "

Her mum's plate was still half full, and when Demi had picked at her food for a while, her mum stood up grabbed the plates and cutlery and went into the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the sound of a knife edge against stoneware as her mum scraped food into the bin.

The next day, police officers were sitting at the kitchen table when she got home. About a week later Grandma came. She wrapped her arms around Demi’s Mum, “Oh Sue,” she said.

Demi’s Mum wept.

Grandma cooked roast lamb and potatoes for tea and read to her from a book about a girl who reunites with her family in war-torn Afghanistan. Demi grew tired of her grandma’s voice. She said, “I want to be alone.” She started to read to herself, but then thought, My Dad is gone, and it seemed as if the war had swallowed him and would suffocate her.

Outside the door she heard her mother say to Grandma, “You weren’t reading her that book about Afghanistan?”

Grandma was silent. “Peter Rabbit would have been much better,” Mum almost shouted.

“Shh, she’s tired.”

Demi heard their feet walking slowly toward the kitchen. Her eyelids were droopy, and her chest hurt.

She woke late in the night her grandma had come and heard voices. Hiding behind the kitchen door, she listened to Mum’s words. “He’s been gone ten days and it seems like a year. He hasn’t called and doesn’t answer my calls, he hasn’t used his ATM card, none of his mates have heard from him. How hopeful do you want me to be? I’d rather be ready.”

Her Grandma leaned toward Mum and rubbed her back.

“I love him Ma, but what does that mean right now? I feel so helpless.”

The weeks dragged by. Summer became autumn, and Demi’s teachers began to complain about her. One day she was taken out of the Year Five Mathematics test because she refused to work. She threw balls of paper at the back of the boy in front of her. When her Mum was called and had to leave her work at the local supermarket to come to the school, she stared at Demi. In her eyes, was that same disappointed look she had given to Demi’s father and his friends.

Two weeks later Demi went to Beth’s for a sleepover. Her mum was going out for a girl’s night with her friends. Demi thought she seemed too cheerful. When she had returned home her father’s razor and shaving balm were gone from the bathroom. The spot beside the hallstand reserved for her dad’s shiny black lace ups, was empty. Later that night she climbed into bed with her Mum. While the darkness hid her Mum’s face Demi asked, “Do you think Daddy’s dead?”

There was silence, and she beat her Mum’s back with clenched fists. Her Mum wriggled away from her then grabbed Demi’s arms and tried to get her arms around her. “Stop, Demetria, stop.”

Demi sobbed. Her Mum held her for a long time. Finally, she spoke,

“I don’t know. If he doesn’t want me to find him, how can I find him?”

The words were like dark birds perching on her mind, but hope fluttered free. Maybe, maybe I could find Dad, she thought. She fell asleep and dreamed of the Fitzroy house. She woke. An image of red bricks and cast iron falling towards her made her tremble. She thought she heard her father’s voice. She sat up, “Daddy, Daddy,” but there was no reply.

The following year Demi met her Year Six teacher Miss McTighe. During a class about social media, the teacher explained that she had once found her dog by posting a video on Instagram. “My dog ran away from my neighbour who was caring for him while I was on holiday. A man brought him back from 50 kilometres away. Social media can be really helpful.”

Demi’s heart moved in her chest. She was ready to do something to find her dad.

When Demi had gotten home that afternoon, Kelly had stood on the front porch, talking to her mum through the screen door. She heard him say her dad’s name, and the sound went through her. As Kelly left, he ruffled her hair; she remembered Dad used to do that. It was so long since someone said Michael. She needed to find him.

Later, her Mum went out the back to potter around the garden, snipping this and that, and poking out weeds. Demi went to her wardrobe and found her Mum’s camera. She clicked through the photos. There was one clear photo of her dad sitting on the porch thirteen months before. She uploaded the photo to her Facebook page. She typed a post: This is a photo of my dad, Michael Wade, an Afghanistan veteran. If you see him, please contact his daughter Demi. She added her email address and clicked the button.

The following night after her Mum was in bed, she made another post: I am looking for my dad, Michael Wade, a veteran of the Afghanistan War. He may be in the Melbourne suburb of Fitzroy. If you see him, please contact me ASAP. With it, she uploaded a picture of herself with her dad taken two years before. She sat and gazed at the photo on the screen for a long time. She should make a page just for Dad: Help find Michael Wade. Beth would help her.

Demi arrived home from school, one day, and found a note from her Mum. It read: Come around the corner to Beth’s house. She gulped down a glass of cold lemonade and changed out of her uniform into shorts and a t-shirt. When she walked up Beth’s driveway, she could see her Mum standing on the porch with Beth’s Mum, and Beth, who waved to her.

They sat down on the porch and Demi joined them.

“Demi,” her Mum said, “I know you’ve been looking for your dad. I want you to know I’ve been looking too. I received a phone call from Melbourne today.”

“Dad?”

Her Mum shook her head. “But I believe the man who called has truly seen your dad. He has been living on the streets of Fitzroy. The caller said he believes he is homeless, because he visits a shelter there to get food.”

“But Dad has a home and food here.” Tears filled Demi’s eyes. Her mother wiped them away.

“Here, Demi, this is the picture the man sent.” Demi stared at the picture, sent by the caller to her Mum’s phone. It showed a tall man with straggly hair covering his chin, his blonde hair was collar length, and he wore a mustard-coloured polar fleece jacket. Then she looked at the eyes, the nose so like hers. She had been holding her breath and released it. “I really think it’s Dad.”

“So, do I. It looks like we’re going on a trip.”

Her mum smiled. Demi reached out and held on, her hand filled with hope.

———————— The End ————————