nothing happens

nothing happens

[Originally published in Voiceworks #127: Gleam]

it’s 7:09 am and i already know that nothing happens today.

i sit in my bedroom for most of the morning. mornings are always stagnant in this house. i wish that tomorrow could be on the threshold of my bedroom, waiting as patiently as Grandmother. but tomorrow is so far away.

later, after i’ve waded through the cold fogging my room, i might go outside and wander around Grandmother’s garden—depending on the sun.

some days the garden is green, some days brown. i prefer it green. i prefer the flowers in bloom, the grass overgrown and knee-deep. Father hates mowing. it hurts his back because of an injury he got at work. he had to quit his job because of it. the workplace should’ve compensated him, but he was too scared to ask. too scared to lose his job.

i wish our garden was a wild field, dotted with weeds that look like flowers. i wish the highway was nowhere near us. i wish i could run until i reach the horizon. but the fence around our yard reminds me that we live sandwiched between other people. sometimes i hear their conversations floating through our kitchen window.

‘did you hear about that girl next door?’

for a moment, i think they’re talking about me.

‘which one?’

‘the one who called an ambulance last week? she said she was attacked.’

‘really? where?’

‘dunno. somewhere in the street, apparently.’

‘what, our street?’

‘guess so.’

‘there’s no way.’

‘that’s exactly what i thought. and how would she know, anyway? it’s too dark to see anything. she’s been in hospital ever since. reckon she’s just mad.’

their conversation is punctuated by the roar of cars a few hundred metres away. it’s the sound of humankind uniting at last. the fence separates us from the sight of it, but never from the noise.

Grandmother still hasn’t called me for breakfast, even though it’s time to leave my room behind—at least until nightfall, when i’ll be stuck in here again until morning. mornings are always stagnant in this house.

in the kitchen doorway i cradle a stick of sunlight as it slides through the window and across my palm. it’s slippery like a fish. kind of salty, too. my cupped hands let cracks of it splash to the floor.

our kitchen is a bit old-fashioned. Grandmother wanted it to look like her old flat in Moscow. the floor is small square tiles. they get grimy easily. the benches are crammed with jars and pans, the windowsill with flowerpots.

but Grandmother’s not here.

i can hear half of a conversation from my neighbour’s verandah. i guess she’s on the phone.

i step out through the back door, careful not to graze the beams of sunlight with my skin. touching them is okay if they come through a window, but i don’t think direct contact is a good idea.

‘but Garry, you said you believed me… no, no, no—i’m sorry, okay? i’m sorry. i won’t tell anyone. Garry—Garry, please!’

she’s always rambling on to Garry.

on second thought, maybe she’s not on the phone.

back inside, i prepare my own breakfast for the first time since Aunt Sash got her work visa and brought Grandmother with her to Australia. she works in an office somewhere in the city and we rarely see her, but at least she pays for the food in our fridge.

i start preparing the oatmeal Grandmother normally cooks for me, thinking maybe she went out for a walk and got lost. maybe she’s frolicking in the imaginary field outside. i step out again, just to be sure.

i close my eyes, and when i open them, i know i’ll see the field and not the fence. but Grandmother’s not there, either.

inside, i turn the stove off and taste the oatmeal. it’s not as good as Grandmother’s, even though i followed her recipe exactly.

i bet i know where she is. i bet she’s in the woods. i never go in there alone because Grandmother’s told me more than one story about men dragging little girls off paths and their bodies being discovered a few days later. but i never believed her, and anyway, Grandmother isn’t a little girl. she’ll be fine.

i cover the oatmeal and call Aunt Sash on the rotary dial.

‘Grandmother’s missing.’

‘again? don’t worry, she’s alright. just call me when she gets home, okay?’

‘are you sure?’

but she’s already hung up. i probably shouldn’t have disturbed her at work. she doesn’t have time to worry about Grandmother anymore.

i find a bottle of pancake mix in the pantry. the expiry date has long since passed, but it’ll be fine once cooked. i know because Father does that with juice sometimes. he boils the sourness away.

the stack of pancakes tastes a lot better than the oatmeal.

i’m washing the dishes and staring out the window at the field when the front door creaks open.

it’s not Grandmother.

i turn back to look out at the fence.

‘why are you washing the dishes?’

i shrug and slide a plate into the drying rack.

this spot is my favourite in the house. right here, by the sink and the window. the floor is almost always wet. i remember when we first moved here, when i lost my grip on a bowl and it spun to the floor. i waited for it to clang, for the shards to scatter like beetles. but the bowl was just there, gleaming, innocent. Father rose from his place at the computer, slow because that was right after he hurt his back. he looked at the bowl on the floor, at my splayed fingers.

‘we have a dishwasher for a reason,’ he says now.

‘i like the warm water. it’s like a massage.’

i was looking out the window as i always do, at the birdbath we used to have. rainbow lorikeets used to swoop down to sip from it, but we never washed it and one day found a dead parrot floating in there.

i slide another plate into the rack. ‘they say that dishwashing is one of the best remedies for sadness.’

‘who’s they?’

‘i don’t know. people. how was your run?’

‘good.’ he takes off his sunglasses. ‘the sun’s setting quick, though.’

‘what? is it? i thought it was only…’

‘it’s nearly six. rain’s coming in. it’ll be cold tonight.’

‘did you see Aunt Sash?’

‘no. why?’

‘i should’ve told you—Grandmother’s missing. i thought she’d be back by now.’

‘missing? did she go for a walk?’

‘i don’t know. she was already gone when i woke. should we—should we go and look for her?’

‘what? no. no, she’ll be fine. she always is.’

hopefully she’ll turn up by morning. mornings are always stagnant in this house.

Grandmother doesn’t return by morning. mornings are always stagnant in this house.

Father was right. last night was cold.

still, i contemplate staying in my bedroom because that’s what i always do. still, i think that when i go out into the cooler parts of the house, she’ll be there, stirring a pot of porridge like always.

Father’s in the kitchen, pouring soy milk into his cereal.

‘what should i have for breakfast?’

‘i don’t know. you’re not a little kid. you decide.’

‘i’ll have pancakes, then.’

‘pancakes? isn’t that a dessert?’

‘you just said i should decide.’

‘yeah, well, be reasonable.’

‘fine, i’ll have… avocado on toast.’

‘you always eat all of the avocados.’

‘okay, then, i’ll eat leftover vinegret.’

i slop the purple mass into a bowl. Grandmother made it the other day.

‘aren’t you worried about Grandmother?’

Father shrugs. ‘she always does this.’

‘that’s what Aunt Sash said. but she’s never been gone this long. and—wait. where’s Aunt Sash?’

he shrugs.

i drop the spoon into the bowl. it hardly makes a sound.

‘i’m not hungry.’

i swish out of the kitchen, through the living room, back to my bedroom.

gumboots. the glittery ones. i got them for a school camp a few years ago. they were huge then, so they fit fine now.

coat. yellow. Father hates yellow. i think it’s a Jewish thing.

mittens. i can’t believe i still have these. i’ve probably worn them twice ever, both times in Russia.

out the front door, muttering a farewell to Father, who’s got a spoonful of soggy cereal halfway to his mouth.

the door’s loud behind me.

the streets are loud, too. no cars here, almost ever. but they’re always there on the highway, which is the loudest noise of all. i’m heading in the opposite direction, but still they chase me—the dregs of cars roaring, crying, screaming.

i start running because my ears are already tuning for the forest symphony, ready for whistled birdsong and whispered breezes to stamp out the screech of traffic. i’m running because the sun’ll be peeking over the tops of houses any minute now. i’m running because last night was cold, really cold, and it still lingers on the ground and in the air. i should’ve worn running shoes.

i don’t know what the time is when my suburb turns into a forest. the trees don’t even look green in here—just dark. the shade is a damp cloth against my bare face.

i wonder what Father’s doing right now. i wonder how often he misses Mother.

i’m looking for traces of sunlight in the canopy when my ankle bends beneath me and i fall onto my side. i always do this.

my hands are in the dirt but i’m looking up at the leaves. i’ve startled a plume of butterflies out of their hiding spots on the mossy trees. i’d never have noticed them otherwise. their blue wings catch skewers of sunlight that are beginning to slide through the air above me. what if Grandmother forgot her sunglasses?

i stand, and as i brush the damp dirt off my clothes, i look down at my foot and i see them. i begin to understand what happened to Grandmother. i see what i’ve twisted my ankle on and i’m about to vomit the one spoonful of vinegret i managed onto these glimmering bodies under my feet.

i don’t know which way to step. i don’t want to ruin their hair. i don’t want to disturb their rest, these women with their skirts hiked up to their waists, pants pulled down below their knees. their eyes are closed. they could be asleep. but i know they’re not.

the breeze wisps over my skin, blows a jacket of goosebumps up my arms.

Grandmother’s told me about dead women found in these woods before. but i never believed her. nobody did.

i’m on my feet and i don’t know which way to step. i close my eyes. the trees spin around me, piercing the sky like knives, their thin legs running alongside me. but even in my head, i don’t know where i’m going.

i open my eyes. Grandmother’s been gone more than twenty-four hours. i’ve spent most of that time in my house, shielded from the cold winter air. what if she’s still here in the woods? what if she’s in the soil with the other women?

the trees are still and silent around me. i’m standing in a hair knot of forest and i know this place is not where i belong.

i think of my field back home. i think of the eternal sunshine lighting up the grass. it’s always so green there, so bright. so much wide, empty space stretching out to where i can’t see. nowhere to conceal dead bodies but in the soil beneath the flowering meadow. but our suburb is too small for a meadow and none of us have been home in years.

i think of our house bordered not by sprawling fields, but by rotting wooden fences, streaming traffic, the screech of kookaburras and cockatoos, and the din of our neighbours’ conversations.

i start running.

and i’m in the streets again, feeling reckless in the sun. the beams slap my arms. the concrete slaps my boots. i realise now that boots and gloves and yellow coats have no place here in Australia.

i round the corner and see the roof of my house glaring in the afternoon light. for a moment, i close my eyes, and my field reappears again, green and quiet and speckled with dandelions. the birds aren’t singing anymore.

the sound of a passing car forces my eyes open.

my house seems dim when i’m back inside.

Aunt Sash is on the couch, cradling her phone. the last rays of sunlight slant in through the window above her head, casting her face in shadow.

‘Aunt Sash!’

‘where have you been?’ she lets go of her phone. i can hear her knuckles pop as she moves her fingers.

‘i was looking for Grandmother. well, i tried, but—’

‘i’m here.’

i turn and see her emerge from the hallway beside me. her hair is mangled with knots, the pale skin of her face damp like she’s just splashed water over it.

‘Grandmother! are you alright? where were you?’

she’s bruised. badly. red scratches run up her forearms, and she’s still wearing sunglasses.

Aunt Sash rises from the couch and walks towards us. ‘she was in the woods, of course. i told you not to worry about her.’

‘the woods? i knew it. but where did you sleep?’

‘on the ground. or maybe it was a log.’

i realise that Grandmother isn’t looking at me. at least, she’s not seeing me. i can tell even through the lenses of her sunglasses.

‘what happened? what were you doing all that time?’

‘looking for mushrooms. i got lost. it was so cold. and i—heard them when i was sleeping.’

‘you… you heard them?’

‘tigers.’

Aunt Sash sighs behind me.

‘tigers? what? no, i think you mean—i think you mean the…’

‘there was a—an enclosure and…’ she shakes her head. ‘they’re breeding tigers out there.’

‘are you sure? i mean, how could you see anything at night?’

‘nothing happened,’ Aunt Sash says.

i’m looking at Grandmother’s sunglasses. i step away.

‘take off your sunglasses, Grandmother.’

when she does, i notice the crimson imprints they’ve left in her skin.

the first thing she sees isn’t me but something inside her head. i can tell because her eyes are directed towards me but i don’t feel anything.

i say something, then say it louder. i touch her shoulder. take her arm. wave my hands in front of her face. nothing happens.