Twitching with regret, Sally sprang from her chair, pacing at the end of Alice’s bed.
She shouldn’t have listened to John when he said Sally had no legal rights. She shouldn’t have accepted the story John relayed to her: after Sally called the station from the library, a patrol car went to the Hart property. Agnes welcomed the two officers in. Offered tea and scones. Apparently, Clem came home while they were there. Alice is just a mischievous kid, he’d said. No harm done. For John’s sake Sally did her best to let it rest. But meeting Alice had an effect on her she couldn’t control; she became all Sally could think about. A month or so after Alice visited the library, Clem walked brazenly through the door with the selkie book and Alice’s taped-together library card, as if he had every right. Sally hid behind a stack of books and let someone else serve him. After he left, she shook so hard she went home sick. Ran a bath. Drank half a bottle of scotch. Still, she shook. He’d always had that effect on her. He was her darkest secret.
Now, years later, Clem Hart was all anyone in town was talking about: the charming farmer who had kept his beautiful wife and curious daughter locked away, like a dark fairytale. So tragic, some exclaimed. So young, others said, averting their eyes.
The heartrate monitor beeped steadily. Sally stopped pacing. The veins in Alice’s closed eyelids ran like tiny violet rivers under her translucent skin. Sally wrapped her arms around herself. She’d met dozens of children in the library since Gillian died; none had unsettled her like Alice Hart. It wasn’t a coincidence, of course. It was because she was Clem Hart’s daughter. From the night John came through the front door and told Sally about the fire, she’d gone to the hospital every day, reading to Alice while the police and welfare authorities huddled together outside, deciding her fate. Sally made sure her voice was soft, clear and strong, in the hope that wherever Alice was inside herself, she would hear her.
The door slid open.
‘Hi, Sal. How’s our little fighter doing today?’
‘Good, Brookie. Really good.’
Brooke fussed over Alice’s charts and checked her drip, smiling as she took Alice’s temperature. ‘You’ve made her room smell like roses. I think you’re the only person I know who’s worn the same perfume all their life.’
Sally smiled, comforted by the warmth and familiarity of their old friendship. But the sounds of the machines filled her head. Unable to bear listening to them, Sally started talking.
‘She’s doing really well today. Really well. She loves fairytales.’ Sally held up the book she’d been reading. Her hand shook. ‘But who doesn’t?’
‘Right. Who doesn’t love happy endings?’ Brooke smiled.
Sally’s smile faltered. She knew as well as than anyone that happy endings weren’t always what they seemed.
Brooke watched her closely. ‘I know, Sal,’ she said gently. ‘I know how hard this is for you.’
Sally wiped her nose on her sleeve.
‘I haven’t learned a thing, not in all these years,’ she said. ‘I could have saved her. I could have done something. Now look at her.’ Sally’s chin wobbled uncontrollably. ‘I’m a stupid woman.’
‘Nope.’ Brooke shook her head. ‘Not on my watch. I won’t have that kind of talk, you hear me? If I were Agnes Hart, God rest her poor soul, I’d be so bloody grateful to you, coming here every day out of the love in your big heart to keep Alice company, reading her stories.’
At the mention of Agnes, Sally’s guts churned. She’d seen her a few times over the years. Twice driving through town, sitting in the passenger seat of Clem’s truck. Once in line at the post office. She was a wisp of a woman. Fading somehow, as if she might vanish right in front of your eyes. Standing behind her in line, Sally could hardly bear the fragility of her shoulders. Her reasons for being in the hospital aside, sitting with Alice was the least Sally could do for Agnes.
‘She can’t even hear me.’ Sally sagged in her seat. There was an ache behind her eyes.
‘Rubbish,’ Brooke snorted. ‘I know you don’t believe that, but sure, I’ll let you wallow.’ She nudged Sally affectionately. ‘Every day you’ve been here has helped her recovery. You know that. Her temperature’s coming down and her lungs are clearing. We’re keeping an eye on her brain swelling, but things are good. If she continues like this, she’ll be out of here by the end of the week.’
Sally frowned. Brooke, misunderstanding the tears in her eyes, leant forward to wrap Sally in a hug.
‘I know, isn’t it such good news about her grandmother?’ Brooke gave her a squeeze and straightened up.
‘Grandmother?’ Sally asked, her legs deadening.
‘You know, social services finding Alice’s grandmother.’
‘What?’ she barely managed to whisper.
‘Out on a farm out in Woop-Woop, somewhere inland, I think. Grows flowers. Farming’s in the blood, I guess.’
Sally couldn’t stop nodding.
‘I thought John was the one who called her to organise it all — he didn’t tell you any of this?’
Sally sprang out of her seat, hastily grabbing her things. Brooke took a cautious step towards her, offering a steadying hand. Sally backed away, towards the door, shaking her head.
‘Oh, Sal.’ Realisation filled Brooke’s face.
Sally slid the door open and rushed down the corridor and out of the hospital that had now taken the two children she loved most from her life.
Alice hovered, cradled by a calm nothingness. No ocean, no fire, no snakes, no voice. Her skin tingled in anticipation. Nearby, a deep gush of air and the sound of wings. Flap, flap, swoop; up, up, away.
A single fiery feather beckoned, leaving a trail of shimmering light behind it.
Unafraid, she followed.
5. Painted feather flower
Meaning: Tears
Verticordia picta | Southwestern Australia.
A small to medium-sized shrub with pink, cupped flowers that are sweetly scented. Once established, it will only live for around ten years, with a profuse display of bright flowers over a long season.
I’m — here. I’m — here. I’m — here.
Alice listened to her heart, the only way she knew how to steady herself and calm her emotions. It didn’t always work though. Sometimes hearing things was worse than seeing them: the dull thud of her mother’s body hitting a wall; the nearly silent, tiny exhalation of breath from her father when he hit her.
She opened her eyes and looked around for help, clamouring for air. Where was the storyteller from her dreams? Alice was the only person in the room, alone except for the machines beeping frantically at her side. Panic stung her skin.
A woman came rushing in. ‘It’s okay, Alice. Let’s sit you up so you can breathe better.’ The woman reached over her and pushed something on the wall behind her. ‘Try not to panic.’
The top half of Alice’s bed rose until she was propped up in a sitting position. The pains in her chest began to ease.
‘Better?’
Alice nodded.
‘Good girl. As deep breaths as you can manage.’
Alice breathed, as fully as she could, willing her heart to slow. The woman leant against the side of the bed, holding two fingers lightly against Alice’s wrist while she studied a little watch clipped to her tunic.
‘My name’s Brooke.’ Her voice was kind. ‘I’m your nurse.’ She glanced at Alice and winked. Her cheeks disappeared into deep dimples when she smiled. Ripples of blue and purple eyeshadow glittered in the folds of skin above her eyes, just as Alice had seen mother-of-pearl shimmer between the crags in oyster shells. The beeping slowed down. Brooke let go of her wrist.