Small Blessings

by Emily Brewin

  She freezes on the spot, afraid to move in case she misses him. Fear soaks through her like chilled water and suddenly she hates herself for being so rough. Just like Vera. What was she thinking, hitting him like that, letting him go?

  The smeared glass door at the base of the building slams as a girl in a footy beanie exits. Rosie pulls it open again and searches the bottom floor, checking each doorway twice before inspecting the two floors above. She paces the length of them before realising he might have gone home. Relief drives her up the stairs, two at a time.

  As the breath rattles in her chest she can almost see him, sitting on the step at their door, shoelaces undone, thin fingers fiddling on the ground in front of him. But when she reaches the landing, craning her neck, it’s empty. She runs along the narrow landing, past Mr Granthall’s, to test their door. It’s locked like she left it.

  The sickly scent of incense catches the wind from a flat below as she leans over the railing to run her eyes the length and breadth of the yard. She can’t focus on any one thing. Her eyes dart from tree, to car, to the bin overflowing beside the gate, which opens onto Petey’s school.

  A scrap of his red jacket is all she needs, and it seems so close, a blink away. She can visualise the tiny tear in the fabric near his elbow and smell the Palmolive shampoo in his hair. It’s impossible he isn’t here. But then her brain registers he’s not, and terror burns her throat.

  ‘Petey,’ she screams finally from the landing. ‘Petey! Petey!’

  A door opens behind her.

  ‘Petey!’

  A hand touches her arm, then takes hold of it, pulling her back from the rail.

  She won’t let go.

  ‘Petey!’

  A flash of pink lipstick. ‘What’s wrong, love?’

  Her grip on the rail weakens. ‘Have you seen my son?’

  Her neighbour’s eyes narrow beneath a puff of blonde hair. ‘Is he missing?’

  Missing. The word finds a raw spot and stings. She nods her head slowly and tries to make sense of it all. The vacant playground, the bare step, the empty flat beyond the door, his bed and clothes, the crooked set of his smile while she’s cooking. She gulps air like a fish.

  ‘Another bloody racket,’ a rough voice comes from the flat behind them.

  Rosie holds her throat.

  ‘The kid’s gone,’ the woman calls back.

  Her neighbour’s hands are cool on her cheeks and for a moment she has something to focus on. Slowly it becomes easier to breathe. Air slithers down her windpipe. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

  The husband emerges, swearing.

  ‘We’d better call the cops.’ His wife’s pink lips move slowly and deliberately. ‘C’mon.’

  ‘I don’t want to get mixed up in this shit,’ he says, maroon tracksuit pants sagging at the arse.

  But his wife pushes past him, guiding Rosie into their flat where the stink of unemptied ashtrays mingles with cheap perfume.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she hears the copper ask faintly on the other end of the line.

  And her neighbour’s voice like a scald replies, ‘I need to report a missing child.’

  Isobel

  THERE’S A SIGN hanging in the window of her favourite café that says ‘closed’ in elaborate black writing. She can’t recall it switching from open, but suddenly it’s almost dark and the street is empty. From the car she watches Jen from the florist next door taking the last buckets of flowers in. Isobel had been there last week, buying white lilies for the sideboard in the hallway.

  Jen adjusts a checked scarf in her hair before bending down to pick up a tub of carnations. She goes inside. Isobel watches her before noticing a bunch of yellow jonquils lying on the edge of the kerb. They’ve been trampled and look like a scatter of crushed butterflies.

  Jen comes out again to wind in the heavy canvas awning above her shopfront. She stops, waves briefly in the direction of the car and goes back inside. Soon the lights in the shop go out. Isobel’s shoulders drop.

  The night is a comfort. It seeps into the car through the cracks at the door and the engine. It envelops her until she looks forward to the moment she can’t see her reflection in the rear-view mirror or the slight curve of her stomach over the seatbelt where the baby had been. But it never gets that dark in the city. The streetlights flick on and her phone rings brightly in the console nearby.

  Marcus, it flashes.

  He was home at a decent hour last night, making chicken soup that he delivered to her in bed because she wasn’t feeling well. It smelt like the days of their courtship and almost brought her undone. But it was too hard to tell him she’d lost the baby when he seemed to be softening, finally, in the way she needed him to.

  When he sat on the edge of the bed and told her he was going to a conference in the country on the weekend, the chicken flesh granulated in her mouth. The soup wasn’t a peace offering after all. Suddenly it felt right keeping the news from him. Relief fluttered through her like feathers. She could hold onto the illusion a little longer. She was scared what might happen if she let it go.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  He flattened out the quilt near her leg with his hand and said he couldn’t remember, so she knew he had secrets, too. The soup began to feel offensive. It spilt and stained the quilt when she pushed it away.

  He mopped at the mess with a paper towel and didn’t complain. When he finished, she slipped between the covers and closed her eyes. The damp sheet stuck to her legs, and her stomach churned with too much emptiness.

  ‘Hi.’ She picks up the phone from the console, catching Marcus off guard.

  ‘Didn’t think you were going to answer.’

  A dog trots past, stopping to sniff the jonquils.

  ‘Well, I did.’

  He takes his time. ‘Just wanted to let you know I’ve got a late meeting.’

  There’s music in the background. The Happy Mondays maybe, something she hasn’t heard since university. If she had the energy she’d question him about it, ask him when he started listening to music at work. But she doesn’t.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ he asks loudly, as if he’s suddenly very close to the phone. The music disappears.

  She can almost feel his breath on her cheek. It makes her want to close her eyes but then the music returns and she tells him she’s fine.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He sighs. ‘We’ll catch up tonight.’

  They both know she’ll be in bed by the time he gets home. And she doesn’t bother telling him her mother has taken another turn for the worse.

  ‘Bye.’ She hangs up abruptly.

  The light in front of the car casts a white pool across the street. She sinks back and watches a young woman stride through it, stopping next to the florist to scan the street.

  ‘Petey!’ she yells, cupping her hands to her mouth.

  It’s cold but the woman’s wearing a thin white t-shirt and her hair is damp. She calls again, more urgently than before, and whacks the brick wall. There’s something familiar about the way she stands, like a caged animal. Isobel understands the clench of her jaw and the tight curl of her fists.

  The woman dashes down the street and around the corner. Isobel clambers out of the car and walks quickly in the same direction, stepping on something soft. She stops and crouches to peel jonquil petals from the ground. They’re battered and lifeless but when she lifts them to her nose they smell like sunshine.

  The little boy under the rowboat that day rushes back. The way he buried himself inside it to escape the world. She did the same, in the back of her father’s Kingswood, breathing in the hot vinyl seats. It was safe there from the prissy pigtails of the Nottingham girls. Safe from her mother’s prying eyes and eager questions.

  She listens for the young woman’s voice again, but there’s only the distant noise of Friday night traffic and the tick of the streetlight overhead.

  Rosie

&n
bsp; A DUSKY SHROUD falls over the world the day Petey disappears. It covers her face, sinks into her eyes and mouth, and blocks up her nostrils when she breathes.

  Two police officers, Constable Nassar and Constable Neil, come asking where he likes to go and what he likes to do. It’s not hard to explain. Mostly it’s the flats, school, the park and the shops. Mostly, he’s with her.

  The police absorb the space in her flat. Constable Nassar sits with his legs spread, too big for her couch, staring suspiciously at the matchstick creatures hanging from the curtains like spiders while Constable Neil scribbles notes on her pad. Eventually they take her key and check Mr Granthall’s, then knock on the idiot’s door. His wife answers. The police ask if she’d mind feeding Churchill.

  ‘No worries, mate,’ the idiot cuts loudly over his wife. ‘Happy to.’

  The smug tone of his voice would usually infuriate her but Rosie’s too numb to notice.

  Constable Neil returns to ask for more details while Constable Nassar knocks on other doors. Rosie tells her that Petey loves water and routine and naming the capital cities of Europe. She tells her he loves hiding then watches as the constable raises an eyebrow. It’s not hard to tell what she’s thinking.

  ‘Right, well we’ll check all this out.’ The officer gives a smile that’s supposed to be reassuring.

  Constable Nassar comes back from talking to the neighbours. She wonders what they said about her, about Petey. Everyone on the floor knows everyone else’s business. It’s impossible not to when you live on top of each other. She knows, for instance, that the Dawouds next door put their kids to bed at 8 pm and that Mrs Wang, two down, is teaching her granddaughter to cook.

  The walls and doors of the flats are flimsy, so even those she rarely sees she knows. Their accents and telly programs and mealtime aromas give them away.

  She wonders who saw her that morning yanking Petey from the railing, and who hears her yell in frustration at him. The idiot next door can’t be the only one. She puts her head in her hands. The whole floor must think she’s a terrible mother. And she is. Constable Neil is right, Petey ran away and although no one has said so, it’s her fault.

  She ventures out, searching every nook and cranny of the tower block again for signs of him while more police scan the yard, his school and the roads beyond to the park. At some point Constable Nassar tells her they’re checking CCTV footage of the area. The camera on Dulcy’s shop shows Petey running into the yard before disappearing out of range.

  When the police go she leaves too, because it’s impossible to sit still. She walks then jogs the streets, calling his name, waiting with bated breath for an answer.

  He’s disappeared into thin air and her brain can’t comprehend it. One minute he was a solid mass beneath her hand, the next, nothing. Finally she goes home and sits stiffly on the couch, clutching her thighs as the window slowly lightens and all around her are the beginnings of a new day. Her phone lies on the coffee table nearby. She could call Skye or Maureen or Vera perhaps, but talking about it will make it worse.

  The room is bright when the phone vibrates then rings, cutting through the silence. She snaps it up without thinking, without looking, desperate for news from the police.

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here …’ She inhales. ‘Have you found him?’

  There’s a pause that she reads all kinds of bad news into then the voice says, ‘It’s me. Joel.’

  A truck or a motorbike rumbles on the road below. Rosie stands, the last day and a half falling into place. She’d been so busy blaming herself she hadn’t considered Joel. The stupidity of this hits her like a punch.

  ‘Where is he?’ she demands shakily.

  There’s no answer and for a moment she thinks he’s gone.

  ‘Just talk to me,’ he replies.

  It takes all her strength not to scream down the line. Her hand trembles as she hangs up to dial the police as fast as she can.

  The detectives, dressed in suits, could be anyone except for the fact she’s seen their photo ID.

  ‘I’m Detective Senior Constable Khanna and this is Detective Senior Constable White,’ the woman says with a smile, offering her hand. She’s tall and has hair the same colour as the liquorice straps Petey begs her to buy at the shops. Detective White is small and has a moustache that makes him look suss.

  Rosie lets them into the flat then gestures to the couch as she drags a kitchen chair out from under the table. They say thanks but remain standing, surveying the room the same way the others did. Detective Khanna spots a pile of tatty photographs on top of the heater and picks them up. Her expression doesn’t change as she flicks through them.

  Detective White asks about Joel and why she thinks he’s involved in Petey’s disappearance. Rosie keeps an eye on the photographs while she explains the calls and the confrontation at work.

  ‘It’s him for sure,’ she adds, desperate for some sign they believe her.

  Detective Khanna doesn’t say anything but her mouth softens at the edges.

  ‘You’re looking for him, right?’ Rosie can barely stay still. The terror of where Petey is and who he’s with and what might be happening to him buzzes through her.

  Detective White picks up a Lego figure from the ground. The sight of him fiddling with it is infuriating. They should be hunting Joel down. She told them over the phone what he’s like and what he’s capable of.

  The flat, in all its dinginess, closes in on her, Petey’s peeling Melbourne Zoo posters on the wall above the couch and the mismatched kitchen chairs. There’s an overdue electricity bill on the table that he’s stuck reptile stickers to. The bearded dragon and the rattlesnake are his favourites, the saltwater crocodile his second. He’s drawn a wonky square where he’ll place his third. It’s as if he’ll be back any moment to complete it. Like he’s getting more pencils from his room or has gone to the toilet.

  She looks for him suddenly, like she has a thousand times already. For a second she’s sure he’ll walk back into the room, struggling with the button on his jeans.

  But he doesn’t and Detective White says, ‘A witness in the store said you hit Petey.’

  She loses it. The stickers and the Lego and the fucker in front of her melt away. Her mouth slides, her knuckles thaw and her bones liquefy until there’s nothing left but her shrieking voice and a filthy burning pain for Petey.

  ‘That prick Joel has him!’ she hears from very far away.

  She wants to die. She wants the detective bastard to wrench her up by the hair and belt her as hard as he can. The way Joel used to, to give her something to hold onto, to make the pain inside her disappear.

  Detective Khanna’s hand is cool on Rosie’s arm as she tells her to sit down.

  ‘I told them,’ Rosie repeats. ‘I told them it was Joel.’

  ‘We’re looking for him.’ Detective Khanna moves her back onto the chair in front of the stickers. Suddenly she’s so tired she thinks she’ll tip off again.

  All she can manage is tears. And it’s been so long since she’s cried that the dampness on her cheeks stings.

  The last time was the day she found out Petey was different. A jolt of guilt caught her off guard so she ended up bawling in front of the doctor. She was piss-weak when Petey needed her to be strong.

  He needs her now. She draws herself up, crosses her arms, pulls her heels back hard against the bottom of the kitchen chair so the metal presses into her ankles, and wipes her nose with her sleeve. Detective White is leaning against the doorframe, his face blank. She’s grateful for it.

  Detective Khanna exhales. ‘Men like Joel can’t just disappear.’

  Rosie nods. She wants to ask what she’s supposed to do now, how the hell she’s supposed to pass time, get out of bed, get dressed, eat. It’s impossible that life will go on.

  Detective Khanna glances at Detective White, who’s standing next to the couch, before saying, ‘We’ll be in touch’.

  Rosie forces herself to look
her in the eye.

  ‘You let us know straight away if Joel tries to contact you again.’

  She nods and gets up to walk them to the door. Detective White puts a hand out to stop her from closing it. ‘The media will be onto this soon. You don’t have to talk to them. We’ll organise a press conference instead.’

  The door closes and she leans against it, listening as their clipped footsteps fade from the landing. The flat is full of shadows. She gazes at its insides. The wintery sun is almost gone, leaving a filmy glow in its wake. Petey’s outside somewhere, under the same sky, missing her. The shroud lightens and her head begins to clear a little. Wherever he is, he needs her. She has to be tough. Or at least, she has to pretend to be.

  Isobel

  ISOBEL HASN’T SEEN her mother’s naked body since she was thirteen. She knows she was thirteen because it was her birthday and her mother was getting changed in the bathroom for her special birthday tea.

  Nakedness was not particularly taboo in their house. Her father liked to get around in his underpants when it was hot and her mother regularly dashed through the place half-clothed. They all left the toilet door open when they peed.

  But things were different since she started high school. Her body changed, developed lumps and bumps and curves. It emitted strange odours that she doused regularly with Impulse deodorant. The girls at school were unforgiving, the slightest hint of BO proof of being uncivilised. At home she started locking the toilet door.

  On the afternoon of her birthday she spied her mother getting dressed through the bathroom door. There she stood, tall and lean in white cotton briefs, shaking talcum powder like icing sugar across her chest. Her collarbone sharpened and her breasts quivered slightly as she patted it down the small curve of her belly.

  Isobel knew she should announce herself. But her mother was a stranger in her nakedness, a lovely inaccessible creature as opposed to the woman who nagged her each day to clean her room. There was power in the way she arched her neck and angled her body slightly in front of the mirror, as if she knew she possessed something of great value. It made her seem strong and desirable. It made Isobel wish she were the same.