by Tom Kavanagh
“Well, it looks like Isabelle is going to be the only one enjoying her break. I would just like to remind everybody that that kind of language will not be tolerated in my classroom. There is absolutely no need for it. Instead of saying something horrible, just don’t say anything at all. In fact, choose to say something kind. Choose empathy. Choose kindness. But if I ever hear any student use those kinds of words again, I will not be using kindness; I can assure you of that.”
I know that the teacher was trying to help and that she was punishing anyone who didn’t treat me kindly, but it would actually end up working against me. It would lead to more resentment and negative feelings. It further distanced me from the other students. It made me into a commodity. Sometimes I just wished that I could be kept behind like the other students.
I just wanted to be normal.
“Right, now that we’re past that, let’s begin the lesson, shall we?”
I had never been very good in classes. At various times of my life, my bouts of schizophrenia would rise and fall, often depending on the medication I was taking. I’d often find it hard to concentrate on simple maths problems or science equations.
And that’s why they got a teaching assistant to come into our class. They said that the TA wasn’t just for me and that she would be there to help everyone, but I knew the real reason: she was there to help me.
The teacher walked around and handed out sheets of paper covered with what seemed like hundreds of impossibly hard maths problems. The problems leaped from the page, swirling in a spiral of numbers and letters. Everybody else seemed to be rushing through the equations with ease, their pencils scratching against the paper with speed. Beads of sweat formed on my brow, as I could feel a cloud descending in my mind.
I put up my hand, drawing the attention of the teacher’s assistant.
“Are you okay, Isabelle?”
“Yeah, I just can’t work out this equation.”
“Which one?”
I wanted to say all of them, but that seemed a bit excessive.
“The first one . . .” I answered, trying to hide my shame.
“Okay, let’s have a look.”
She began reading through the equation, her pen dancing over each number, just like my dad did when he would count the sheep.
“Can you hear that?” I asked, hearing that same shrill sound I’d heard in the kitchen while having dinner with Dad.
“Hear what, Isabelle?”
It was faint, almost like hearing an echo in a cavern. But even the relatively low volume didn’t take anything away from the severity of it. There was a desperate twinge to it, like a child screaming for his or her mother.
“That!”
“I can’t hear anything.”
“I could have sworn . . . never mind. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright. Shall we get back to the equations?”
“Yes.”
But there was no way I could concentrate now. The sound continued to grow and swell until it was nearly unbearable. I threw my hands up to my ears and screamed, hoping it would drown out all other sound.
“Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!” I shrieked, overwhelmed by the barrage of sound.
“Isabelle, what’s wrong?”
“Make it stop!”
Other students looked on at the scene with confusion and disgust. They had seen me react this way several times before, but I guess you never quite get used to something like that.
“Make it stop!” I continued to scream.
“Make what stop? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Please, make it stop!”
“Let’s get you to the nurse.”
* * * * *
“What happened?” the school nurse asked as she closed the office door.
She had been taken off guard by my incoherent screeching, coupled with my sporadic hand movements as I tried to swat at the sound as if it were made of something solid.
I knew that it was pointless, but I needed to do something to defend myself, even if it was futile.
They had sat me down on the chair in the corner of the room, making sure to leave me enough room. They’d learnt from previous experiences that I didn’t like people close to me when I was having bad moments. It almost felt like they were stealing my oxygen.
“She started screaming, ‘Make it stop.’ She was screaming it over and over again. I couldn’t calm her down.”
“How was she acting before that? Was she calm, or did she seem erratic?”
“She was fine. We were working on a maths equation, and then she suddenly started screaming. It’s happened before, but not with such little warning. And usually we can calm her down before it gets too serious. But this time was different. It came on all of a sudden. There was nothing I could do to stop her,” she explained, staring at me awkwardly as if I were a ghastly test subject that they had made a mistake with.
I could barely hear them talking. My hands were still covering my ears, squeezing them as tightly as possible. It was a pointless activity; there was no way of stopping the noise. I tried to think of other things, but that didn’t work, either. I was trapped in a loop that I couldn’t get out of.
“I think we should probably call her father. He can usually calm her down.”
I rocked slowly back and forth with my hands squeezed tightly over my ears waiting for my dad to arrive. My eyelids were squeezed shut so tightly that bursts of colour came in and out of view. Sometimes they would change shapes and become a tunnel in front of me. I’d follow the tunnel of light until it dispersed, and then wait for another one to form.
I repeated this until I felt a hand on my shoulder. My eyes opened just enough to see who was touching me, and I was glad to see the knobbly knuckles of my dad’s hand.
“Isabelle, what happened?” he asked quietly, crouching down to meet my eyeline.
“I heard something.”
“Like those sounds you heard at dinner last night?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Your medication must not be working.”
Because I wasn’t taking it . . .
“We’ll have to talk to the doctor about potentially getting you on to something else.”
“Okay . . .”
He rose slowly, his joints popping as he did.
“Ms. Walker, I think I should probably take her home.”
“Yes, that’s probably for the best.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine to come in tomorrow, but I’ll ring you early on if she needs the day to rest up, okay?”
“Okay; don’t feel like you have to rush back in. Take all the time you need. We can always catch up on work another time.”
“Okay. Thank you, Ms. Walker.”
“No problem. I hope you feel better soon, Isabelle.”
“Thanks, Ms. Walker. Sorry again for what happened.”
“That’s no problem at all. You just get better, and I’ll hopefully see you tomorrow.”
* * * * *
I jumped into the front seat of Dad’s mud-stained four-by-four and pressed my head up against the window. It was cold and calming, and sent shivers down my spine and through my body. Gradually the sound I’d been hearing faded away and was replaced with a dull throbbing. Coldness continued to spread through my head, and eventually the throbbing ceased, replaced with a vacant feeling in my mind.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m better now.”
“I thought that the medication was working.”
“I did, too.”
“I’m sure that Dr. Andrews can prescribe something different. We’re seeing him tomorrow, so we can have a chat about it then. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t worry about doing work on the farm for now. You need to get better. I’m sure I can handle everything until you’re better.”
“I probably should keep helping. I’ll go crazy if I keep still for too long.”
“You sound just like your mother. She cou
ldn’t keep still, either, even when she was on her dea—.” He paused suddenly, aware of what he was about to say. “Even when she was at her worst.”
Mum had been sick for most of my life.
There were times when she would get better, but it wouldn’t last long. That’s the problem with cancer: it’ll come back even after they tell you it’s gone. She didn’t last long after the final time they told her that it was back. It spread pretty quickly, settling in her stomach like a seed and shooting its poisonous vines throughout her body.
She kept pretty active until it got to her lungs, and even then she wouldn’t give up.
I remember coming downstairs every morning to find her in the garden or outside feeding the animals. Her movements were slow—much slower than they had been—but she wouldn’t give in. Giving up was never an option.
“I’m glad that I sound like her,” I replied, the image of my mum strong in my mind.
“Me, too. . .” he said delicately, a slight mist forming at the corner of his eye.
There was an awkward moment when I thought he might break down in tears, but he caught himself, coughing gruffly before turning his attention back to me.
“So, what shall we have for dinner tonight?”
“Not potatoes.”
“Yeah, that would probably be for the best.”
Three
Warning Shots
The tree outside our house was struck by lightning last night.
A storm rolled over the valley during the early hours of the morning, just like it had done a few days before. But this storm felt different. It felt aggressive and vindictive, pummelling the ground with everything it had. Our house shook as the thunder trundled along above us. Flashes of white light bleached my room at random intervals, draining it of all colour. Rain lashed against the window, seemingly coming from an unending source of water.
The lightning struck the tree at three in the morning.
I had dropped off to sleep for an hour or so beforehand, but was awakened abruptly as a particularly ferocious rumble of thunder wailed above our house. I opened the curtains and put my hand against the freezing window. I could feel subtle vibrations as the rain collided with the glass, like hundreds of tiny bullets.
And then it happened.
A flash of light lit up the front garden for a fraction of a second, tearing at the bark violently and speedily, and then disappeared as quickly as it came. I heard the pathetic whining of the wood as it was struck, the popping of the bark, and then the horrible splitting sound as it was ripped apart. I couldn’t see the damage from my window; it was pitch-black outside. All I knew was that based on the sound it had made, it was going to be pretty badly damaged. Pickle raced into my room a few seconds later, leaping up at the window. She barked savagely at the blackness outside, obviously concerned that someone had tried to break in. I almost envied her ignorance—not to know the reasons, but to react regardless. She was never burdened with the “how,” the “why,” or the “what if.” She just lived.
I came outside early the next morning to find that the tree had split. A large part of the tree had torn away from the trunk and had careened down on to the hood of the car. The windshield had been fractured and looked like a huge spider’s web. Cracks spread like tendrils, emanating from the point where the branch had struck.
My dad was standing near it with his head in his hand, probably thinking that he should have put the car in the garage like he usually did. But it was too late for regrets now.
“Hi, Dad,” I mumbled with trepidation, wondering what mood I was going to find him in.
“Morning . . .” he croaked, obviously distraught but trying to save face in front of me.
“Sorry about the car.”
“These things happen,” he said begrudgingly, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m just glad it hit the car and not the house. There are more important things than a car, aren’t there?”
“Yeah, that was lucky. Can you fix it?”
“I can’t fix it by myself. I’ll have to bring it into a garage, but I guess this means that we won’t be able to make your appointment today, Isabelle.”
“I guess not.”
“I know it’s not working as well as you’d hope, but do you have enough medicine to keep you going until we can get there?”
I didn’t. But I didn’t want him to know that.
“Yes . . .”
“Good. Well, seeing as we can’t go to the doctor’s, we should really go and check on the sheep. We lost a ewe a few days ago, so it may well have happened again during last night’s storm. Are you going to be okay with helping me? I don’t want you to if you don’t feel up for it.”
“No, I want to help.”
“Okay. Ready in five?”
“Ready in five.”
* * * * *
Even though the storm had passed, I threw on my waterproofs. If history had taught me anything, it was that I would most likely be caught out by a fresh wave of rain.
I made my way out of the house, heading towards the main gate leading to our grouping of fields. This was a normal part of the poststorm routine, and it had always been a very natural part of my life. But ever since we’d found the dead ewe, I had felt a severe trepidation deep in my gut. Every time I walked towards the fields, I could see the ewe’s black eyes at the back of my mind, unmoving and empty of life. It haunted me and wouldn’t let me think of anything else.
It wasn’t going to make living on a farm very easy.
Dad joined me outside shortly after. We walked along the same route that we had done a few days before, passing the spot where the ewe had died; there was still a dip in the ground where the body had been lying. Tufts of fur stuck out of the mud, gently swaying with the wind. I crouched down and picked up a clump of fur from the mud, wanting there to be as little evidence as possible that it had died there.
I was hoping that would help me forget, but I knew that I was hoping for too much. As I felt the coarse fur in my pocket, I could feel my head becoming fuzzy.
Those same noises I’d heard in the kitchen and at school were starting again. They fizzed and popped in my head as I struggled to stay grounded. I lifted my head up and focused on the tree line in front of me, hoping to fight my way out of this momentary anxiety. But it was no use; I couldn’t shrug off the uncomfortable feeling rising from the pit of my stomach.
And then I realised why I felt so uncomfortable.
I had a sense that something or someone was watching me . . .
I’d been experiencing this odd feeling ever since the first storm but hadn’t been able to place it. There had been a tingling in the back of my head for a while now, and I’d been struggling to peg down exactly what it was. There was surely someone peeking at me just out of sight, muttering nonsense. It was taunting me with the sound of the dead ewe. That must have been why I heard those noises in the kitchen. It was the only logical conclusion. What else could make me feel this way?
Are they making me feel this way?
“Isabelle?” my dad asked just out of earshot, realising I was daydreaming.
Indiscernible voices continued to drift from the woods. The sounds were too layered to make out anything solid, but I knew something was there. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me from behind the trees.
Flashes from tree to tree lit up the wood.
It was moving.
But where had it come from?
And how long had it been watching me?
And why was Dad leading me towards this strange thing hiding in the woods?
“Isabelle? Hello?”
Dad’s hand grabbed my shoulder, causing me to jump forward in fear.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Sorry, I just zoned out there for a minute.”
I looked back towards the tree line for a moment, peering into the darkness of the woods. The feeling of something watching me had dissipated. Dad must have scared them off.
“Alright. Snap out of it. We have a lot of work to do.”
“Okay.”
Dad began skirting the fence, checking for any damage, while I started to count the sheep.
“How’s it looking?” he called out.
“It looks like there’s one missing.”
“Okay. Let me count.”
His finger drifted over the sheep, dropping slightly as he made a note of each one.
“You’re right; looks like we have one missing. Let’s go and find it.”
“Okay.”
The sheep couldn’t have got herself lost at a more inconvenient time. Even though the worst of the storm had passed over us, there were dark clouds advancing quickly across the sky, heading straight for the farm. If we didn’t find it quickly, we’d be soaked through and battered by wind.
At the far corner of the field, a section of fence had been damaged, probably allowing the ewe to escape. My dad inspected it like a policeman at a crime scene, testing the ground where the fence had broken.
“Looks like the rain collected here, softened up the ground, and then the wind came and blew it down.”
“Looks that way,” I confirmed, even though I hadn’t a clue if he was right.
“Hopefully the ewe hasn’t gone too far. Don’t want to be looking for it all day and night.”
“Fingers crossed,” I replied, looking up at the grey clouds above our heads, watching them as they continued to pursue us.
We used pieces of fallen fence to get over the worst of the ground and then made our way across the final field in the group. It hadn’t been used since my mum had died, and so had fallen into disrepair. Large sections of fencing had fallen down because of various storms, and the ground was uneven and sunken in places.
“It looks like the ewe walked across here. It was probably heading for the hedge line.”
“Maybe it was trying to find shelter.”
“Maybe. Let’s go.”
After making our way slowly across the field, being sure to dodge the worst of the puddles, we found an opening in the fence and then fought our way through the dense thicket. The ground was relatively flat for around twenty metres before abruptly falling away into a ravine.
