8
“Oh look, Griff! Lisa’s smiling at you!”
I smell the miniature human before I see her, as I dump my schoolbag in the hall, cluttered with baby things.
Mum glances up from the squishy bundle in her arms. I take in Lisa’s little grin. Looks more like gas to me. Still . . . she
doesn’t look half-bad. For a baby.
I lift her gently and cradle her against my chest, lost in the shimmer of her big, shining eyes. She blinks up at me as I
hold out a thumb, her tiny fingers curling around it, like she’s trying to grab the universe and drag it closer.
She smells sweet, like milk and baby powder. Fragile, yet somehow stronger than anything I’ve ever held.
“Hey, trouble,” I whisper. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve landed in, do you?”
She gurgles—a soft, wet sound. I rest my cheek lightly against her black fluffy hair. She hasn’t even been here a week, but
I know I’d stand between her and the whole damn world if I could.
“How was your day, sweetheart?” Mum asks me.
“It was—”
A squelch comes from Lisa.
“Ooof!” Mum’s nose crinkles as she takes the baby from me and sniffs. “Lisa needs to be changed. Brent, would you mind?”
My stepdad doesn’t even look up, his dirty brown boots on the coffee table, newspaper spread wide like a convenient brick wall.
Mum’s lips fall, but she quickly pushes them back up again with the smile that doesn’t reach her bloodshot eyes. “I’ll be
back in a sec, love, I want to hear all about your day,” she says, heading for the nursery.
I’d thought that maybe there was a way of getting rid of Brent. But now, this tiny being links him and Mum and me together,
forever. Lisa has fifty percent of his DNA. Does that make her half-monster?
Brent stands and shoves my shoulder, pushing past me as his offspring starts to wail. He slaps his newspaper down on top of
the pile of unpaid bills with red letters. He’s been angrier since they started showing up. “Better get used to that screaming,”
he seethes at me. “She’s gonna make your life hell. Just you wait and see. You’re not going to be the precious little Mumma’s
boy anymore.”
I look at the floor.
“Don’t pout, you sissy. It’s your fault, you know. Your mum had to start over because of you.”
“Mum said it’s not my fault,” I say for the millionth time. It never matters. He always finds ways to make me feel wrong.
He steps out onto the patio and lights his filthy cigarette. Mum’s given up on asking him to quit. His piercing green eyes
cut through me as he taps the ash onto the basil plant I gave her for Christmas. “Of course she’d say that. She doesn’t want
you to feel bad. But we all know the truth. Now I’ve got another bloody mouth to feed.” He blows a lock of greasy black hair
from his face.
I turn away. I can’t let him see my pain or his power. I wouldn’t put it past him to have had this baby just to spite me.
To further lay his claim on my mother. Wasn’t a wedding ring enough?
When Mum still hasn’t emerged from the nursery an hour later, I head in. She’s fast asleep in the rocking chair, the tiny
half-monster dozing in her arms. For a second I feel sorry for the little thing—it’s not like she chose him as her dad.
I stand there a moment longer, the day pressing at my teeth, then let it go. Whatever I’d wanted to tell her must wait. It
always does now.
Shutting the door, I head back to the kitchen, my stomach growling.
I open the fridge. All that remains of the meals the neighbors brought over after the birth is a wedge of sludgy tuna casserole that smells like fishy BO.
I toss it in the bin. Brent’s buggered off somewhere on his motorbike and never cooks anyway, so if anyone is going to make dinner it will have to be me.
The kitchen is quiet, except for the hum of the freezer and the occasional creak of the floorboards under my bare feet. I
stand at the countertop, staring at the pile of random vegetables and the half-empty bag of pasta Mum must have left out before
she crashed with the baby.
Grabbing a knife, I press the blade to the onion, the old wooden cutting board wobbling beneath. The first slice is too thick,
uneven, but I don’t stop. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The sound is steady, and after a few more tries, my hand seems to move on its own. My eyes burn so much I have to blink hard
to keep going. I can’t cry, not because of a stupid vegetable. Tears sprout anyway. But deep down, it’s not about the onion:
it’s about what I lost, what I caused. The smell makes my nose wrinkle, but something about it feels real.
I chop the garlic, celery and carrots, scraping everything into a pot with a splash of oil. The hiss and sizzle startle me,
but the sound is . . . calming, almost. I stir with a wooden spoon, watching the onions turn translucent, the carrots softening.
The kitchen smells different now, warm and kind. Not like the dread that’s usually here when he’s at home.
The mincemeat goes in next, followed by the cans of tomatoes, beef stock and tomato paste. The sauce bubbles and spits, tiny
flecks hitting my wrist, but I don’t care. I taste it and frown. Bland. I would’ve loved to add some of the fresh basil from
Mum’s plant but don’t fancy cigarette ash as a seasoning, so I find a jar of the dried herb. Shaking some in, I watch the
green flakes disappear into the bright red sauce, wishing I could go with them. I add a teaspoon of salt. Another taste. Better.
Boiling the spaghetti is easier. The water bubbles angrily. Once the noodles are soft, I drain them carefully and toss them
in the pot of sauce.
Sitting at the kitchen table with my plate, I take a deep breath. The first bite is hot, the sauce tangy and rich. The pasta’s a bit mushy, and I used too much dried basil, but it doesn’t matter. I made this. Me. I was in control.
I don’t feel invisible in this moment. I feel steady, like the world has stopped spinning.
And then Lisa screams again, popping my safe, calm bubble. Maybe Brent was right, and she is a living breathing, eternal punishment
for my mistake.