11
The fresh scent of the coriander plant fills the small kitchen as I flip through the Thai cookbook from the library, mentally
editing the recipes because, of course, I know better. I break off a leaf and pop it in my mouth, savoring the delicate taste.
“Thanks so much for getting this and the planter box for me, Mum,” I say, bringing my nose closer to the fragrant leaves.
“Now I can finally start the herb garden me and Dad were gonna build.”
She smiles.
Brent doesn’t. His fork scrapes against his plate. A long, slow drag of metal against ceramic. “Think you’re pretty special,
don’t you?” His voice is light, almost amused. That’s how it always starts.
I keep my eyes on the book. Should’ve learned by now not to talk about Dad.
“What sort of boy likes cooking, anyway, hey?” His beery breath is warm against my ear. “It’s a woman’s job.”
“Brent, please leave him alone . . .” Mum says softly, then stops, realizing her mistake.
He leans back in his chair, narrowing his eyes at her. “Did you order the new TV, Lorraine?”
She hesitates. “We still need to save a bit more.”
The air in the room shifts as he stands, stepping closer to her. “But you bought him the bloody plant?”
Mum barely has time to react before the slap rings out, loud and sharp. Her head jerks sideways, hand flying to her cheek like she’s trying to keep the pain from spreading.
Lisa whimpers from her open bedroom door. Still clutching her stuffed bear, her huge, wet eyes locked on Mum. She doesn’t
know how to look away.
Brent shifts his weight. “Maybe now you’ll think twice about wasting money.” His voice is casual, like this is normal. He
knocks the coriander plant to the ground, grabs my collar and pulls me in. “This is your fault, you know! If it wasn’t for
you, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t even be here.”
Lisa begins to cry.
Her dad glares at her. “Neither would she. You know what you did.” He relinquishes his grasp and slams his beer bottle next
to me.
“Go to your room,” I whisper to Lisa.
She doesn’t move, paralyzed with fear.
Mum is shaking as he approaches her again.
I scoop Lisa up and carry her down the hall, her chubby arms wrapping tight around my neck. We crawl under my bed with a torch,
the dust bunnies and old socks making room for us. She’s still crying in loud, messy sobs that make my skin itch. She has
his nose. His eyes. She shouldn’t feel like mine. But she does.
I lie down beside her, the heat of her cheek pressed to my arm, and I hate how small she is. How soft. How easy it would be
to love her. I shouldn’t. She’s the living reminder of everything Brent took: love, Mum, safety.
The crying gets louder, her little body heaving as she hiccups between sobs, so I do the only thing I can think of. I grab
Mum’s cookbook from my bedside table and start whispering the recipe for her Anzac biscuits, slow and steady like a lullaby.
“One cup oats, one cup flour, one cup coconut . . .”
Lisa’s fingers curl into my T-shirt.
“Two tablespoons of golden syrup, half a cup of sugar . . .”
Her breathing starts to slow.
“Melt the butter and the syrup, stir in the bicarb . . .”
By the time I get to “bake until golden,” her eyes are closed, her wet cheek warm against my arm. I keep whispering anyway,
the words wrapping around us like a blanket, hoping that somehow, she’ll remember this. Not the shouting. Not the fear. Just
this. Me, and her, and biscuits.
As I carry her to the cot, I catch sight of the coriander plant strewn across the floor, dirt scattered everywhere. The lingering
taste of the herb curdles in my mouth. I don’t care if she’s half-monster. Lisa can never see something like that again.