“Sometimes baby birds do fall out of their nests, sweetheart. And then the mummy birds pop along and collect them.”
“Don’t indulge her with nonsense, Bianka,” my aunt said. “It just encourages her. Tell her to go and wash her hands.”
Laika stood between them, her eyes filling with tears.
“But, Mum,” she said.
“For goodness’ sake, Laika,” my aunt said, “just put it down. You’re spoiling your mother’s party.”
My aunt reached into Laika’s hands, plucked out the tiny bird and put it on the ground. Instantly both dogs raced forward and, in a single swift and bloody lunge, one of them snatched up the baby bird in its jaws. I thought I heard the sound of soft bones popping. The tiny bird was gone. There was a moment of silence before the terror and shock fully registered, then Laika threw back her head and howled. She kept her empty hands held in front of her as fat tears coursed down her face and rivulets of snot streamed from her nose, her chest heaving with the same giant shuddering breaths that had pounded the baby bird. She was loud, too loud. My parents’ guests turned their heads toward the source of the noise.
“Oh, dear,” one woman said, “someone’s a little overexcited.”
And now she had my father’s attention.
Seeing him look toward the source of the commotion, my aunt waved a hand at my father and, in an exaggerated gesture, pointed at my sister, widening her eyes.
My father came toward us. I stood back.
“All right, foghorn,” he said, “that’s enough.” He smiled at their guests. “Come on, let your mother enjoy her day.” He took my sister firmly by her upper arm and almost lifted her in the direction of the kitchen door. “Go into the house.”
I went to follow.
“Just stay here,” he said, “and let her calm down.”
And so I did. I stayed on the terrace, kicking my heels, by the edge of the adults.
I should have gone to her. Of course I should have gone to her.
I don’t like to think about what happened after that.
7 A Doll in a Music Box Willa
The days stepped relentlessly toward November the third. I couldn’t stop them. I’m okay, I told myself. I’m okay.
But I was not.
Night after night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling while Robyn slept, her breath calm and steady in the night.
Dread flooded me. I should have looked after her, I thought. Everything is my fault.
My stomach flooded and pooled; I felt sick all the time and I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t slow things down. I could feel blood speeding too fast through my veins, thudding in my temples and scudding down into fingers and toes that seemed to pulse with every beat of my heart. Each morning I hauled myself out of bed, showered and dressed, and went through the day like an automaton. Lack of sleep left me fuzzy-brained and stupid. I couldn’t concentrate in class, or on my homework, or on anything anyone said. My chest was too tight to breathe, as if bound by great bands of elastic.
I began counting seconds in my head, starting from one, then up, each number relentlessly following the next, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, and on and on, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, counting the seconds that Laika ticked away from me, drifting, untethered. When I lost count, I started again from one. At night I felt as if I were sinking into the mattress, or else floating above it. Exhausted, my body snatched moments of sleep before my mind dragged me back into the harsh landscape of consciousness.
And then my mind hooked on to Laika’s last birthday and stayed there. November the third. Her thirteenth birthday, that is. Not her last birthday.
It can’t have been her last.
***
In the early morning I’d slipped along the landing to her room and climbed into her bed.
“Shove over,” I said.
It was still dark. Sleepily, she pulled the duvet around the both of us and I drew her into a hug.
“Happy birthday, sis,”
“Bleuh.”
“I got you something. Here.” She took the little box from my fingers and held it, her eyes fast shut.
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
“What, now?” she said. “I’m asleep.” Her body was warm under the sheets.
“Open it.”
“God, Willa. This had better be good.” She sat up in bed, huffing, and turned on her bedside light to open the box. I’d given her a tiny silver dolphin pendant on a silver chain, its leaping body curled into a crescent moon.
“Hey,” she said. She turned the tiny dolphin in her hands, smiled at its smiling face. “I love it.”
“To keep you going until you get to swim with real ones,” I told her. “Remember that, when you’re diving your first blue hole. Here, put it on.”
I fastened the clasp around her neck and we lay back down in the warm cocoon of her bed. She reached out and turned off the bedside light. I wrapped my arms around her back and tucked my knees up behind hers. Outside, I could hear rain drumming against the window, wind tearing through black trees.
