Page 12 of The Vanishing Place
“Maybe it doesn’t like milk.”
“He,” said Effie. “It’s a boy.”
“How do you know?”
Effie tried to tease the teat into his tiny mouth. “I just do.”
His little body wasn’t doing the right things. Babies were meant to cry and flap their tiny arms. Aiden had cried for hours, his body almost red with it, and his screams had filled the hut. Effie had tried to lock him outside once. And when Aiden was real small, still new, he used to kick his legs and arch his little body into a bridge. But the new baby had stopped crying, like two hours ago. Even when Effie prodded his tummy, he stayed quiet. The baby wasn’t doing any of the right baby things.
“Please eat.” She poked his lips with the soft teat.
Effie had made up the milk just like she did at breakfast—one small cup of powder and one big cup of water.
“Where did he come from?” asked Tia.
Effie frowned. “From inside Mum.”
“Did Dad put him there?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
Effie touched a finger to his motionless little face. It was all squashed and yellow—just two lines for his eyes and one for his mouth. “I don’t know.”
She didn’t even know what color his eyes were. She stroked his cheek and stared at him. Maybe he needed the sleep. Aiden had slept loads when he was tiny. Mum used to carry him when she dug in the vegetable garden and when she foraged for kotukutuku berries and pikopiko. But when Effie prodded at the baby, he didn’t move. Babies were meant to move. And babies were meant to drink milk.
“Tia,” she said. “Go get a teaspoon.”
Tia jumped up from the rug, naked but for her undies, and scurried over to the kitchen corner, her gangly legs tripping overthe pile of their wet clothes. Tia’s skin barely covered her skeleton, like the bones were trying to pop out at her hips and elbows.
“Here,” said Tia, holding out a teaspoon.
Effie set the baby on the sofa, the old couch made nice by one of Mum’s knitted blankets, and dripped a few drops of milk onto the spoon. Then she held his head gently, like a bundle of fragile moss, and parted his lips with the spoon. Tia sat close, her dark hair dripping onto the sofa, and Effie could feel the racing of her sister’s heart.
“Here, baby,” said Effie, “open up.”
His tiny yellow face stirred, and his mouth opened.
“He’s drinking,” squealed Tia. “Look, he’s drinking.”
“Shh. You’ll scare him.”
Warmth leaked through Effie’s chest as the liquid dripped into him. It didn’t make sense how something so small and breakable could be real. The spoon emptied, and Effie’s throat got all filled up. Fragile, breakable things didn’t survive in the bush.
“Give him more,” said Tia as she bounced on the sofa. “Look…look…”
The baby’s lips puffed at the air like a fish.
“He wants more.” Tia pointed and beamed. “He’s hungry.”
For the next half hour, they dripped milk into their tiny brother. Effie couldn’t stop looking at him. Then, as best as they could, they cleaned him up and wrapped him in one of Aiden’s cloth nappies. They didn’t speak about the bigger stuff. Not about Mum. Not about Dad or Aiden. Not about the too-deep river and the too-fast current.
As darkness crept in, Effie piled up a stack of twigs and lit the wood fire. The heart of the hut, Mum called it. Dad had built the firebox using an old fuel drum. He’d tipped the barrel sideways and made a door and a chimney. Mum used the top for cooking—a heavy iron square that popped in and out. When Mum took it off, flames snuck out and the kettle boiled real fast.
Using a glove, Effie opened the door and threw a piece of wood in. Even in summer, babies needed extra heat. Mum said baby skin was so thin that all the warmth leaked out. Once the fire was going, Effie pushed the table and the four homemade stools aside, then made a bed of blankets in front of the sofa. She didn’t know how to build the cot, and their sleeping corner was too far from the heat, but the blankets were clean and soft.
After wrapping the baby up, Effie placed him on the little floor bed and sat back on the sofa, watching him.
