Page 121 of The Vanishing Place
There was a scraping of wood, of shuffled furniture, then the feet disappeared.
“No,” Effie yelled. “Wait. Come back.”
She tried to lunge forward, but the chain dug into her skin and the force flattened her to the floor. When she looked up again, the light had gone from under the door, blocked by something.
“Come back,” Effie pleaded. “Please come back.”
But there was no reply.
—
The cold woke her, trailing its fingers along her skin.
Effie shifted on the bed, the chain long enough that she could lie on her right side comfortably, and she reached out, feeling for the extra blanket. She combed the bed with her fingers, searching for wool, but instead finding solid wood.
A box.
Shivering, Effie pulled herself up and held the box in her palm. She traced over the lid and around the edges, then popped it open. There was a small strip of paper inside, and what felt like a well-used matchbox. But there was just one match. One chance at light. Unable to quell the shake in her fingers, she took the match out slowly, carefully, and held it in her right hand. Then, with a shallow inhale of air, she dragged it across the rough strip.
Nothing happened. No fire.
Effie held her breath, gripped the match tighter and tried again.
Please. Please.
Then, with a flick, a small flame pierced through the dark. Quickly, Effie lifted the piece of paper and held it to the light. The flame flickered in her trembling fingers and she had to force her hands to be still. There were just four words, scribbled in purple crayon.
You need to pray.
Effie read it three times, her eyes darting back and forth, looking for something other than those four words.
Then, as quickly as it had been breached, the darkness returned.
1990
Mum was insidethe wooden box.
She hadn’t fought when they closed the lid on her. No waving fists. No kicking legs. She just lay there. Maybe she’d been too tired. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to damage her nails. Mum always had nice painted nails.
“I want to go home,” Adam whispered.
“I know.”
“I don’t like it here.”
Dinah squeezed his hand. “We can’t leave yet. We have to stay a bit longer.”
Adam looked at his feet. At his new shiny black shoes. Then at Dad. Dad pulled his hand away when Adam reached for it, and Adam shoved his hand into his pocket. Maybe his fingers were cold. The church was always freezing. Daniel sat on Dad’s other side. Daniel was two years younger than Dinah, but he told everyone that he was the oldest. Dad and Daniel weren’t holding hands either.
The priest was talking. His lips were full and soft like a donut, and bits of spittle sprayed out from the little black donut hole whenhe spoke. Adam shifted, his bum going to sleep on the hard wood, and he kicked at the pew in front of him. Dinah touched his leg when he did that, and Adam stopped.
“I’m so sorry that this is happening to you,” she whispered. Her eyes were red and puffy and wet. “That you’re losing her.”
Adam frowned. Confused. Dinah was losing Mum too.
Eventually the priest told them to bow their heads, and Adam did it perfectly. He knew how to pray. He could do that bit. He pushed his palms together super tight, then dipped his head low. Mum would be proud of his praying.
A woman on the other side of the aisle smiled at him and wiggled her fingers—interrupting his good praying—and Adam pretended to look at his shoes. The woman came to the house sometimes, to bother Mum, but Dad always shooed her away. The woman smiled again, her eyes wet and sad, and Adam scrunched his eyes shut.
