Page 34 of The Vanishing Place
A threadlike stream trickled through the trees, following the path to the edge of the bush, then out into the vast swaths of sea.
Effie stopped when her feet reached the white sand, and held her arms out. There was nothing. Just air and water and sand. Empty enough that she could almost breathe. The gray ocean mirrored the overcast sky, and rocky stacks rose from the stirring waves. The water called to her, her heart drawn to the untamed beauty of the dark sea and the ashen sky.
Effie pulled off her shorts and T-shirt, swatting at the sandflies, then ran straight for the waves and the swirl of whitewash. The force of the cold water slammed against her chest like a brick, shrinking her lungs, and she gasped at the air, but the oxygen couldn’t fill her body fast enough. The swell pulled at her legs and Effie dove in, her body returning to the womb. Submerged. Enclosed. She shut her eyes, the darkness absolute, and the waves calmed. Beneath the surface, her body moved with the gentle swell, suspended, and her pulse slowed. Not shivering. Not wet. Just boundless in her floating. Numb to the blade of fear that had slipped between her ribs.
It wasn’t until she burst through the surface, craving air, that the fear rushed through her. A dread that came from a place far deeper than the ocean—that what the bush had left of her might not be enough. Effie could barely tolerate herself, let alone a child.
Effie stuck out her tongue, catching the specks of rain, then yelled at the sky. The breeze blew through her, chilling her skin, and she shouted again. Like if she screamed hard enough, all the hurt and darkness that she’d inherited from him might ebb away.
Finally, her throat prickling, she turned back to the beach. A tawaki penguin shuffled along the rocky headland, the distinctive yellow crest running above its eyes. Suddenly, the bird stopped, its white stomach puffed out, and stared at her.
“Hello,” Effie whispered.
Then it turned and slipped beneath the water.
Once she’d wiped herself down with her T-shirt, slapping the sandflies from her skin, Effie dressed and ran back to the ute.
Her heart was still thumping when she walked up the drive and unlocked June’s front door. She had barely stepped inside when twenty kilos of child hurled into her stomach, punching the air from her lungs.
“Lock the door,” shouted June.
The child was breathing fast, the panic and anger in her too much for her small frame. Her forehead was shiny with sweat, and her long red hair stuck to her cheeks and neck. Anya pushed at Effie with both hands and slapped at her chest, the door handle stabbing into Effie’s back. Grimacing, Effie tried to focus on the girl, to melt the world away until it was just the two of them. Just a scared adult and a scared kid.
“Anya,” said Effie, her voice calm. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
The girl pulled at Effie’s T-shirt, not hearing her, not really there at all.
“You’re safe here.”
Effie wrapped her arms around the child and held her still until only her head continued to move, shaking from side to side.
“You’re safe,” Effie said again. “Take a breath. Just breathe.”
Effie glanced up, catching a glimpse of June and Lewis in the hall. Lewis took a step forward, but Effie shook her head.
These people are bad. We can’t trust them.
Holding Anya, Effie lowered them both to the floor. The child’s body had drained of fight, her limbs left defeated and motionless.
Effie rested her chin on Anya’s head and pulled her in, and gradually Anya’s eyelids fluttered shut. The poor kid was exhausted.
Without moving, Effie looked up at June. “What happened?” she mouthed.
“I don’t know.” June shook her head.
Effie frowned. “Something must have upset her.”
June let out a breath. “Everything was fine. She was sitting in the living room doing a jigsaw. It was incredible, she picked up this five-hundred-piece bird one, and she just started doing it. Then…” She hesitated, her eyes widening. “That’s when I turned the TV on and…” June touched her fingers to her mouth. “She just…she went berserk.”
Effie looked down at the girl. “What was it?”
“Just the news,” said Lewis.
January 2002
It was realhot. The type of hot that peeled the skin from the tip of Effie’s nose and left wet patches under her arms. June said they should wear hats, that the sun was a nasty bugger, but Effie never remembered.
She sat on the deck peeling beetroot, the juice staining her fingers purple. The knife snagged on a lumpy bit and slipped from her hands, landing on the deck with a clunk. She bent forward to grab it, and when she looked up, her dad was there, stepping out from the bush. He was smaller than she remembered.
