Lisa Wright – Writer

Fairy tale twist

There was a time when I never thought that Dad would recover from Mum passing away. He was so broken. I used to catch him sometimes, just staring out the kitchen window while he was washing the dishes. His hands floating in the cloudy water; like they’d forgotten what their task was, so they stayed suspended while he was on pause like a movie. I tried to back out of the room quietly when I interrupted him like this. It was like I caught him naked and unawares. I had intruded on a moment when he was with her in his memory.

Hans was far too young to recall the way our mother would watch over him and the concerned crease that had formed between her eyes. She hovered with love, but it was marred by a feeling of unease.  If she noticed I was in the room, she used to clear the crease and act a little overly cheerful. I touch my forehead sometimes to check if I have that crinkle, that she may have passed on her worry talisman to me. My brother has caused so many wrinkles in our family, it would be fitting if our crumpled insides matched our outsides.

My father told me the story that before Hans born, my mum had met a man in the park who had tumbled off his bike, scraping his arm. Being the nurse that she was, she helped clean his elbow and chatted to him, almost distracted by his golden, topaz eyes that peered into her face. Dad said she had described a dark feeling in the pit of her stomach when this man looked at her. She didn’t realise that this simple moment in time would be the beginning of the dark in our family life. This stranger then began to watch our house, follow my mother, and then he threatened her in the street with his unrequited love. When he was continuously shunned, his yellow eyes glowed with anger, and he warned of a curse that would endure on her next born child. Then he left. Chapter closed.

A year later, Hans was born and amongst the thrill of a new baby, Mum and Dad had long forgotten any impending upheaval by way of the warned curse. Only it didn’t take long for that injured man’s words to ring in my Mum’s ears. Hans was not a happy baby, his screams in the night were disturbing, the power of his tiny fists as they flayed, it was like seeing a small tornado dressed in a pale blue Bonds Wondersuit. I was 9 years old the day I walked into the nursery to see Mum wrapping a cloth nappy around her bloody hand.

‘Little Hans must have some new teeth coming in’ she said.

She had bundled up her still gushing hand and rushed to the kitchen, avoiding my searching face. We didn’t talk about it again, but her injuries continued to occur in Hans room and coincided with his tantrums; a deep cut on her face, a bite on her shoulder. My parents sat at the dinner table late into the night, whispering, weeping, and holding each other’s hands over endless cups of tea. We didn’t realise it was to be so much worse.

It was a Tuesday when Hans was two years old when I walked home from school to see an ambulance and flashing police car parked in my driveway. I rushed up the path to have Dad stop me before getting to the front door. He held me tight and shook with grief. I could barely make out his words, but I knew she was gone. I wasn’t allowed back in the house. A neighbour steered me away and comforted me in their lounge room with a sandwich and a coke. The days that followed seemed like a dream that saw me disconnect. I unlinked myself from my reality. I untied the tether. I floated above and observed my life be reorganised without my beautiful mother. I floated away from Hans, and I tried to forget he was the animal who took her away from us.

It was a year later that Dad started going to grief meetings and formed a friendship with a woman called Charlotte. She husband had been a firefighter and he had died in a housefire. They hadn’t had children, so she was keen to meet us. Dad cooked a humble meal and Charlotte walked quietly in the door. As we were introduced, I watched Hans carefully to gauge his reaction to this new acquaintance of our father. He looked into her soft, pale eyes and smiled sweetly but when he held out his hand to her offering of her homemade gingerbread, I held my breath to check for her hesitation. There was none. She clasped his chubby hand within both of hers and bowed to meet his eyes. I saw his claws retract as she looked intently into him, taking stock of what and who he was. She then stood and placed a hand on my shoulder in a reassuring manner that took me by surprise. Who was this woman? Who had my father brought to us?

The months that followed plodded away with visits from Charlotte who always took the time to check in with me if anything had happened during the past week. I sometimes felt interviewed and although no notes were taken, I knew that she was verifying the details in her head. Summing up the conundrum of our family.

A day was set that her and Dad were driving us for a campout in the hinterland. Bags were packed and the car stacked with all the necessities of home. Hans jumped around excitedly, chatting of fishing, and tramping in creeks. When we woke in our tents the next morning, we crept out to the fire my dad had made and enjoyed hot beans in a pot and sweet rolls with butter and jam.

‘Get your boots on, guys. Big walk today. Charlotte’s mum lives near here and we want to be there by lunch,’ he said.

Hans was none the wiser to the looks exchanged by Dad and Charlotte and scattered into his tent to pull sneakers on and grab his favourite hoodie. As we set out, my brother called and yahooed, scaring any little forest friends out of sight, as pre-schoolers are known to do. Wrens fluttered into trees and water dragons scuttled under the mulch. The landscape knew my brother was in their world and made room for him and his stomping feet.

Dad and Charlotte led the way on the cleared track, walking and talking softly together. I noticed Dad always kept an amicable distance to her, never touching her, so I often wondered the nature of their friendship. Charlotte seemed more of a confidant to him, a place to rest his burden of worry, and a kind face for him to relax his mind. I was rummaging through these thoughts when the smell of ginger and cinnamon filled the air. I saw Charlotte and Dad must have smelt it as well and they glanced at each other and then back at us kids.

‘Hey, you two, can you smell that? That’s fresh gingerbread. That’s my mum’s welcome to you. Follow your nose and run up to her cabin,’ Charlotte said.

After a tough morning walk, the smell was so enticing, my thoughts were forgotten, and Hans and I raced to the delightful scent. We soon came upon a small vine covered mound with a partly concealed open door, and window holding a plate of delicious cookies. A woman stepped out of the door who had the same golden hair and soft eyes as Charlotte, but her eyes were a disarming topaz. She opened her arms to us and welcomed us into her tiny home.

‘Charlotte my darling, why don’t you and I spend some time with young Hans here and Greta and her dad can fetch some flowers for the table,’ she said.

We did as she asked, Hans looking uncertainly over his shoulder at me as the older woman steered him firmly by the shoulders into her tiny cabin. Dad and I moved slowly back up the track, not daring to say a word unless we missed a sound that would indicate what was happening behind the door. It didn’t take long for us to walk deeper into the forest, and dark clouds threatened to soak us through. I turned to go back, but Dad took my hand and took us further into the dark. The sky lit up with a jagged arc of lightening and we waited for the deep rumbling boom of thunder that always would follow. Spiky scars of electricity again and again illuminated the forest timbers. Eventually, the rain came, lightly and softly. My father turned and smiled at me.

‘Let’s go back. It’s time’, he said.

When we arrived at the house, Charlotte opened the door, her smooth low ponytail was dishevelled and crooked. Her face gleaned with a film of sweat and she was taking deep restorative breaths. I could see Hans behind her laying on the old chintzy sofa, eyes closed, his hair stuck to his forehead and his t-shirt wet around the neckline and armpits.

‘He’s ok, Greta’, Charlotte’s mother said, ‘he just needs a rest now. You are all going to be ok’.

We walked back later that evening to the camp, just Dad, Hans and I with my brother leaning against our father when he needed. I don’t ask what happened that day, but the animal had left our home.