Without realising it, I’ve started chewing the end of the pencil. Tiny little bits of wood have chipped off and are sticking to my tongue. I lick the back of my hand to get rid of them.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ve thought of something better. I’m going to draw a picture for Mama, then I can give it to her afterwards.’
‘Okay, that’s a good idea. And have you got any idea what you might draw?’
‘Yes, maybe,’ I say, thinking about it. ‘Something that I know will make her happy.’
Now Sister Ruth is excited. She tells me and I can see it in her face. Her eyes are quite round and she’s pulled her eyebrows up so high that there are lines running across her forehead. I put the red pencil to one side and take the blue one. I put it on the paper really carefully. Sharp pencils can be very dangerous. I begin by drawing Mama’s face. Sister Ruth asks why it’s blue. I click my tongue and roll my eyes. Sometimes Sister Ruth is a bit of an idiot too, like my brother. ‘Because I don’t have a white pencil. And anyway, you wouldn’t see the white pencil on the white paper,’ I explain.
Then I draw Mama’s body wearing a beautiful long dress. It’s blue too, although it ought to be white, then her beautiful long hair in yellow, and after that the black trees with branches like fossilised monsters’ fingers, which are trying to grab hold of Mama.
‘That looks dangerous, Hannah,’ Sister Ruth says. ‘Tell me a bit about the picture.’
‘Well, this is the story of my mama and my papa and how they fell in love. Late one night, Mama was out in the woods. Can you see how beautifully her hair is shining in the moonlight?’
‘Yes, she really looks very pretty, Hannah. Was she out alone in the woods?’
‘Yes, and she was terribly scared, and that’s why she’s not laughing, can you see?’
‘What was she so scared about?’
‘She’d got lost. But then . . .’
Now I draw my papa, stepping out from behind a tree.
‘Along comes Papa and finds her. This is the best part of the whole story. He’s standing there as if he’s appeared from nowhere, and he saves her.’ I redo Mama’s mouth so she’s smiling. Her smile is really fat now, like a fat, red banana. ‘And they fall in love at first sight.’
Satisfied, I put down the red pencil I’ve just used to draw a few hearts. A red heart is a common symbol for love. I’ve drawn six red hearts for even more love.
‘Wow!’ Sister Ruth says. ‘It almost sounds like a fairy tale.’
‘No, it’s not a fairy tale, it’s a true story. Exactly as Mama always tells it.’
Sister Ruth leans a little further across the table.
‘What’s your papa got there in his hand?’
‘That’s a cloth he’s going to tie over her eyes because he wants to surprise her. You see, she mustn’t know where they’re going to go now.’
‘Where are they going to go, Hannah?’
‘Home, of course,’ I say. ‘To the cabin.’
Lena
Be grateful.
God has blessed you.
You have a lovely home.
You have a family.
You’ve got everything you always wanted.
The voice in my head is merely scratching the surface. My stomach is burning. Emptiness. Emptiness can’t burn. Oh, but how it can burn, this emptiness. My jaw tenses with the strain when my trembling fingers try to take off the lid of the hot chocolate tin. It’s stuck. It’s bloody well stuck. I can feel the sweat collecting beneath my hair and making my scar sting. On the work surface beside me, next to the milk, are two cups, a red one and a blue one, both with white dots, both melamine and unbreakable. The children need to have breakfast, now. Breakfast at seven-thirty. What’s so difficult to understand about that? The children need an ordered daily routine. The children need a balanced breakfast.
What sort of a mother are you, Lena?
What sort of monster are you?
Behind my back, I can hear them running riot – please, children, not so loud! The kitchen, the dining area and the sitting room all run into one another. As they chase each other through the house, their screeches fly from one corner to the next like a bouncy ball out of control – be quiet, please! Now and then, one of them leaps over the armrest of the sofa and flumps on to the cushions, making a sound like a loud, heavy sigh, again and again – I want you to stop now! The pressure inside my head is unbearable and it feels as if it’s about to burst. The lid is stuck. The fucking lid is stuck.
‘Mama?’
I give a start. All of a sudden my daughter is standing beside me, pushing her chin inquisitively across the edge of the work surface. How small she is. A tiny, delicate girl with thin blonde locks and very white skin. Like a little angel. But not one of those neat, red-cheeked cherubim porcelain figures my mother collects on her dining-room dresser. More like an angel where something’s not quite right. The prototype that almost worked but not completely.
‘Hannah,’ I say. It sounds like a statement, totally lacking in affection.
‘Do you want me to help you, Mama?’ Her round, pale blue eyes show that she hasn’t taken offence at my cold tone, or merely that she doesn’t want to take offence. I nod wearily and push the hot chocolate tin towards her. She opens it in seconds with a skilful twist, and beams at me: ‘Da-da!’
Hannah is just about to go away and play when I grab her arm, probably too tightly, seeing how small and delicate she is. I let go again at once. ‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’
She frowns and grimaces as if I’d just said something very stupid.
‘No, of course not. You’d never hurt me, Mama.’
For a brief moment, a feeling covers my inner emptiness like a heavy, warm blanket. I attempt a smile.
‘Maybe you could help me some more?’ As if by way of proof, I hold up my shaking hands, but Hannah has already nodded, stood up on tiptoes and grabbed the neon-green plastic spoon which is also on the work surface. She measures out the powder, two spoons for each cup, carefully pours milk on top and stirs, while slowly and monotonously counting the number of times the clanking spoon circles the cup.
‘One, two, three . . .’
The counting, the clanking. The voice inside my head that continues scratching steadily at the surface. The voice that says: she is your daughter and you have to love her. Whether you want to or not.
‘. . . seven, eight . . .’
It’s getting more difficult to breathe. My knees feel like jelly. I make a grab for the edge of the work surface, for some support, but I grasp thin air.