It was the smoke visible in dusk as it permeated upward into a moody symphony that made her skin crawl. The dark had arrived, but her grandmother preferred to sit in it instead of switching on the light. Her grandmother sat listlessly on the children’s play seat, inhaling the cigarette in meditative lull. Its bright orange embers stoked a tiny light.
The little girl stood watching, frozen, breath totally eclipsed with fear, waiting but not knowing for what. All she knew was that this was the black cloud, it was here, and who knew what would happen next.
She gulped. “What’s wrong, grandmother?”
The grandmother maintained her vacant stare. “Nothing.”
Look at me. Why won’t she look at me? “What are you doing?” asked the girl.
Still no diversion from the vacant stare. “Smoking.”
The little girl was disturbed by the short responses to questions that seemed to weigh her whole being down, as though brick on brick on brick.
Her grandmother frequently made no eye contact in theses states, as she seemed to be soothing herself into oblivion with the smoke.
The music of the day had stopped playing hours ago. Lady Gaga, Ariana Grande, Ed Sheeran, had all been here in the peak of day, accompanying the cleaning, cooking, playing, and general movement of the day. Then, evening had sunk in and now there was this.
The girl looked back now at the window that took up almost half the wall space behind her. Only a whisper of a whisper of the orange and red rays remained of the day and soon it would really be dark. She focused on the colours and told herself they were beautiful. And hoped that this mood of grandmother’s wouldn’t escalate into something more, like the time she’d accidentally cut her finger when she was chopping carrots. She shivered and quivered, though it was the middle of summer.
Now, looking again at her grandmother, she saw that the ash was about to break off the cigarette. The grandmother cupped a hand and let the dead ash fall into her hand. Her hand shook.
Why is she doing this? Where was the ashtray? Wasn’t she going to burn herself this way? This was not a good sign.
But then the break arrived, almost as fast as is had started. And her grandmother lifted off gingerly from the children’s tiny play chair and walked into the kitchen, where she brushed the ash into the bin and washed her hands. The kitchen light flicked on and it was all over. The blood slowly kicked back into proper flow for the girl again, but she was tired, oh so tired.
That night it was a quiet, sad sleep, filled with the uneasy foreboding of tomorrow. What is it going to be like tomorrow?
The next morning, the sun shone through the curtains and blinds, like a torch in an FBI crackdown scene on a television show. The kind that made you want to play outside or sit on the carpet in the living room close to the massive window and watch the world like a cat basking in the rays.
“Do you want to play something?” the girl said to her little brother.
“OK, how about dolls and cars?’
Phew. She hated playing dolls, but if they were playing dolls, it meant she could stay inside to keep an eye on her grandmother. Which she wanted to do and didn’t want at the same time.
So, they played and played, but the girl wasn’t focused on the game. She could hear the dial of the phone in the kitchen, then her grandmother’s voice. “Hello. Yes, hello. My name is Anul … calling to … Yes, I’ll hold.” She banged something on what sounded like the benchtop. Hard. The girl jumped. She locked eyes with her brother, whose brown eyes had widened in alarm. Now, she smelt the familiar weed smoke that both calmed and choked her up on the inside.
They continued playing.
“Let’s pretend my doll is coming over to your doll’s house for a party in her sports car,” her brother said, walking her doll around her makeshift apartment.
“Yes, hello,” her grandmother said into the phone forcefully. The person on the other end of the phone said something. “My name is Anul. I’m calling because you were supposed to deliver the recliner today at 10am. It’s 11am now.”
“OK, my doll’s name is Brenda. Should they have a fight at the party?” Mrs Andrews de Bolt, her teacher, had said a story needed conflict. She sometimes wondered why there needed to be so much of it.
“My purchase number? Where is that?” The person on the other end of the phone said something. “The top left? 9 … 7 … 6 … 3 … 2 … 0.”
The person on the other end said something.
“No, not 8 … 0. I repeat it again for you … 9 … 7 … 6 … 3 … 2 … 0.
“Okay. My doll is upset with your doll because she came over 10 minutes late,” said her brother.
“What? You have to check your system? But, I paid at the shop. Check your system cos I have a receipt.” Grandmother’s voice sounded shrill now.
The girl and her brother looked at one another. The girl pursed her lips and tried to breath. “Knock, knock.” She moved her doll’s hand to at the imaginary door.
“Oh, hi,” her brother’s doll said. “You’re late.” Her brother furrowed his forehead.
“Your manager said what? But we paid this one. As I said, we have a receipt.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t decide which dress to wear,” said the girl’s doll, with some abandon.
“So, now I have to wait for you to call next week? What’s your name?” Their grandmother sounded angry now.
“Everyone else is already here,” said her brother’s doll, turning to sit on the rolled-up face washer which was their makeshift sofa.
“You can’t tell me your name? So how will anyone know we even had this conversation?”
“Sorry … I brought you chocolates,” said the girl’s doll.
Their grandmother slammed the phone down. It was time for a distraction.
“Do you feel like waffles?” the girl said to her brother, while still holding on to her doll.
Her brother’s eyes darted left and right, as he scratched his head. He shrugged his shoulders.
They left their dolls and cars on the carpet and tiptoed to the kitchen, where their grandmother was putting out her cigarette into the porcelain astray balanced on the sink. She was looking into space as if running a replay of the phone conversation in her head. The girl felt nauseous, a feeling she was used to now.
“Grandmother, could you make us waffles?” She held her breath. Her grandmother looked at her, as though she had just been interrupted from some sort of confessional, or a movie climax. “What? Waffles?”
“We’re hungry.” She looked over at her brother, who was staring ahead, with his tongue lodged in the gap between his two upper teeth. He had proudly positioned his fallen tooth on his bedside table, hoping the Tooth Fairy would come soon.
“Oh, alright. You’ll need to wait. Go play.” Under her breath she mumbled, Damn little kids.
The girl had hoped to soften her grandmother, but she was obviously still angry. She and her brother went back to their playroom, but their hearts weren’t in the game.
The house was as quiet as a cemetery now, except for the fridge opening and closing seal to seal, the clanking of bowl and spoon, the crack of an egg, the hiss of the waffle maker. Then the ‘It’s ready’ call.
The waffles looked pale. The girl cut into hers and uncooked batter oozed out. She moved her eyes up to grandmother, hoping she would notice. Yet, grandmother was in a trance, still looking off into space in thoughts of the past. The waffle diversion hadn’t worked; her grandmother was still stressed.
She looked back at her plate with the oozing batter and weighed up speaking up versus eating the mostly raw waffles. If she ate all the waffles, she would surely get a tummy ache. If she said something, her grandmother would get more stressed. It was a hard one. She glanced over at her brother, who was eating his waffles. He looked at her, smiling, and she saw the half-cooked batter half-stuck, half-dripping from the gap between his front teeth. He smiled. The girl murmured, “Gross.” He brother smiled even more. “The waffles are a bit raw, grandmother,” said the girl.
The grandmother cast a stone-cold glare her way. “Do you know how hard these are to make?”
No. They’re not. She expects us to eat raw batter?
The girl didn’t move, didn’t dare even shrug a shoulder.
The moment would pass faster this way.
The grandmother took the waffles away, flipping them back into the waffle maker. But they couldn’t really be saved, though they were more edible.
School was the next day. Excited, the girl sat cross-legged on the crimson carpet with her classmates, as Ms Welling called out the names to tick off those in attendance. When the bell sounded for playtime, her heart fell. Her best friend Lina was away, and she didn’t know which other kids to join.
As she looked around at the colourful sea of clothing, she saw the teacher on yard duty, with her long vintage earrings and brown freckles all over her face, with a couple of kids hanging on each side. Some kids competed for a spot on the left or right of the teacher on yard duty. It always confused the girl.
Her eyes began to blur. It was like the time she’d been swimming and dunked her head underwater, then bobbed up again, unable to make anything out. The blur broke when a thick hot tear ran down her cheek, followed by another, and then another and another. Until her face was all tears. She sobbed. She had no tissues and knew her face would dry and puff, but the tears had welled and needed to spill over. She imagined them racing each other to the end of her face. The teacher on yard duty looked at her with an expression of annoyance and confusion. “Why are you crying?” The girl realised too quickly that the teacher couldn’t see the situation. There had been no fight with her friends, there was no bleeding knee. It was an inconvenience that the source of her pain was invisible. An inconvenience that she was in any pain at all. The girl knew this, even at the tender age of eight. She sobbed.
The hangers-on by the teacher stared at her. The teacher stared too. It made the girl uncomfortable. Then the teacher said, “Is something bad happening at home?”
The girl’s heart skipped a beat, her body heated up, she sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. It was as though a frog was stuck in her throat and wanted nothing more than to jump out. It couldn’t. She had been seen.
Yes. But what will happen if I tell? She looked up at the teacher. “No.” That was all the lie she could muster. I wish I could tell.
The bell sounded again, and she turned to join the other gathering children inside the building, where at least now she would know what was going to happen next. Long division.
About the Author
Dominika Greinert has been a reader her whole life. From weekly visits to the local library, to regular drop-ins to bookshops, a love of books and ideas flourished. This progressed to an interest in storytelling and writing. Dominika lives in Melbourne with her partner and their Jack Russell. Aside from writing, Dominika enjoys hiking, yoga, the beauty of nature, and a good cup of coffee over an even better conversation.
