Grubbs Grady — on his way out? A deadly disease I caught on holiday? A brain defect I’ve had since birth? The big, bad cancer bug?
What other explanation is there?
→ “Regale me with your thoughts on ballet.”
I’m watching football highlights. Alone in the TV room with Dad. I cock my ear at the weird, out-of-nowhere question and shrug. “Rubbish,” I snort.
“You don’t think it’s an incredibly beautiful art form? You’ve never wished to experience it first-hand? You don’t want to glide across Swan Lake or get sweet with a Nutcracker?”
I choke on a laugh. “Is this a wind-up?”
Dad smiles. “Just wanted to check. I got a great offer on tickets to a performance tomorrow. I bought three — anticipating your less than enthusiastic reaction — but I could probably get an extra one if you want to tag along.”
“No way!”
“Your loss.” Dad clears his throat. “The ballet’s out of town and finishes quite late. It will be easier for us to stay in a hotel overnight.”
“Does that mean I’ll have the house to myself?” I ask excitedly.
“No such luck,” he chuckles. “I think you’re old enough to guard the fort, but Sharon…” Mum “…has a different view, and she’s the boss. You’ll have to stay with Aunt Kate.”
“Not no-date Kate,” I groan. Aunt Kate’s only a couple of years older than Mum, but lives like a ninety-year-old. Has a black-and-white TV but only turns it on for the news. Listens to radio the rest of the time. “Couldn’t I kill myself instead?” I quip.
“Don’t make jokes like that!” Dad snaps with unexpected venom. I stare at him, hurt, and he forces a thin smile. “Sorry. Hard day at the office. I’ll arrange it with Kate, then.”
He stumbles as he exits — as if he’s nervous. For a minute there it was like normal, me and Dad messing about, and I forgot all my recent worries. Now they come flooding back. If I’m not for the chop, why was he so upset at my throwaway gag?
Curious and afraid, I slink to the door and eavesdrop as he phones Aunt Kate and clears my stay with her. Nothing suspicious in their conversation. He doesn’t talk about me as if these are my final days. Even hangs up with a cheery “Toodle-pip”, a corny phrase he often uses on the phone. I’m about to withdraw and catch up with the football action when I hear Gret speaking softly from the stairs.
“He didn’t want to come?”
“No,” Dad whispers back.
“It’s all set?”
“Yes. He’ll stay with Kate. It’ll just be the three of us.”
“Couldn’t we wait until next month?”
“Best to do it now — it’s too dangerous to put off.”
“I’m scared, Dad.”
“I know, love. So am I.”
Silence.
→ Mum drops me off at Aunt Kate’s. They exchange some small talk on the doorstep, but Mum’s in a rush and cuts the chat short. Says she has to hurry or they’ll be late for the ballet. Aunt Kate buys that, but I’ve cracked their cover story. I don’t know what Mum and co are up to tonight, but they’re not going to watch a load of poseurs in tights jumping around like puppets.
“Be good for your aunt,” Mum says, tweaking the hairs of my fringe.
“Enjoy the ballet,” I reply, smiling hollowly.
Mum hugs me, then kisses me. I can’t remember the last time she kissed me. There’s something desperate about it.
“I love you, Grubitsch!” she croaks, almost sobbing.
If I hadn’t already known something was very, very wrong, the dread in her voice would have tipped me off. Prepared for it, I’m able to grin and flip back at her, Humphrey Bogart style, “Love you too, shweetheart.”
Mum drives away. I think she’s crying.
“Make yourself comfy in the living room,” Aunt Kate simpers. “I’ll fix a nice pot of tea for us. It’s almost time for the news.”
→ I make an excuse after the news. Sore stomach — need to rest. Aunt Kate makes me gulp down two large spoons of cod-liver oil, then sends me up to bed.
I wait five minutes, until I hear Frank Sinatra crooning — no-date Kate loves Ol’ Blue Eyes and always manages to find him on the radio. When I hear her singing along to some corny ballad, I slip downstairs and out the front door.
I don’t know what’s going on, but now that I know I’m not set to go toes-up, I’m determined to see it through with them. I don’t care what sort of a mess they’re in. I won’t let Mum, Dad and Gret freeze me out, no matter how bad it is. We’re a family. We should face things together. That’s what Mum and Dad always taught me.
Padding through the streets, covering the six kilometres home as quickly as I can. They could be anywhere, but I’ll start with the house. If I don’t find them there, I’ll look for clues to where they might be.
I think of Dad saying he’s scared. Mum trembling as she kissed me. Gret’s voice when she was on the stairs. My stomach tightens with fear. I ignore it, jog at a steady pace, and try spitting the taste of cod-liver oil out of my mouth.
→ Home. I spot a chink of light in Mum and Dad’s bedroom, where the curtains just fail to meet. It doesn’t mean they’re in — Mum always leaves a light on to deter burglars. I slip around the back and peer through the garage window. The car’s parked inside. So they’re here. This is where it all kicks off. Whatever ‘it’ is.
I creep up to the back door. Crouch, poke the dog flap open, listen for sounds. None. I was eight when our last dog died. Mum said she was never allowing another one inside the house — they always got killed on the roads and she was sick of burying them. Every few months, Dad says he must board over the dog flap or get a new door, but he never has. I think he’s still secretly hoping she’ll change her mind. Dad loves dogs.
When I was a baby, I could crawl through the flap. Mum had to keep me tied to the kitchen table to stop me sneaking out of the house when she wasn’t looking. Much too big for it now, so I fish under the pyramid-shaped stone to the left of the door and locate the spare key.
The kitchen’s cold. It shouldn’t be — the sun’s been shining all day and it’s a nice warm night — but it’s like standing in a refrigerator aisle in a supermarket.
I creep to the hall door and stop, again listening for sounds. None.
Leaving the kitchen, I check the TV room, Mum’s fancily decorated living room — off-limits to Gret and me except on special occasions — and Dad’s study. Empty. All as cold as the kitchen.
Coming out of the study, I notice something strange and do a double-take. There’s a chess board in one corner. Dad’s prize chess set. The pieces are based on characters from the King Arthur legends. Hand-carved by some famous craftsman in the nineteenth century. Cost a fortune. Dad never told Mum the exact price — never dared.
I walk to the board. Carved out of marble, ten centimetres thick. I played a game with Dad on its smooth surface just a few weeks ago. Now it’s scarred by deep, ugly gouges. Almost like fingernail scratches — except no human could drag their nails through solid marble. And all the carefully crafted pieces are missing. The board’s bare.
Up the stairs. Sweating nervously. Fingers clenched tight. My breath comes out as mist before my eyes. Part of me