Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror (12 page)

I leave the woman to tend to her husband and take the kids inside. We close the door on their mutterings and keep watch as they limp away.

‘I'm sorry,' says Ingrid.

‘I know.'

Toby leans over and whispers something in Ingrid's ear. She gives a sad smile.

‘What did you say, honey?' I ask.

Ingrid straightens. ‘He said I kicked arse.'

‘Toby!' I find a brush and shovel to sweep up the glass, finding comfort in the mundane job. How would we defend ourselves from the weather – and worse?

‘I did help, didn't I?' Ingrid pleads with me. Why isn't she terrified, like I am?

I shake my head, but deep inside, I know she's right. She could be useful, to us and many others. ‘Ingrid,' I say, rising to my feet.

She turns her tear-stained face to meet my gaze. Her bottom lip quivers.

‘Come here.'

I pull my strong, fast, ten-year-old daughter towards me and kiss the top of her head. Toby hovers nearby and I draw them both in for a group hug.

Something warm and unfamiliar surges through my veins. It stings as it reaches my heart, but I like the feel of it.

If love hurts, then hope burns.

Jenni Sands

I
t's like this, isn't it? You assume your child will be good and kind and compliant and eat vegetables because you kind of, you figure you know better than anyone else; you've seen where other people were making mistakes, you've watched Super Nanny and all that. But the thing is, children are their own little people and they don't care what you've read or what you think you know.

Ali didn't want to eat vegetables, and I had no idea how to coax and wheedle and talk it up when Ali's little mouth was clamped shut like it would never open again. There's no magical website which has the answers when your specific little angel is being a little terror.

Bedtime is another example of a nightly battle. One evening, I took my precious little Ali in my arms, not a meek little lamb, gazing up at me – no, he was a squirming, whining little beast, trying everything he could to escape. I carried him like that up the stairs, clamping my hands down and snapping at him and feeling incredibly guilty.

You're not meant to harm your baby, this miraculous little person who is yours and who deserves all the love in the world. You mustn't snap, or grip those little arms so hard that they might bruise, or break. You mustn't.

I repeated this in my head to convince myself to be kinder.
You mustn't. He's yours. Be nice
. But my nerves were frayed thin, and I couldn't help but snap at him.

In the bedroom, there was another struggle: forcing pyjamas onto the constantly moving limbs, the head that waved back and forth like a snake, avoiding the neck hole like it was a device of torture.

‘I don't wanna!' he yelled, crying and trying every trick he could. I wrestled the rocket print flannelette – which, for heaven's sake, was actually getting too small already, meaning another trip around the shops for new ones – when suddenly my job got easier. Ali went still; not stiff or tense, but distracted. I didn't ask why because if there's one thing I've learned on my own, it's how to push my advantage. So I slipped the last sleeve on, straightened everything up and lifted him to standing so I could pull up the pants and settle them around his hips. His pudgy toddler hands rested on my arms as he stood, submitting to the pyjamas.

Finally, I was done. In triumph, I looked at his face. His expression was rapt, eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder. He noticed me looking after a couple of seconds and tore his gaze away, giving me a comfortable smile. His hands flexed on my arms.

‘That man said things will be all right in the end,' he told me. I figure it was something he'd seen on TV, a Disney Junior show moral.

‘That's nice,' I said, forcing a smile for my son's benefit.

‘He said he'll take care of you, put you to sleep like you put me to sleep. He said you're sad, and that's why you hurt me.' I frowned, because this was surely not from a cartoon.

‘Who said that?' I asked, and Ali smiled at me.

‘The man.'

I shook my head slightly and lifted Ali, moving his bed-covers aside with one hand so I could set him down. ‘What man are you talking about?' I asked, more to calm my nerves than anything. Ali was imaginative, yes, but it wasn't like him to invent an imaginary friend at bedtime.

‘The man in there,' he said, pointing behind me.

I looked behind and saw his closet, the door closed as it normally was. I looked back at him, head tilted slightly. ‘There's no man in your closet.'

‘Yes, there is.'

‘What does he look like?' I asked, my heart thumping. It was so strange for Ali to talk like this.

‘He's all dressed in black, a jacket like Daddy wore, and his eyes are strange. Orange, like in the fire.'

‘Now Ali, don't be silly,' I said, letting a hint of relief take the place of some of my fears. The similes he used were comforting, familiar images from his recent life. The suit his daddy wore at his funeral was something Ali had fixated on, so unfamiliar on the software developer's frame. The strange glow of the fireplace, which Ali loved to stare at but knew he was forbidden to touch. This was probably one of those developmental steps that meant he was adjusting to his father's death, making sense of it in his head. Or inventing something he thought would make me feel better.

‘I don't like the man. I wish he would go away,' Ali said, frowning at me with his big eyes, the pain of loss reflected back at me. But also something else. ‘Make him go away, Mummy.'

‘Ali,' I said, feeling helpless. ‘He doesn't exist. There's no one there.'

‘There is. He's behind you right now.' Ali said it firmly but with a distinctive tone of distress. My heart thumped uncomfortably hard in my chest. I willed myself not to look behind me – don't play into this creepy game – in case it encouraged him to invent more.

‘Ali, that's enough. You have to go to sleep. Stop playing.'

‘But he's there, Mummy. He is! It's not a game!' Ali's eyes were wide. He really believed what he was saying. If nothing else, he'd bought into this story and it was scaring him now.

My mind screamed at me not to do it, but I couldn't help it. My head turned and I looked behind me. I desperately wanted to see nothing, but at the same time seeing something – it would be something.

I saw the open door of the closet – had I left it like that? I couldn't remember. The darkness inside the cupboard was eerie and I felt a thrill of fear. I turned back to Ali, whose eyes were as wide as I'd ever seen them, willing me to believe him.

‘He's there, don't you see him?'

I opened my mouth but the chastisement died on my tongue. ‘How about you sleep in the big bed with me tonight?' I said instead. Ali made a joyful nose and buried his little body against mine, making my heart twist.

I picked him up, closed the closet door and carried him through to my room.

Comforted, his body nestled in against me on the side of the bed that had been empty for several days now. Ali fell asleep almost immediately while I lay awake most of the night, jumping at every little noise and shadow.

The next day Ali was more like his normal self again, although he chose to play in the lounge rather than in his room. I kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye.
Just nervous imagination
, I kept telling myself sternly. I focussed on cleaning and cooking, normal housekeeping things. When I saw the orange eyes watching me from the darkness of the walk-in pantry, it was almost a relief.

AJ Ponder

V
anessa jumped up and down with excitement. ‘Andy, look, it's Mummy,' she yelled, trying to pull away from my hand. ‘Mummy, Mummy, today at kindy I learnt rain makes the flowers grow. That's why it's no good being hot all the time. Mummy, Mummy, where's Sookie? Did the vet make her better?'

Mum looked over to a cardboard box on the passenger seat.

I knew what it was. I truly did. But I asked anyway. ‘Where's Sookie?'

‘Mummy, did the vet make her better?' Vanessa repeated.

Mum sat in the car, tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes flicked over to the cardboard coffin. ‘No, dear. Sookie, she's gone away. She's – not with us anymore.'

‘Like Daddy?'

‘No, she's gone – she's dead. You need to say goodbye.' With a great effort she got up and reached over to the passenger seat.

‘It's OK, Mum,' I said, taking the box and almost dropping it. It felt weird, like Sookie was alive and sliding around on the inside.

‘Andy, just put it on the steps for now,' Mum said.

I had hardly put it down before Vanessa rushed over to flip the lid open, as if this was a special present just for her. Not quite ready to look yet, I turned away.

‘But Mummy, Sookie's not gone. She's right here.'

I adjusted my glasses and peeked in. Sure enough, there she was. Silver-grey fur. Cold nose. Eyes closed as if in sleep.

‘Mum? Is she really dead?' I asked.

‘Yes, Andy. We'll have a funeral and bury her in the backyard, but first you really should say goodbye.' Mum stroked Sookie's head and murmured something I didn't hear, because – and I admit it – I was crying. A little.

But not Vanessa. She just nodded. ‘OK, Mummy.' Her little three-year-old hand reached out to caress Sookie's shoulder, ruffling the sleek fur. ‘Goodbye Sookie. Can I go now?' she demanded before I'd gathered the nerve to say a final goodbye. I didn't think I was going to. Only the ruffled fur was – wrong. Carefully, I stroked it back into place.

‘Can I go now?' Vanessa kept on repeating.

At last Mum sighed. ‘I'm going to go and dig the grave. Andy, you could help or look after Vess. Your choice.'

‘I can dig, too,' Vanessa said. ‘I'm a big girl. I'm almost four.'

Just great. She was useless. Hardly able to pick the spade off the ground, she cheerfully cried, ‘I'm digging. I'm digging a hole all the way though the garden and out the other side.'

Ten seconds later she reviewed her progress, chubby fingers poking at the broken dirt. Satisfied it was sufficiently scratched, she wandered off.

‘I know Sookie will want some flowers,' Mum said, taking the spade.

‘Why?' Vanessa asked, face screwed up as if she was doing extremely difficult maths.

‘Because that's what you do when people – best friends – die. Sookie was your best friend wasn't she?'

A solemn nod. Then she began picking daisies and buttercups, while I trailed behind. ‘Do you like milk, Sookie?' she said, twirling a buttercup under Sookie's chin.

Where'd she heard that? Not me. I would have asked, ‘Do you like butter?' That's much more sensible. Well, it is with people anyway.

Mum called me over. ‘Your turn.' She was wiping sweat away from her eyes. I couldn't help but notice she was digging close to the retaining wall, a fair way away from where Vanessa had started.

‘You even make a dent in that soil?' I asked. ‘I think Vess chose a better spot.'

She shrugged and handed me the spade.

Why is it that in the movies digging always looks so easy? Because it's not. We took turns for over half an hour in the hot sun. I wished for about the hundredth time that I was a manly male with lots of testosterone instead of a tiny little geek in glasses as the spade clashed against the drought-hard ground and clattered off rocks, jolting my arms and my head until I ached all over.

Finally, Mum was satisfied and we stopped for drinks. Fizzy lemonade with slices of lemon, while Vanessa sorted through her ragged collection of flowers. Then it was time. Mum and I said a few words each about Sookie – how she had wormed her way around our legs, demanding food, attention, the door opened for her. How she hated pills, had claws sharper than razors and teeth fierce as knives. A ghost in the night, a shadow in the day.

I lowered the box into the grave while Vanessa recited some old poem she'd heard somewhere. ‘To every thing there is a season, a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die. A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that planted.'

Which you have to admit is pretty odd for a three-year-old. But Vess is like that.

Mum wiped away a tear. ‘Shall we put the flowers on?'

Vanessa shook her head and clutched the ragged pile of daisies and buttercups in her lap. ‘Sookie doesn't like flowers. She told me.'

‘Why don't we put one on, anyway?'

A flower was solemnly chosen and placed on top. Then the dirt. Vanessa looked on wide-eyed, before she too started pushing the dry soil into the hole.

‘Is this right, Mummy?'

Mum nodded and looked over to where Vanessa had scratched the soil. I knew what she was thinking. ‘Vanessa is not quite right.' And yeah, she was a little strange. Maybe all kids are strange. Mum sometimes says I'm not quite right either.

Then, when we were almost finished, Vanessa dropped all her flowers into the dirt. ‘Will the flowers grow too, Mummy?' she asked. ‘When will Daddy grow? It's been ages.'

We just ignored her; she says daft things about Dad sometimes. I don't like to think of him. He shouldn't have left us. It was sad enough Sookie being dead, without thinking about how much I miss
him
, too.

Finally, we went inside, and I felt terrible. Like the cat was in my stomach, clawing her way out. Nothing would ever take Sookie's place. She was a terror sometimes, and I had some scratches to prove it, but I loved that cat. She was always warm on the end of the bed. And liked to be stroked just under the chin.

All I wanted to do was go to my room and play videos, and maybe cry a little, but Vanessa was demanding. ‘Mum, do you think Sookie will like the dark?'