Anita Goveas

Outside-In

Exterior

  The nude lady swarming up the wall has long, long fingernails, sharp and spiky. She must be using them to keep her grip. I’m too small to reach the cord of the blind and block her out.

Innermost

  I’m four when my brother first goes into hospital. I’m going with my dad to buy a new teddy-bear. A big box of them looms outside, clean, neat, identical. I think of my one-eyed, inside-out-eared, nose-chewed-off fluffy bear, and ask “why can’t you buy him one of these?”  My dad says “because he wants yours” as we enter the shop.

Remote

  At first, it’s just my buckle that’s caught in the drain, the double-buckle of the clompy brown shoes that no-one else has at school. My dad walks past me and I call out to him, help me, but he doesn’t hear. My foot sinks down, I’m trapped in the metal grille. I know I’m going to keep sinking.

Deepest

  Falling in the pond at the pick-your-own farm is over in seconds, a breathless rush of a slipping sandal and water closing over my head. Being saved by my brother takes minutes, as he grabs my hand and screams for help. Walking through the farm shop, cold and dripping, takes hours. My mum likes to squeeze every vegetable and my dad believes we learn from the consequences of our actions.

Margins

  They’re all inside, laughing, and I’m late. My dad is frowning, my mum is talking to the waiter, my brother is on his phone. I push at the door, it doesn’t open. I pull instead, the handle breaks off. I wave at them, I’m here, I’m here. No-one looks in my direction.

Centre

  I’m sweating, dizzy. My heart is racing. I push at my parent’s bedroom door, it’s locked. It’s never locked. I hear shuffling and giggling from inside. Mum, mum, help me, I dreamt someone is chasing me. Your mum’s busy, my dad says, voice thick and heavy. The giggling starts again as I lean my head on the frame and try and catch my breath.

Extremes

  The noise wakes me, a vibration at the edge of hearing. In the kitchen my mother is holding a tiny black kitten, it’s purring hurts my ears. “We’ve got a cat now”, my mum says, “we don’t need you”. The kitten pokes out a blood-red triangle of tongue as I run into the garden, hot and cold all over.

Restricted

  His chocolate biscuit, sticky from licking, has fallen on the beige carpet. My brother and I are looking at it, imagining the stain. My mum finds us before we figure out how to fix it, drawn to the quiet. “Why weren’t you watching him?” I don’t have an answer. She gives my biscuit to my brother and hands me a cloth.

Outliers

  The fingernail lady has almost reached the top, the sliver where the breeze rushes through. My mother walks in the room, fetches her jacket. The elongated shadow is stark against the cream blind, but only I can see her. She reaches the crack and starts to shimmy through as my mum walks back out.