The Disappearing Girl

Prologue

Prologue:

I turned five in 1986, it was another ordinary day.

My five year old self was focused on other more important things and my ear was really hurting. By my fifth birthday I'd learned that being smacked for crying was called discipline and shouting was a normal form of communication. A sharp slap across the face for being insolent was well deserved and a kick in the back for being too slow; a lesson. As I stood in the kitchen sulking, I thought about one punishment that never seemed right to me, being accused and then punished for things that were beyond my control. There was a time when I didn't understand how everything was my fault. Today, the water wasn't hot enough when it had boiled and the coffee was shithouse and that was my fault.

I sniffled and rubbed my ear cautiously, ear twisting was her favourite way to get my attention. She had twisted my ear to emphasise that her coffee was too cold, shithouse were her words. She loved that Australian expression. I used to cry, a few tears would skid down my face, but crying bought more punishment from her. Ear twisting hurts, but, it was the unfairness of the situation that really hurt. I thought things would get better, mostly, I thought that I would get better and I could avoid the punishments. So far, I hadn't achieved my goal of being good and not making mistakes all the time. The ear twisting was supposed to help me listen better, but my ear burned and the pain was anathema. I was not listening to the angry words washing over me. I was focused on trying to figure out how I let the coffee go cold. 

There I stand; little girl with bruised shins, patchy clothes and a grubby chin. I'm in the half light of a room filled with skeletal furniture, waiting for mother's instructions. I didn't do anything that I wasn't told to do, well I tried not too. Sometimes I did things because I wanted to do them and that never ended well. By five I'd learned to stand and wait for instructions. The sunlight seems cheap and thin as it filters through the dirty windows and patterns the nylon carpet in faint yellow squares, she is towering over me: not quite grown out of being a teenager herself. Her steaming coffee rests on a chipped side table, splintery and uneven. She is looking over and beyond me, my insignificance the only immense thing about me. I began scratching at a mosquito bite and thinking about the complicated series of actions I had gone through to get the coffee to her. My ear still hot and throbbing and the pain ensuring that I stay alert and cautious. I flinch at her sudden movement, but she has forgotten her original complaint and is only lifting the coffee to her lips. Her words are punctuated by a sip, I filter out her tired complaints and instead I think through the routine of making a coffee, trying to figure out how I'd stuffed it all up.

I see myself filling the kettle with water from the sink, standing on the edges of my toes and straining across to reach the tap. My small hands executing the twist and push movement to light the gas stove. Waiting until the water had boiled, bubbling, catching the kettle before it whistled too long and bothered her. Did I pour in too much cold milk? It didn't seem that way, it wasn't one of the complaints I'd heard today. I know I'd made the coffee quickly and managed to walk it over to her without it spilling. I remember the feeling of pride that had welled up inside of me at this miraculous achievement. I had been proud of myself, the first time I'd made her a mug of coffee and I didn't spill a drop, make a mess or break anything. I remember my fingers were stinging from holding the hot mug and proudly handing it over to her, handle side first. Happily awaiting her first sip and her nodding approval. Instead my ear was stinging, she was yelling at me and I'd forgotten it was my birthday. My sister burbled from her spot on a bunny rug and shook grains of rice in a small container. 

Five year old me was reluctant to admit my reality was different to other kids. Five year old me didn't think to question the validity, severity or reason I received so much punishment; that would come much later when my mouth and brain were not completely connected through my teenage years. For now, I believed in the almighty powers known as my mother and father.