‘I’m doing all this for you two, you know that, right? So you have somewhere to live. If it wasn’t for you two, I could easily find a place to live. That’s how much I love you.’
‘Thank you, Mummy.’
‘And who do you love?’
‘You, Mummy.’
The months wore on. The library during the day, someone’s couch at night. It wasn’t all bad. There were things about the library I liked. I liked having somewhere to go every morning, so we didn’t have to make small talk over breakfast with whomever was hosting us. Even back then, I understood the shame of taking up space in someone else’s life. I liked losing myself in the nooks and crannies of the library, imagining it was my home. I liked that the library was a public space, a space where we were safe, at least for a few hours. I liked Mrs Delahunty too, though not with the same ferocity Fern did. From time to time, while she was reading to us, I would fantasise that Mrs Delahunty was our mother. I remember the day she read us Clifford the Big Red Dog. After she finished reading, instead of asking us about the story like she usually did, she asked us if we’d had breakfast that morning.
‘Nope,’ Fern said. ‘Two meals a day are enough for anyone, any more and you’re greedy.’
She was reciting Mum’s words, of course, verbatim. I remember stealing a glance at Mum, over by the magazines and my stomach got a wobbly feeling.
Next, Mrs Delahunty asked where we’d been sleeping.
‘On the couch,’ Fern said. There was no hint of concern on her face. I remember thinking how nice it must have been, to be so clueless. And how dangerous.
Mrs Delahunty’s expression remained the same, but the pitch of her voice rose slightly. ‘Oh? Whose couch?’
Fern shrugged. ‘Depends whose house we are at.’
Mrs Delahunty looked at me. I looked at my shoes.
After a while, Mrs Delahunty got up and walked over to Mum. I buried my head in my book, too afraid to look. After a few minutes, Mum came over and told us it was time to leave.
‘Who told the librarian that we were homeless?’ Mum asked, after we had exited. We were on either side of her, holding onto her hands. I remember that detail because it was unusual. Usually Mum liked Fern and me to hold hands with each other – it made passers-by smile at us, and that seemed to make Mum happy.
‘Who told the librarian that we were homeless?’ she repeated. There was an edge to her voice, and I remember Fern starting to fidget, repeating the word ‘homeless’ in that strange way she repeated things. We turned the corner into a quiet street and Mum asked again. Her fingernails were digging into my palm.
‘Mrs Delahunty . . . she asked us–’ I started.
‘So it was you?’ Mum turned on me immediately.
I peeked at Fern. She was frightened and confused. She hadn’t told anyone we were homeless; she hadn’t used that word. She didn’t know she was the one to blame.
I nodded.
Mum let go of our hands and bent down low. ‘You stupid, stupid girl. That lady might seem nice, but she wants to take you away from me. Is that what you want?’
I shook my head.
‘Do you want to go a foster home, with a horrible woman who doesn’t love you? Never see me again?’
Her face was a contorted, terrifying mask of rage. Bits of spittle flew into my face.
‘No!’ I cried. All I wanted was to be with her. To be separated from Mum was my greatest fear. She was right. I was stupid. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Mummy.’
‘Let’s go home, Fern,’ she said, snatching up Fern’s hand. I ran after them, grasping for Mum’s other hand, but she put it into her pocket. I scuttled after them all the whole way home, crying. Mum didn’t even flinch when I threw myself at her feet, grazing my knee badly in the process.
When we got back to the house – I can’t remember whose we were staying at or why they weren’t there that night – Mum made dinner for two. When I asked if I could have some, she acted as if I wasn’t even there. Afterward, she bathed Fern and read her a story. It was rare that Mum bathed us, and she never read us stories. I clambered onto the couch to listen to the story, but Mum pushed me off so roughly I fell onto the floorboards, banging my bad knee. I cried so hard my stomach hurt, but she just kept reading. When the story was finished, she tucked Fern in and left the room.
I understood somehow that I shouldn’t get into the bed, so eventually I fell asleep on the floor. When I woke, Fern was beside me, her skinny arms wrapped around me, her face buried in my hair. She’d brought the blanket and pillow down from the couch and assembled a little bed around us. She held me like that all night.
Most people think of me as Fern’s protector. But the truth is, in her own funny way, she’s always been mine.
FERN
At 6.15 pm sharp, I open Rose and Owen’s white picket gate and walk down the red brick pathway. I have dinner with Rose on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, unless Rose is travelling or working late, in which case we forfeit. Attempts to reschedule to another night have not gone well, historically. These cornerstones to my routine are what keep me calm and grounded.
Rose and Owen have a lovely house, the kind that looks like it should feature in the pages of a House & Garden magazine, even though the lawns aren’t as neat as they were before Owen went away. Owen used to
