Last week, Carmel had asked if I’d consider facilitating a Sensory Rhyme Time session, where the music would be soft and the lights kept low. I’d agreed before she’d finished asking the question. Since Willow and I were released from hospital, Wally and I have divided our time between staring at Willow and frantically reading books about how to raise a baby, and while it hasn’t been a bad existence, I’m missing my routine. Besides, Carmel has told me that Wally is welcome to bring Willow any time we like. I’m glad because I think Mum was right when she said that taking a child to the library is the very best education you could give a child. Willow is going to be very well educated.
I still haven’t visited Rose. I’ve felt the pull, definitely felt it, but for now I’m ignoring this particular pull. At Wally’s urging, I’ve had a few sessions with a very nice therapist named Kevin. He wouldn’t comment on Rose’s mental health without seeing her, but last week he did pose a couple of interesting questions that I’m still ruminating on a week later.
How does your relationship with Rose serve you? How has it ever served you?
Until I have an answer, he said, perhaps hold off visiting.
So I am. Until I have an answer.
‘All right, mums,’ Linda says. ‘Are we ready to fly?’
Linda is affixing an imaginary cape onto Wally’s back when I realise it is time to take my leave. I may have been making improvements in recent weeks but pretending to fly in an imaginary cape is beyond even my new capabilities. I hand Willow to Wally and retire to the secret cupboard for a couple of minutes of quiet reading instead.
I’m beginning to think Wally was right when he said I was normal and everyone else were the weirdos.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
It’s been three months since I was remanded in custody, awaiting trial. Now, there’s a sentence I never expected to write. I keep expecting to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream. No such luck. It seems this will be my life. Bookends of horror, surrounding a too brief, happyish middle.
As a remand prisoner, I have privileges that a sentenced prisoner doesn’t have. For example, I can wear my own clothes rather than the prison garb – though, I’m not sure if this small freedom is a kindness or not, as it makes me stand out to my fellow inmates. I also have more flexibility around visitors – they can come as often as they like. But no-one has come. Three months and no visitors. Not Owen. Not even Fern.
All I have, it seems, is my journal.
My prison psychologist suggested it might be enlightening to write in it. To get really honest with myself, he said. I’ve avoided it for a while, but now I figure . . . why not? It’s not like I have anything else to do.
As far as I’m concerned, Billy got what he deserved. Flirting with me all week, and then taking Fern down to the river and kissing her? It was clear Fern wasn’t his peer. She was vulnerable. Billy was no better than Gary.
Poor Fern didn’t even seem to realise she’d been taken advantage of. She continued to swim around the river with Billy like a fool while they tried to see who could hold their breath the longest.
‘Why can’t I beat you?’ Billy kept crying.
All right, I thought. If Billy wants to beat you, he can beat you.
It wasn’t hard to orchestrate. ‘Just let him beat you,’ I told Fern. And Fern did exactly as she was told, as usual. I kept time, making sure he was under there long enough to finish him off. It worked like a charm . . . until Mum showed up.
Fern told her it was all her fault, so of course Mum was quick to concoct a cover-up. But afterward, she wouldn’t let it go. She started saying things to me like ‘What really happened?’ and ‘Fern would never . . .’ and ‘Tell me the truth’. She’d become so despondent she had to go to the doctor for sedatives, which made her even more useless than normal. Sixteen years ago, it was easy for a twelve-year-old like me to google how to administer insulin to the hairline, so once Mum was out for the count on valium, I had no trouble at all. I was hoping she’d die, but a brain injury wasn’t a bad result. I thought that would be the end of it.
But when Mum started talking again, telling Fern not to give me her baby, I realised I’d have to finish the job. I’d kept an eye on her from afar, so I was aware she was making advancements even before Fern told me. Who could blame me for trying to defend myself?
By then I’d already started the journal, ostensibly about my marriage. In truth, that had been a surprise – Owen announcing out of the blue that he was leaving because he felt like he didn’t know who I was. I tried to convince him to stay, but he was adamant, so I wished him good riddance. I didn’t need him anyway. I knew Fern would have a baby for me. Sisters do these kinds of things for each
