Page 10 of The Vanishing Place

The sound that stopped her was impossible.

Effie spun on the deck, Tia already at her side, and grabbed her sister’s hand.

“Listen,” she demanded.

Tia’s face was a wet snotty mess, her eyes red and puffy, and strands of dark hair caught in the corners of her mouth. She wiped her face and put on her bravest voice. “The cicadas?”

“No. No.” Effie closed her eyes, making her ears work better. The bush bugs ticked and thrummed, shrieking between her ears. “The other sound. Listen.”

A tiny noise poked through the loud buzz of cicadas, like acorns shaken in a tin can. Effie stared at the ground, at the upturned basket of pikopiko ferns.

“Where is it?”

“What?” Tia sniffed.

The noise stopped, leaving nothing but the loud cicada hum. Then it started again, the rattle of acorns.

“Aiden’s rainmaker,” said Effie. “It’s not there.”

“I can hear it.” Tia’s arm started to shake. “I can hear it.”

“Come on.”

Effie pulled at her sister, following the faint wooden raindrops, and they ran around the back of the hut to the vegetable garden.

They stopped dead at the same time, hands entwined, and Effie felt the pulse of her sister’s heart.

There had never been anyone else at the hut.

No one was allowed, Dad said. The hut was a special place just for them.

A secret . But she was there, sitting next to Mum’s mint plants.

Her head and body were turned, but her familiar white hair hung down her back, a waterfall of silver. Like she could be a witch.

Effie bit into her cheeks, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to fix this wrong, forbidden thing. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him.

Aiden .

Her little brother, only two and a half, was kneeling among the lettuces and the zucchini leaves. His face was screwed up in a look of concentration as his little fingers dug in the dirt.

“What’s June doing here?” Tia whispered.

Then the woman turned, her long wavy hair almost reaching her waist—the roots bright white but the ends dark silver—and she smiled at them.

But it was like her eyes and mouth didn’t match.

Her smile was warm (like when she snuck them Pineapple Lumps from her pockets), but her eyes were sad.

And there, bundled up in a shawl and held to June’s chest, was the baby. On the ground was an empty milk bottle.

“Give him back,” Effie demanded. She took a few steps toward June and made her face serious, like Mum did when they were in trouble. “He’s ours.”

“I know, sweetheart.” June lifted the baby and set him in Effie’s arms. “I was just letting you girls sleep.”

Tia inched out from behind Effie’s legs, her voice small and timid. “Did you bring us candy?” she asked.

“I did.” June smiled, but it made her eyes look sadder. “Would you like one?”

Tia nodded and scurried over to her. They knew her, the woman with the long witch hair; they saw her every time they went to Koraha.

Mum and Dad always visited her house. Dad did loads of jobs when they went on their trips to town—building and fixing things—and people shoved money into his rough hands.

There was always something broken at June’s house, so Dad would sort it and Mum would drink tea on June’s deck.

Then Dad would take her money, and June would sneak Tangy Fruits and Snifters from her pockets.

Effie patted the baby and jiggled him. It was strange seeing June in the bush. She looked too old to be there.

“How old are you?” asked Effie.

June looked up, with Tia sat on one of her knees and Aiden on the other. They were both sucking on lollipops. Sugary yuck, Mum said, full of rubbish.

“You look old,” said Effie.

The woman smiled at that. “I’ll be fifty come winter.”

“Why are you here? No one’s meant to be here. It’s private.”

“Your dad just needed a bit of help after everything that happened.”

Dad .

“Where is he?” Effie held the baby tight, her voice getting louder. “Where’s my dad?”

“He’ll be here soon. He’s just busy. He’s sorting something.” June’s voice sounded odd, like when Dad lied to Tia about killing possums.

“Busy doing what?” Effie shouted. “What’s he doing? Tell me!”

“Effie, maybe you should—”

“Where’s my dad?” Her body shook, her insides hot and jittery, and the young ones inched back from her, moving farther into the curve of June’s lap.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you give the baby to me and we can—”

“No.” Effie jerked back.

The baby cried then, his face bright red, and his trembling body scared her.

Effie pressed a hand against his back, their hearts racing together.

She was afraid that she might break him, the ugly little thing, more yellow than white, that was part made of her.

His slimy red hair was hers, and his angry little frown. Effie swallowed down a salty sob.

“How did you make it stop?” she asked, her voice wobbly. “How did you get him to drink that?” She nodded at the bottle.

“Maybe try holding him a little less tight.” June looked almost nervous—a strange expression on a grown-up’s face. “And try to keep your voice a bit quieter. He’s sad that you’re sad.”

“Oh.”

Heat spread through Effie’s chest. Love . Love for the little stranger who didn’t want her to be sad.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. “I’m okay.”

The baby’s crumpled face smoothed out, like ripples disappearing from a puddle, and the redness in his cheeks faded.

“See. You’re a natural.”

June beamed, and Effie hated how much she liked the compliment.

“Does he have a name?” June asked.

It hadn’t occurred to Effie to name him. He wasn’t even meant to be there.

“He’s number four,” said Tia. “One, two, three, four.”

Four .

“Little Four.” June smiled. “Come.” She lifted her arm, meaning for Effie to sit. “I also brought some lolly cake from the shop.”

Effie’s tummy ached and rumbled, the hunger making her brain spin, and she sat next to them. She perched by the mint plants—surrounded by the smell of Mum in the morning—and rested Four against her shoulder.

“Would you let me hold him?” asked June. “Just while you eat.”

Slowly, Effie handed him over, then she unwrapped two slices of lolly cake. Her throat was like dry grass, the lack of saliva making it hard to swallow. As she chewed, the bush breathed softly, pulsing like a live thing, calming her.

Once she’d licked the last crumbs from the aluminum foil, Effie reached back for the baby, but the stillness of him stopped her.

He was too cozy—too asleep—to move. Giggles of laughter came from the mud kitchen where Aiden and Tia were playing, their little bodies caught in the changing light.

The sun had lowered in the sky, its long golden fingers stroking down the trees to the earth, and the air had turned a perfect yellow.

“How long were Tia and I sleeping?”

“Most of the afternoon,” said June. “It will be sunset soon.”

She looked up suddenly, a barely there glance. But her face did that lying thing again.

“When did you get here?” asked Effie.

“Midafternoon.”

“How did—”

A voice stopped her, and Effie jerked her head around. Dad . It was unmistakably Dad. She jumped to her feet, her skin tingling, but as she went to move, a hand gripped her ankle.

“Effie, wait.” June’s face was scared and sad and pale. “Just—”

“I heard Dad.” She pulled her leg free. “Where is he?”

“Please just—”

But Effie was gone. She heard it again. His voice—a grunting. Effie ran after it, sprinting to the front of the house as fast as her legs would take her, and she burst through the front door.

It was empty. No Dad.

But his rucksack sat on the table surrounded by a number of items—tubes of cream and tins of powdered milk.

One of the tins had been opened, and the yellow powder dusted the floor.

Barely stopping to think, Effie ran from the hut and into the bush.

She sped up at the sound of rustling and groaning.

She pushed her way through the ferns, the rimu branches scratching at her arms, until she reached their clearing.

Dad was there.

Digging.

His body was hunched over, his huge hands gripped around a spade. He thrust the metal blade into the earth—in and out, in and out—as dirt sprayed into the air.

“No!” Effie screamed. “No!”

She hurled herself forward, tripping and stumbling onto the ground, but Dad didn’t look up. His mind was lost to a faraway place. She picked herself up and flung herself at him. She clawed at his arms and chest, but he didn’t stop.

“No!” Effie shrieked. “Stop. Stop!”

Dad dug into the earth, spadeful after spadeful, as shafts of light filtered through the trees, and tears streaked his cheeks.

“Please!” Effie’s throat burned. “Please! She’s not dead. You have to help her. Stop!”

She balled her fingers and pounded at his back, punching and begging with tiny fists, but the dad mountain didn’t budge. He couldn’t put Mum in that hole. Effie wouldn’t let him. Mum would suffocate in the dirt.

Sweating and panting, she staggered back.

She needed to get back to Mum. But as she turned, a twig snapped under her foot—a tiny insignificant sound—and Dad stopped, and the spade fell limp in his hands.

For a moment, he stood frozen, silhouetted in the fine golden mist. Then the spade thumped to the forest floor.

Dad turned and stared at her, his eyes wild and unblinking.

“Dad?”

“Effie.” He frowned, his lips barely moving.

“Please, Dad. You have to stop.”

A bolt of fear flashed through his eyes, as if he’d only just noticed her, and he looked at her, panicked. Then his eyes darted back to the pit in the ground, and her eyes followed his. Effie’s legs collapsed beneath her, her knees sinking into the mud, and she closed her eyes, willing it away.

No. No. No .

But the image congealed and flashed behind her eyelids—the small patch of material poking out of the dirt.

—

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The words floated in water around her.

“I’m so sorry,” Dad muttered.

An intense pressure crushed Effie’s arms and chest, but she didn’t fight it. The big black pain inside her was too huge. Dad lifted her and held her tight, his strong arms holding the broken bits of her together.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” His breath was stale, and his body smelled of dirt and salt. “I didn’t want you to see any of that. I thought that…” His voice broke, and his tears dripped onto Effie’s face.

She kept her eyes closed as Dad carried her back to the hut, her body limp and baby-like, and he placed her on the sofa. Then he sat next to her and clung to her like he needed her for breathing.

“I had to, sweetheart. I had to bury her.” He pressed his lips to Effie’s forehead. “Mum was dead, sweetheart. You know that.”

The pressure increased around her ribs, his arms squishing her tighter, and Effie curled her fingers around his muddy hand.

“Don’t cry,” she whispered and squeezed his hand. “Don’t cry, Daddy.”

Effie leaned into him, Dad’s favorite little girl, and patted his arm, helping him to breathe.

“You’re okay, Daddy.”