Page 38 of The Vanishing Place

Effie pushed the supermarket door open and held it wide.

Anya walked under her arm, moving with the hesitation of a small deer, then she stopped after a few steps. She turned and looked back at Effie. For a moment there was no hate in her face, no flight, just the uncertain expression of an eight-year-old child looking for reassurance.

“It’s okay,” said Effie. “You can go in.”

Anya pointed to the ceiling and squinted.

“They’re called strip lights,” said Effie. “They’re very bright, but they last a long time, so shops often use them.”

Anya frowned and shielded her eyes with her hand. “I don’t like them,” she said.

It wasn’t all the time, and it wasn’t consistent, but Anya had started talking to Effie.

In the past few days since they’d come back from the bush, she had opened up slowly.

Nothing about the bush. Nothing—Effie had quickly realized—about the past. But Anya had started to talk about her surroundings, asking questions and commenting on things.

Blair had been great, providing lots of late-night advice and helpful medical jargon.

“Just because she’s not talking about it, doesn’t mean she isn’t thinking about it.

” Blair had paused, letting Effie process.

“It might also be that Anya doesn’t fully understand or even remember what happened to her, and that can be extremely overwhelming for a child.

Without solid, factual information, Anya is likely speculating.

Filling in the empty spaces to try and make sense of things. ”

Effie frowned. “So she could be lying? Making it up?”

“Not lying intentionally, no. But sometimes, without complete memories of a traumatic event, children will search for the truth. And if necessary, they will create one. But to them, it remains very real.”

Effie had gripped the phone tighter at that.

“The other possibility,” Blair ventured, “is that she’s now responding to her trauma by dissociating—mentally detaching from the past. As a consequence, her brain is altering the way it preserves memory.”

“So,” Effie asked, “should I question her about it? About this Hana person?”

“For now, just listen and reassure. You need to go at her pace. You don’t want to spook her or threaten the trust between you. But yes, at some point you will need to initiate the conversation again.”

“Can’t wait.”

Effie let the shop door close behind her and followed Anya into On the Spot. A handful of customers wandered around, filling carts and reading food labels. Lewis said he’d found Anya near the fridges, covered in milk and dirt.

“Which flavor is the best?” asked Anya.

She stood at the ice-cream freezer, her nose to the glass.

“I don’t know. It depends what you like.”

Anya looked at her, her brow gathered, like she’d misjudged Effie’s intelligence.

“How would I know what I like? I’ve never had one before.”

“Right. Of course. I wasn’t…”

The expression of skepticism stayed on the girl’s face. “June said you were smart.”

Effie was taken aback. “I am smart.” She grimaced. God, she sounded like a four-year-old.

“Okay,” said Anya.

Effie stared at the scrawny creature who had the scrutinizing look of a much older child. It was hard to make sense of her sometimes.

Anya glared at her. “Which one should I get?”

“Well…” Effie looked at the freezer, then back at Anya. “How about we get three to try? Then you can see which you like best.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened—just an eight-year-old child again.

After picking a mango Fruju, a Magnum and a mint Trumpet, they sat at one of the tables. Anya tested each of them in silence. She licked one after the other, then she set each down on their open wrapper, and licked them again.

“The Magnum,” she said. “It’s the best.”

“Are you sure? You’ve only had two licks.”

“Will the third lick taste different?”

“Well, no.”

“You can have those,” said Anya, nodding at the Fruju and the Trumpet.

“You don’t like them?”

“I do.”

“You can have some more if—”

“It’s not good to be greedy.”

They ate the rest of their ice creams in silence. The Trumpet was surprisingly good.

“Anya,” said Effie. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes. But I might not answer.”

“That’s okay.”

“Why have you started talking to me?”

She shrugged. “Cos I can.”

“But you couldn’t before?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Anya looked at Effie as she folded her Magnum wrapper into a small square.

“Can we go back to June’s now?” she asked. “I don’t like people looking at me.”

Effie glanced around. She was right. Various sets of eyes and ears were honed on them, angled just enough to be discreet. Just enough to be rude. Effie hadn’t even noticed. Some cop she was.

“They’re looking at you too,” said Anya, fiddling with the foil.

A chill trickled between Effie’s shoulders as she caught someone’s eye.

The elderly woman’s brow creased, considering, then she quickly looked away.

Of course the small town was putting the pieces together.

Of course people were whispering about her.

Effie’s family had captivated the community for two decades, and they all had the same question.

What happened to the four bush children?

And now, the eldest of them was sitting in the shop eating ice cream. Not feral. Not covered in dirt. She was there, all grown up, sitting opposite a reflection of herself, of the child she’d once been. Red hair. Green eyes. With the bush, and its secrets, buried deep inside her.

Without making a sound, Anya stood up and took Effie’s hand, pulling her with her.

“If you don’t look at them,” she whispered, “they can’t hurt you. And if you’re quiet enough, you can be invisible. Watch.”

Effie looked down at the girl with secrets behind her eyes.

Who’s Hana?

Then Anya held a finger to her lips. “Quiet,” she mouthed, “like a mouse, Mum said.”

Then they walked out together, hand in hand, with Anya’s sticky fingers clutched in Effie’s. The girl didn’t let go until they reached the postbox at the end of June’s drive.

And as Anya pulled away, she took a fragile piece of Effie with her.

—

Morrow, Wilson and Lewis were in June’s living room when they arrived back. June had made them cups of tea, and there was a plate of Scotch Fingers on the coffee table.

“We need to head over to the station,” said Lewis.

Effie looked at Morrow.

“Just you and Lewis,” she said. “Not the child.”

“Has something happened?” asked Effie. “Did you find something?” She glanced at Lewis. “Is it Dad?”

“Let’s talk at the station, shall we?” said Morrow. “We can give you a lift.”

Lewis gave her a small supportive smile.

“What about Tia?” said Effie. “Did you find anything—”

“As I said,” Morrow interrupted, “it’s best if we have this conversation at the station. In private.”

Effie’s fingers tingled, and she looked down. Anya was there again, holding her hand. She tugged at Effie’s arm, signaling for her to kneel down, and Effie sunk to the floor. Then Anya pressed her lips to Effie’s ear.

“It’s his bush,” she whispered. “He wants them to leave.”

Then she drew her face away, but her fingers remained coiled around Effie’s hand, clinging to her.

“So,” said Morrow, “shall we head to the station?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Effie went to move, but Anya’s grip tightened.

“I won’t be long,” Effie said.

“Then you’ll come back?”

“Yes. Of course.” A lump caught in Effie’s throat. “I’ll come back.”