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JOSIE
Fern Grove. A place I longed to escape. A place I wish I never had to come back to.
I pull my car over near theWelcome to Fern Grovesign and spray my windows with windshield wiper fluid. The dust smears across it, making it harder to see out than before. Giving up, I continue on my way.
Peering out of the non-smudged section, I pass the sugar mill, the old petrol station, and the café that my mother used to take me to every Sunday morning. Everything looks the same. I follow the familiar route—one I couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried—ending up at a long gravel road.
Dad’s rust-spotted truck is parked where it always is, my mum’s SUV and my brother’s Subaru beside it.Sam’s car is the only one to have changed in the four years I’ve been gone. He wrapped his last one around a telegraph pole—or so I read on Facebook.
It’s only a moment after I cut the engine that humid air fills the car, causing my shirt to feel damp. I exhale, staring at the old, peeling house. If I’d taken a picture the day I left, not one thing in that picture would be different in the one I’d take now.
I really hate that.
My reflection in the side mirror catches my attention as I step outside the car. I flinch at the sight of it. I don’t recognise myself. The roundness I used to get teased about at school is gone, replaced with a sharp jawline and gaunt cheeks.
Birds cry from the trees, and I hear Mum’s radio blaring as I approach the front screen door, hanging on its final hinges, already partially open. I look at the gap between the door and the porch, thinking it would be far too easy for snakes to enter. Many times, I woke up to find one slithering across our lounge room floor or hiding in my bookshelves.
I knock once, then twice, before entering. The weathered floorboards groan under my weight. There was once a time I had memorised which ones squeaked and which didn’t, in my attempts to sneak out uncaught …
I barely take a breath as I tiptoe down the stairs, dancing over the floorboards as I reach the front door. Slowly, I swing it open. The warm night air washes over my skin before strong arms wrap around me, dragging me close.
He smells like cigarettes and whisky. Two scents a teenage boy shouldn’t smell like, but it’s a scent that’s become familiar to me. A comforting smell that lingers on my hoodies and stains my pillow after we spend hours together.
“Did you wear that for me?” he asks.
A shiver rolls down my spine. My eyes dart down to the spaghetti-strap white dress that hugs my waist and shows off my legs.“Yes,” I whisper.
His lips curve. He leans in close, his breath warm against my earlobe.“Good.”
The smell of baked goods guides me to the kitchen, and I mentally shake off the memories that are threatening to take over. I eye the walls, the faded wallpaper, the hanging photo frames. Everything feels too familiar, too small, too cluttered.
I pause. It looks like one thing has changed after all. My photographs on the walls. They’re gone. I trail my finger down one of the dusty frames, seeing my mum, dad, and brother smiling back at me. My finger drifts to the empty spot beside them, where I should have been.
Sweat drips down the side of my face and I wipe it away. The heat is almost unbearable. I begged for years for air-conditioning or even ceiling fans. I glance to the ceilings, seeing nothing but accumulated dust and cobwebs.
Mum is humming under her breath, bent at the knees, inspecting something inside the oven.She slams the door shut and spins on her heel.
Our eyes lock.
The glass of water in her hand slips, shattering on the floor. “Josephine,” she whispers. She blinks. Her eyes dart over me.
I’m much thinner than I used to be. My skin washed out, hair flat on my shoulders.
Mum creeps closer to me as if scared to make any sudden movements. “Is this real?”
My eyes feel watery as I nod.
Her gaze roams my face, focusing on my black eye. “Oh, honey,” she whispers. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
I fall into her arms and cry all the tears I’ve held in for so long.
