What Lies in God's Wake
Bedtime is my favourite part of the day. That’s when Mum comes to kiss me goodnight, always exactly in the middle of my forehead. She bends down. Her hair falls around my face, enclosing me like the leaves of a willow tree. Soft light filters through the strands. I close my eyes and let her leaves brush my cheek.
One morning, before school, I ask why she kisses me there. “It’s your third eye”, she says, braiding my hair. “When I kiss it, it opens.” I think about this throughout the day. At night, after she leaves my room, I reach up from under the covers and carefully touch my forehead, feeling for eyelashes.
I wish my third eye could help me fall asleep. My parents close their bedroom door and lower their voices, but Mum always gets louder and louder until she is shouting. She is wind slapping against the side of my face. Dad never shouts, but he is the deep rumble of an earthquake that makes me grip the bedsheets. Then, it stops. Sometimes that’s even worse - the silence afterwards. I try not to imagine what their faces look like when they’re angry, and I count the teddy bears on the wallpaper until I fall asleep.
2
I’m sleeping. I know I’m sleeping but I can’t wake up. I am a spider trying to climb my cobweb up to the moon, but the sea won’t let me. It keeps throwing up frozen daggers of water that cut my legs off, one by one. But every time I lose a leg, it grows back again, so I keep climbing. I climb for hours, while the moon smiles down at me and the sea glares up and my legs fall again and again into the dark water like matchsticks.
When the dream finally ends, I roll out of bed and creep across the landing to my parents’ room. They are sleeping with their backs to each other, with so much space between them that there would be enough room for thousands of me. I crawl into the valley between their bodies, and they roll over towards me. They are half-asleep and each of them clumsily swings an arm across my stomach, one after the other. I stare in disbelief at their giant hands in front of me, clasping each other as if it were completely natural. This is the closest I have seen them.
3
It’s Saturday and I am wearing billowing harem pants that smell like India, like red clay and saffron, like fresh lotuses in monsoon season. Dad is out running errands, and Mum sits in the chaise, reading Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve. I run around the house pretending to be a genie, granting wishes to potted ficuses and grandmother’s blue china. I run past Mum and ask what her wish is, and she catches me by my waist, pulling me close.
“You,” she whispers. I sink into her arms. She smells like sandalwood. I am a tiny, happy genie. She is the warm lamp I curl into at night.
4
“Go ask Dad if he’s having dinner.” I feel my shoulders shoot up. This is my least favourite part of the day. Sometimes when Mum cooks dinner, Dad pretends he’s not hungry. I walk to the lounge as slowly as I can. Today the TV is on and so is his phone screen, but he isn’t looking at either. Instead, his eyes flicker back and forth between thoughts, and the knots above his eyebrows bulge, deepening the lines across his forehead. I stare at them. His forehead is a wrinkled carpet I can never pull straight.
As I get closer, the smell of smoke and breath-mints fills my nostrils. I know the answer is “No”. But I ask him anyway, and when he says he’s not hungry, I still feel my stomach drop. For the rest of the evening, Mum is angry. I know this because she asks me questions I don’t know the answer to, like “Why do I bother?” When we sit down to eat, I eat twice as much food as I usually do, hoping it will make up for Dad, but she doesn’t notice.
Later, as she is kissing me goodnight, we hear him rustling in the kitchen cupboard for food. I watch her lips tighten at the sound. Tonight, when they fight, they forget to close the door. I cover my ears but I can still hear them.
Wind stings my cheek. “I’m leaving!” it screams. My third eye trembles and pulses like a warning sign.
5
On Sunday Mum takes me swimming. She swims in the adult lanes and I play at the shallow end, by the steps, swinging between the railings and pretending to be a monkey. My arm-bands are yellow and see-through, and when I look through them everything changes shape. The lifeguard turns into a lifeguard-shaped balloon. Suddenly I feel sad and I don’t know why, so I swim over to Mum’s lane. I hold my breath, slip under the surface, and watch her underwater. She swims toward and away. She glows like a jellyfish. The water cradles me in its blue, swinging belly.
6
Today in History, we learn about the Greek Gods. Poseidon is my favourite. We make posters, and Miss Arnold stands behind me and asks why I’ve drawn everyone with three eyes. Her face is scrunched up like a dried leaf. When I explain, she holds up my poster to the class and says, “Make your pictures realistic.” Everyone laughs. She’s smiling and looking over their heads. I wonder if anyone has ever kissed her on her forehead. On the bus ride home, I draw everyone’s third eye back in.
Mum doesn’t answer the doorbell. I reach into the plant pot and pull out the spare key. I find her in the spare bedroom, lying awake with the covers drawn up to her cheeks. I ask if she knows about Poseidon. She doesn’t say anything, so I shake her gently. She smiles, but her eyes stay frozen. They are still and glazed like empty snow globes. I know she has been crying and I try to kiss her forehead, but she turns away. I wish I was Poseidon. Then, I could control all the water in the world, and she would never cry.
7
Mum is still upstairs. She is on the phone to Grandma. When she doesn’t come down, Dad and I have microwave macaroni for dinner.
“Why is Mum talking to Grandma?” “She isn’t feeling well.” “Will she still come kiss me goodnight?” “Yes.” “Why isn’t she feeling well?” “She just needs someone to talk to.” “Can’t she talk to you?”
His eyes drop to the floor, and he turns away. He is looking out the kitchen window at something, but it’s pitch black outside.
8
I lie in bed, listening for her footsteps. When she comes, I quickly pretend to be asleep. She brushes hair from my face. Her lips feel cool against my forehead, like moonlight. I keep my eyes closed, but as she is walking away they snap open, searching for her in the dark. My lips move without me wanting them to: “This is my favourite part of the day.” She stands in the doorway, looking back, an expression on her face I haven’t seen before.
I dream of God. I am sitting in a boat in the middle of an ocean at night, staring up. I try to move my neck but it is stuck. My third eye is wide open and I can’t blink. The moon is bright and it swings above me from left to right, to left, to right... God is a hypnotist dangling his watch from the sky.
9
Dad opens the door when I come home from school. When I look in his eyes he gives me a strange smile. I follow him to the kitchen and watch him take macaroni out of the freezer.
“Where’s Mum?” “At Grandma and Grandpa’s.” His eyes flicker back and forth but the smile stays stuck to his face.
“Can we go?” He shakes his head. He is smiling the same way he smiles at strangers. “Is she bringing back dessert? “She’s going to stay there.” His eyes dart between my face and the window. “... Like a sleepover?” He stares at the floor. “For how long?” He is standing at the kitchen counter, his hands gripping the edge. His smile shakes. It collapses and rebuilds itself over and over again.
“When is she coming back?” He swallows. “I don’t know.” His face twitches. His voice sounds like something is stuck in his throat, and I realise it is sadness. I press myself into his body and his arms wrap around me. He doesn’t cry but I feel his chest heaving like an ocean.
10
That night, I climb into bed with Dad and lie still. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. As I start to fall asleep, I think I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and I bolt upright.
“Just the dishwasher,” he says sadly.
I lie back down. I draw my hand from under the covers and bring a fingertip to my lips. I kiss it silently and touch it to the middle of my forehead. I can feel my third eye, wet and blinking in the dark like a lighthouse. God is a storm, and I am a lighthouse. She is the spinning ship I search for at night.