The Forgotten Little Hand

2008
I sit on a bench and wait for Amanda to hop off the bus; her smile bubbling away when she sees me. A woman in white walks past; “Good morning Mrs. Thomson.” Her words are like syrup. My bum is cold on account of the bench. It’s cold too you see.
“Waiting for little Amanda are we?”
She’s waiting for Amanda too? How odd. I recognise her from somewhere, but for the life of me I can’t remember from where. She walks away, clip board snapped under her arm. I guess she’s not waiting for Amanda after all. I sit on the bench and wait for Amanda to hop off the bus. She might be a teacher, on account of the clip board. The white’s odd though. A gust of wind rustles through the Gums. Or was it a whisper? No, it was definitely a gust. The leaves make a rustling sound. I look at my watch. The bus is late. I feel sorry for the second hand. He’s forgotten most of the time. Amanda likes school. The teachers like Amanda. Some of the teachers don’t like school however. I sit and wait for Amanda to hop of the bus.

2006
“You need to start looking after yourself, Mum” chimes Amanda. This coming from the girls who used to say I nagged as much as a politician. Like Father, like son. I think about my father. Austere and solemn. Stiff as a 2x4. He didn’t nag all that much. My mother did though. Amanda’s a pretty girl; long blonde hair and big fish bowl eyes.
“Okay Mum. I’ve put this week’s dinner in the fridge and your medication is on the bed side table.”
“Thanks Amanda.”
“It’s Rachel, Mum. Remember.”

2005
I pass the place where it happened. I pull over and vomit.

2007
Amanda is taking me to a special place. ‘A playground for old people.’ I feel like a kid. The excitement churns my stomach. My bum is warm and wet.
“Aw, Mum!”
Amanda pulls in to a petrol station. She doesn’t slow down enough. She’s mad. I feel the squelching, on account of the bumping and jolting. Amanda takes me into the toilets and gives me some pants. They’re red. I liked the blue ones.
2003
I go to a niece’s birthday party. Kids play in the pool.

2004
Cry.

2002
Cry.

2001
It’s Sunday. The sun’s smiling; you can see it all over her face. She dances in and out of the pool, giggles escaping her like a deflating balloon. My bum is warm; the wooden chair drinks up the sun like a lizard. She’s 12. Happy. Her smile bubbles away as she calls out to me. Birds chatter somewhere in the distance.
Something happens and she’s sucked to the bottom of the pool. Arms flapping, legs kicking, she’s there, at the bottom of the pool. And so am I. I pull and pull, but she’s stuck there like a plug. The weight of the pool forcing down on her crippled body. Rachel runs over, her black hair like a cape behind her.
“Mum!” she screams.
Meanwhile I’m in the pool with the crippled body. My lungs feel too big for my chest. I pull and pull, but she’s stuck there good. And at the bottom of the pool she stayed.

2009
I wait for Amanda to get off the school bus.

2010
I wait for Amanda to get off the school bus.