February 25th
When I wake, still leaning across the mattress beside you, your face is turned towards me. You’re peering at me, as if you’re trying to work out who I am. Could the sun and the sand have turned you blind?
‘Gem,’ I say.
‘Yes.’ Your voice cracks.
‘Can you see me?’
You blink, but don’t answer. I have let the sun take your sight. You have nothing left but me.
‘I’ll find some food.’
I change into more of my old clothes: faded green shorts, a brown tank top. They are tighter on me than before; I am taller and more muscular now. I am also beginning to smell like everything else here, neglected and dusty. I make the short hot walk to the supply shed and look for more tins. There are out-of-date sweetcorn kernels with labels that haven’t faded too much, so I take them, along with a hammer. I bash them open in the shade beside the veranda and curse when corn juice spills to the sand. A waste. Then I go back to the bedroom with my prize. Gently, I place the tin of kernels beside you.
‘Is that not delicious?’ I say.
You give me a sidelong glance. So you can see. Your nose wrinkles as you smell the old corn.
‘Could’ve been worse,’ I say. ‘Could’ve been the herrings.’
You shut your eyes. This is not the time to joke. You push the sheet down away from you and turn your head towards the window.
But when I return, you have eaten the corn.
I take the tin away and wait in the kitchen, looking out at where you once tried to grow vegetables. Now, it seems impossible that you even attempted it—in this heat! Was there ever any chance you’d make it work?
The day turns to afternoon as I investigate the other bedroom, tracing lines through thick dust across the board games and the books you once thought I’d enjoy. Kids’ books mostly. It all seems so simple, so naive, as if the only way you ever thought we’d grow was backwards. I find a small, illustrated book calledDreamtime Stories, well-thumbed, and read an inscription in the front:To Tyler, love Mummy.The date underneath reveals you were only four: before she left you; before your dad turned to drink and you got taken by the authorities. Perhaps this is where you got stuck all those years back. Flicking through the pages, I find a child’s pencil drawings alongside the book’s illustrations: small human figures crouching beside dreamtime spirits. Crudely done, but completely you.
This time when I return, you are up, hunched against the window frame, pissing on the floor. When you stumble back to the bed, you don’t meet my eyes. Again, I reach for more precious water to clean up your mess.