It's almost Christmas; her last one. Lisa shivers despite the December heat; the memory shaking the last remnants of sleep. Her eyes squeeze tight, lashes tickling freckled cheeks, arms finding her two best toys. The shrine of her short life is strewn across the walls around her, amid peeling paint and worn furniture. Ribbons, won on the school oval, hang like soldiers staked by a single thumb tack. Plastic ornaments, stuffed animals and amateur sketches of family and friends. Piles of books litter the floor. She wonders which of her sisters will sleep here when she's gone.
Lisa's tapping heart has her up. She tugs the sheets over her bed; then scrambles in her cupboard for clothes. She yanks a uniform over her head, checking the mottled mirror. The faded maroon shift hangs limp, stopping well above the knees, toothpick legs beneath. She crinkles her nose and sets the brush to her hair, raking it through the thick mass, filling the prongs with curly, brown knots. She scrunches it up and ties it with elastic. A pale stranger eyes her in the mirror. She frowns, wondering how it will happen. The thought is enough to propel her through the door, toward the comfort of mum and breakfast.
The first fingers of light split the curtain and wake Lisa before five on Christmas Day. Butterflies dance inside her belly as she nudges her cousin, Kim. Sleep creases Kim's face, fists in her eyes.
'It's Christmas.'
Kim bounces up with a grin, sheets tangling around her legs, hair askew. They crawl off the mattress and sneak to the lounge. A spindly Ghost Gum branch casts a shadow against the gathering light; leaves replaced with paper chains and coloured bells. A cardboard star, covered with gold glitter, sparkles at the top. They tiptoe to the tree, hearts pounding, and squint at the pile of presents beneath. They squeal, hug each other tight; and give the gifts a last look before they scurry back to bed; and giggle in the growing dawn. The floorboards creak and their eyes shoot wide.
They tiptoe to the kitchen, peer through the door and gasp at a large man bending over the stove. Santa? A shrill whistle has them glued together; hearts hammering, eyes on the man. Grandad turns, singing kettle in hand; and pours steaming water into the teapot. He lowers himself to the chair at the far end of the table, knees spread wide to accommodate his girth; and blue dog parked at his feet. Relieved, they burst into the kitchen holding hands.
'It's Christmas, Grandad,' said Kim. 'And Santa left us presents.'
'You must have been good, then,' said Grandad.
They scamper back to the bedroom to wake Auntie Bea. She's snoring softly, her ample frame rising and falling beneath the sheet. They pounce on her giggling and shouting.
'It's Christmas.'
Before long there's seven kids under the tree, cross-legged, hair askew; and wide eyes staring at the presents. Lisa counts one each. Grandad hands them out, each gift grasped by eager hands. Her fingers tremble as she picks at the wrapping, careful not to rip it. Then she sees her. She's dressed in a blue gown, and tiny silver shoes; with golden hair that falls to her waist. She lifts the box with a grin and wraps thin arms around her. It's Barbie. Her eyes find mum talking to Auntie Bea, and then she sees her cousin, Angie, on the wall behind.
Red glasses dominate her pixie face, dancing green eyes beneath. She's second from the right, lined up with her brother and sisters. A light brown frame surrounds them, the glass a little dusty. Angie's eyes stare, immortalised the day before it happened; they tell Lisa it's her time soon.
Flashes of memory immobilise her limbs, imagination giving her the details nobody else did. They were coming back from the beach, skin lobster red and gritty with sand and salt; dog happy. The sun was low, and the kangaroo came bounding out of nowhere. The Ute skidded across the road, through a barbed wire fence and slammed into a tree. It rolled a couple of times, and spewed kids and eskies into the dirt. Angie flew that day, dress billowing as she fluttered aground like a windless kite. She was still breathing when the siren howled in the distance and stars peppered the sky.
Lisa woke to someone crying, deep howling sobs that had her fists around the sheets and blood pounding. She curled up tight.
'She's gone.'
Auntie Bea, what's she doing here at night? She strained to hear more, heart thudding, bed covers cupping her chin.
'M..my beautiful Angie, my lovely girl…'
Mum murmured something back, amid the scrape of chairs and chink of cups. Auntie Bea sobbed. She never cried. Lisa trembled at the noise.
She slid from bed and tiptoed through the lounge to the kitchen doorway. The floorboards creaked and she froze and held her breath; not wanting to be seen. Auntie Bea stayed slumped in the nearest chair, her face buried in a hankie. Lisa yearned to wrap herself in her Aunt's soft arms, but dared not. She eyed her mother's back as she hunched over the bench making coffee, her dressing gown swished; and feet were bare. Auntie Bea lifted her head and a stranger's face stared up with empty eyes.
'They tried but there was nothing they could do. She's really gone, she's dead.'
Lisa fled to the bedroom; launched herself at the bed and yanked the covers up. Hot tears mixed with snot. She's dead, she's dead. Vomit hit her throat and blood whooshed in her ears. She wanted to run away, but stayed glued to the bed in a tight ball; and howled. She was just a kid, not old enough to die, just a kid. Her tear soaked pillow, turned cold beneath her cheek.
The kids never got the full story. The adults spoke in whispers and fell silent whenever they entered the room. Mum talked about Angie going to heaven and let Lisa and her sisters pick some flowers for the funeral, but they weren't allowed to go; couldn't say good-bye. It took time, but Lisa worked it out herself. Angie was the second eldest of four, like her and she would soon be ten, the same age as Angie when she died.
The photo comes back into focus and Lisa swipes at her eyes. She skips across the room, clutching her doll and skidding on Christmas wrap; she stumbles down the stairs to flee into the paddock. Stabbing pain in her foot makes her stop and she squats to pluck the prickles from her heel. She forgot her thongs. She hops back to the stairs and sits, arms wrapping Barbie until Mum calls her to breakfast.
She's filled with nerves on the eve of her eleventh birthday; she hugs everyone good night twice; and re-organises her stuffed toys so many times; Mum yells at her to go to bed. She tucks her toys in for the last time and reluctantly hops in beside them. Before her head hits the pillow she leaps up again; to say a prayer. Please God, don't make it hurt. Back in bed she tries to stay awake, but her eyelids grow too heavy.
Bright rays pierce through her eyelids; their warmth prickling her skin. This must be Heaven. A giggle tickles her ear. Angie? She strains to recognise the laugh. Must be dreaming. Something bumps her leg and her eyes struggle open. There's another giggle and someone whispers;
'Wake up, wake up.'
Her eyes spring wide to a sea of faces. Mum? Her sisters jostle the sides of the bed. They're smiling, elbowing for room. Are they dead too?
'Happy Birthday.'
Her little sister bounces on the bed beside her. She sees her shelf and Ted's lopsided stare, over her head. Mum holds a cake, the candles dripping wax onto the pink frosting. She counts eleven.
'Come on – blow them,' says her little sister.
She pushes herself up and blows hard, watching the smoke rise from eleven tiny wicks. The thrill of not being ten anymore surges through her. Her heart leaps as she reaches for the present in her sister's outstretched hands.