III - Carnival
This is such a big mistake.
She cannot believe her mother has brought them here.
A blur of coloured Christmas lights arc between the happy faces of people laughing, talking, enjoying themselves. She walks with Esther and her mother in a rigid line, counterfeit smiles sewn across their cheeks.
They don't belong here.
A carnival worker accosts them, shoving vouchers and leaflets into their cold hands. He ushers them along the curving gravel path, pointing at the rides zooming around on either side of them. She cannot help thinking, Is it so obvious that we are lost?
"Thank you," her mother says, her face a tense mask of forced gratitude. "We'll be fine."
The worker frowns slightly and then pastes his kind, helpful grin back on his wrinkled face.
As she watches him walk away, she wonders whether anything is real and if everyone is playing the same Let's Pretend game.
What is real?
"I'm hungry," Esther moans, a pout blooming over her rosy lips.
"Okay," her mother says, running a finger agitatedly through her brittle hair. "Let's get lunch."
They stumble through the carnival as the first snow begins to fall. They squint through the white flakes, their shoes crunching on frozen gravel.
She cups her hand and lets the snow collect there, lingering for a second before melting away into the delicate lines of her palm.
They find the cafe and sit at a small green table sheltered by the overbiting roof. They sit upright on their flimsy chairs, icy clouds drifting out of their mouths each time they breathe. A bored looking waiter approaches and distributes laminated menus to each of them.
“Jasmine tea, please," she says. As always.
Her mother sighs heavily. "Are you sure you don't want anything else, Sarah?" she says with a voice ridged with forced composure. "You always ask for this Chinese tealeaf crap."
She shakes her head and the tangled brown web of hair falls over her thin face. A curtain to hide from the world behind. She blushes as her mother glares at her, willing her to speak.
Does the waiter know they're not normal? Does he know who he's serving? Does he care?
Between gritted teeth, her mother orders the rest of the food. The waiter gathers up the menus and stalks back into the kitchen. The three of them sit in silence and she can hear the sound of her mother’s watch ticking.
She wriggles her toes and realises that the snow has melted through her shoes. Her feet are soaked and freezing in their skimpy socks.
The waiter returns and serves the meal. Her mother and Esther hastily heap food onto their plates and bring spoons to their mouths. They are desperate for something, anything to fill the terrifying silence.
She lifts the delicate teapot and the steaming brown liquid pours down the ridged spout. She brings the tiny white cup to her lips, musing on its fragility. If she squeezed her bony fingers tighter around its skeletal frame, it would surely snap and shatter into pieces. Its life is in her hands.
She takes a sip of the jasmine tea and basks in its fragrance, enveloping her and seeping through her pores.
She notices a man sitting at the adjacent table. He is red-haired; nervous and rumpled-looking. He is holding a tattered book and turning its pages but he is not reading; she can tell. He suddenly looks up from the book and meets her gaze.
She tears her eyes away; her nerves are on edge.
Why is he looking at her? Can he tell she’s an outsider? Can he tell she has no right to be here, amongst the normal, happy, laughing people? Does he hate that she was watching him?
Her hand trembles violently and she quickly puts down her teacup on the saucer. Her grip on the handle jerks and the cup topples over, rolling onto the floor. The liquid gushes out, seeping into the cracks of the gravel and tinting the snow brown. Jagged pieces of white china are strewn beneath her chair.
She picks up a remnant and brushes her finger against it. The sharp edge bites through the skin and she drops it as if it were a hot coal. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself as the shaking starts.
“No,” she whispers, her face contorting with frustration. “Please, no.”
“Why, Sarah?” her mother is asking, holding her shoulder across the table.
She shrugs her off and the shaking becomes more violent, more frenzied. Her mother leaps out of the chair and faces her. “Stop it,” she says in a low, urgent tone.
She cannot stop. She can’t make herself. She cannot help the poison leaking into her mind and overpowering her brain. She cannot help the thoughts lying in wait for her, coiled like an evil snake ready to spring out.
“Stop it,” her mother repeats, louder. “Listen, Sarah. You can make yourself stop. You don’t have to have another panic attack. Stop it. Stop it NOW.”
Everyone can hear. Everyone is looking at them. Everyone can see they don’t belong in this world.
“Stop it, godammit!” her mother shrieks. Words spill out of her mouth, broken and bitter. They tear a rent through the soft, serene harmony of the snowfall. The cafe is hushed, shocked.
Her mother grabs her by the shoulders as if she weighs nothing and shakes her and shakes her and shakes her. Sarah gasps for breath, empty tears spilling over her frozen lashes.
The smell of buttery popcorn, sweet candyfloss, salty sweat and icy fear fill her sinuses as the metal taste of embarrassment closes up her throat. Heightened but fragmented senses of smell, sight and taste vie for attention against a dull backdrop of humiliation and sorrow.
Her mother releases her and hugs Esther, sobbing into her hair.
Protecting her from the monster.
Everyone is staring at them, the freaks, the lunatics, the problem family.
Sarah turns around, her legs almost buckling, and runs off into the snowfall.
