fateful
She will always remember exactly where she was this fateful day in July. What she was doing, who she was doing it with – the strangeness of it all. How it plays out as if in slow motion, the speed of it exaggerated to the point where seconds begin to feel like minutes, minutes being to feel like hours.
She is allowed the day off school and Mummy and Daddy are unusually quiet when they drop her off at the pub, Mummy and Shelley's exchange by the door a hushed whisper, their concern for Daddy evident in their eyes. Mummy can barely keep her eyes from him. He is still in the corner of the room, the corner which she occupies with her dollies on the floor, the angel wings Bethany had bought her for Christmas hanging from her back. She'd worn them on the journey up, worn them since the crack of dawn, reached for them almost as soon as she had opened her eyes.
Bethany said they could make her fly. Bethany said she would teach her how to one day.
Six months on and they are still her favourite gift from her favourite cousin. Her favourite cuddle when she has a tummy upset, her favourite piggyback ride down the street if she ever dares to ask nicely enough to be carried. Her favourite person to read her stories at bedtime when she is being minded because Bethany does the voices, Daddy! I wish you would do the voices.
She feels Daddy touch one of the feathered wings she is wearing, a lingering press, his fingers coated in excess glitter – but he not caring in the slightest. Daddy ruffles her hair, paints on a smile. He kisses her head and waves goodbye, tells her to be good for Auntie Shelley before he lets Mummy take his hand, lets Mummy lead him away.
She can see tears in his bloodshot eyes. She doesn't understand what they mean.
They are gone for hours.
When they return, their faces are more sombre than they had been when they left. At the time, she hadn't really thought that possible. Hadn't really thought any of this possible.
Mummy and Shelley are whispering again, but she is able to pick out some of the words they are saying as Daddy helps her put on her coat. She hears operation and unsuccessful and something along the lines of never walk again.
"There's been an accident," is what she heard Daddy tell Mummy the previous day. She'd forgotten about that until now.
She thinks that it is sad, to never run or skip or hop. To not move. To never do any of it ever again. She looks down at her own legs as they make their way home, studies them even, the way they move and how they move and why they move. Daddy follows her eyes.
Mummy nods at him, as if to continue.
His voice sounds a bit choked when he tells her, "I need to talk to you about Bethany."
And after he has talked and she has listened, listened really hard, as hard as she ever has, she tears off her wings. Tells him that Bethany would make better use of them, for if Bethany cannot walk, she should to be able to fly. She wants her to be able to fly.
"I'll teach her."