Ribbons

Tui and Hana always took the bus home. They walked to the corner of Greer and Pennydale in the morning and split off, Tui left, Hana right. They took their separate busses to school, then afterschool again, to the same corner and walked home together.

Today Tui kicked a particularly large stone along the cracked path, it slowed on the weeds growing in the cracks and bounced left then right off some jutting gravel. Hana was reading her book, head down, tripping ever so often onto the berm. Her dulled leather shoes scuffed on the rough path, the soles so thin she could feel the stones. But today she didn’t. Too engrossed in another world to be bothered with this one. She liked the way the letters arranged themselves on the page, she liked the predictable endings, the girls with the pale pink pinafores and white ribbons in their hair. Hana has one white ribbon that she wears with her uniform on the first and last days of term, and to special things, like funerals and parties.

When they left this morning, they left at seven, and walked the long way to the bus stop and had to wait for almost an hour. Then on the way home, they took the long way again, just to be safe. Monday night hadn’t been good. Hana escaped next door to a friend’s house. Tui stayed in her room. They didn’t see what happened to Mum. They didn’t want to. Again.

They didn’t see her before they left for school this morning either. Tui and Hana slipped out their bedroom windows, not enough strength to brave a walk to the kitchen. They’d wait until they got home for dinner, maybe they would eat toast, or baked beans. Hana knocked her shoulder on the window, she winced, the lingering bruise from three nights ago yet to fade. They didn’t see Dad. They didn’t want to. Again.

Tui and Hana got home. They went back in through Tui’s bedroom window. They got in bed together and laid there. Hana rolled her wearied head into the crook of Tui’s neck. She stroked Hana’s thick brown hair, gently pulling out the tangles, her fingers the comb. Tui whispered softly in her ear, “you are strong”. Hana just curled closer, tears snaking down her freckly face, praying tonight would be alright, that they could sleep until tomorrow, mostly undisturbed. They stayed there until eight, when their stomachs rumbled so loud they couldn’t hear their own thoughts.

Hana followed behind Tui as they crept to the kitchen. Not as spies. They were never spies. Only soldiers. Fighting. Always fighting. Half a loaf of bread left on the bench from Saturday, they took a piece each back to their room. No one would notice, right? The furry stuff is special, Tui tells Hana, “it gives it more flavour”.

They’ll sleep in Tui’s bed tonight. Bundled up in their warmest clothes, a sheet and blanket pulled tightly over their shoulders. A cape. A shield.

The evening had been mostly quiet, only a slight bang of a door every now and then. Raised voices, mumbling down the hallway. But no yelling. Yet.

They woke with a jolt when it sounded like the house was falling in, maybe the world was falling in. And a scream. Hana screamed too. Tui clapped a hand over Hana’s mouth. She squeezed her close to her chest and tried to block her ears. The yells and screams got closer to Tui’s room. Tui lifted up the window and they jumped out and went round to the front of the house, to the window that let them see all the way down the hallway. They could see Mum and Dad. Mum bent down in the corner while Dad beat her, he hit her again and again. Hana screamed, again, and Tui put my hand over Hana’s mouth, again.

He didn’t stop for ages. Then he went into their room. Mum was on the floor, she was crying too, and there was blood on the side of her head. But she was alive, she was awake. They waited for a couple of minutes in the shadows by the front door, they went in and sat by Mum, and cried, a lot. Then Dad came out again and saw them, he hadn’t seen Tui and Hana for days. He hit them too. Then he left back to the room. The three of them tumbled to the car. Tui could drive next year, but not yet. So their Mum drove the best she could.

Tui made the 111 call. The police would go to Dad now. Hana cried as she spoke. Tears dripped down her face as she talked to Women’s Refuge. Mum drove fast. A towel was pressed against one side of Tui’s head, a phone on the other. Her brick phone, her bulky-brick, the one that died after two texts, if it lasted that long. They swung round corners and jumped the speed bumps and just kept driving. Driving away and away. Tui’s voice was shaky and slow, her tongue stumbled and her throat caught. She told the address, she told her name, she said Hana’s name, she said her Mum’s name.

She said her Dad’s name.

Hana tasted her tears, swallowed them, coughing as they scratched down her throat.

“Sorry I didn’t catch that sweetie; could you please repeat it?” the soft lady on the other end said.

“Mu-u-m’s na-ame is Ruth.”

“You’re doing well, where are you now? Just come to ** ********* ******.”

Hana held the icepack to her chin, an old Barbie flannel between the two. Mum used to sit by the bath and dig into the depths of the water to find the flannel, she’d dance it over Hana’s face and Tui would watch on from the shower, proud she could wash herself now. And one of those evenings, Hana clutched a hot water bottle after getting out of the bath, it was a particularly cold night. There must have been new snow on the mountain. Hana lay in bed, her 5-year-old toes curled round the sheets, balled up, tears dripping down her face, like now. And her Mum sang luuu lallu, lallu lallu lallu, mamma’s little baby, mamma’s little Alabama Coon.

And she sang it again now as she swerved, as we reached the gravel driveway. Hana was off the phone. Tui was too. The police would be at their house. It was dark now and down the end of the drive, they saw two ladies, holding five mugs. They saw a girl wearing a dressing gown peering out the window. They saw a dog pattering along the front of the house. They were close enough now to be swallowed in the light. Their shadows running away into the night.