the world had split into a thousand pieces. Her mother staring at him, the enormity of his words too much for her to take in all at once. Then it had happened, the truth breaking through the shell of denial, the light blinding. And she had crumbled. Freya had grabbed for her, catching her under the arms before she hit the floor, biting her lip as a wail pierced the air, a sound she had never heard from her mother before, one that ate at the inside of her, that would chase itself around in her dreams when she finally managed to sleep. Her mother had clawed at her, begging her to say that it wasn’t true. That he wasn’t dead.
Freya had wanted to lie to her, had wanted it so much that it made her bones ache. But instead she had hugged her mother close, feeling her shudder with grief.
They had carried her mother to bed, Freya and her grandfather, lifting her up, limp between them. Freya had lain down beside her, wrapping her arms around her whilst she cried and cried and cried.
“Do you have bacon?”
“Huh?”
“Bacon. I found the sausages, but I don’t see bacon. Your grandfather likes bacon. Do you have any?”
“I don’t know, Grandma.”
Her grandmother sighed, frying pan hitting burner with a clank. “Have to be sausages then. Do you want to clean the mushrooms or will I?”
Freya didn’t answer, shaking her head as the kitchen filled with the sizzle of oil, the smell of a breakfast that no one would eat. There had been thirteen survivors. Thirteen. Out of seventy four. The turboprop had torn in two, tail severed against the slope of the mountain. That was what had saved them, being pulled from the body of the plane, tossed into snow. Everyone else had died, eaten by fire. No bodies found. The television was dark now. Her grandmother had snapped it off, muttering something about knowing too much, would do nobody any good.
It had been a little after 4am when her mother had finally fallen into a restless sleep. Freya must have slept as well, for a little while at least. Had vague recollections of kaleidoscope dreams, of fire and rushing wind, her mother’s scream. Each one pierced with the distant sound of her brother sobbing.
“How many sausages for you? One or two?”
She should be crying. That was what a normal daughter would do. She should be breaking her heart that he was gone, the man who taught her to ride a bike, who put her to bed at night, who came to her school plays and her graduation. Freya picked at the cuff of her pyjamas. But he hadn’t done any of those things.
“Freya? I’m speaking to you.”
“I’ll have eight, please Grandma.”
Her grandmother tched, throwing two sausages into the pan, oil splattering against the tiled wall.
She tried to muster it up, the sense of loss. A catastrophic re-shaping of her world. But she couldn’t find it. Just this vague sense of a murky figure - a shape behind a newspaper, a back walking out of the door – gone. She had experimented with self-delusion, telling herself that she was trying to be strong, looking out for her mother and her brother. But it hadn’t worked, wouldn’t stick. Because even though he was gone, and you were supposed to re-work it now, tidying up history to favour the dead, there was still that chasm there, the one that had always sat so neatly between herself and her father. In her darker moments, as she listened to her family grieve, she had found herself wondering just who it was they were grieving for.
“Come on. Breakfast. I’ve done you an egg as well.” Her grandmother set the plate down in front of her, harder than was strictly necessary. Two thick sausages. Quartered mushrooms. An egg, glistening yellow with oil. The yolk had been broken.
Freya stared at it. Sometimes you had to lie. That was what her mother said. To protect people’s feelings, to keep things nice and calm. You’re too honest. It must be something to do with the psychology, all this stuff about talking everything through. People
Freya had wanted to lie to her, had wanted it so much that it made her bones ache. But instead she had hugged her mother close, feeling her shudder with grief.
They had carried her mother to bed, Freya and her grandfather, lifting her up, limp between them. Freya had lain down beside her, wrapping her arms around her whilst she cried and cried and cried.
“Do you have bacon?”
“Huh?”
“Bacon. I found the sausages, but I don’t see bacon. Your grandfather likes bacon. Do you have any?”
“I don’t know, Grandma.”
Her grandmother sighed, frying pan hitting burner with a clank. “Have to be sausages then. Do you want to clean the mushrooms or will I?”
Freya didn’t answer, shaking her head as the kitchen filled with the sizzle of oil, the smell of a breakfast that no one would eat. There had been thirteen survivors. Thirteen. Out of seventy four. The turboprop had torn in two, tail severed against the slope of the mountain. That was what had saved them, being pulled from the body of the plane, tossed into snow. Everyone else had died, eaten by fire. No bodies found. The television was dark now. Her grandmother had snapped it off, muttering something about knowing too much, would do nobody any good.
It had been a little after 4am when her mother had finally fallen into a restless sleep. Freya must have slept as well, for a little while at least. Had vague recollections of kaleidoscope dreams, of fire and rushing wind, her mother’s scream. Each one pierced with the distant sound of her brother sobbing.
“How many sausages for you? One or two?”
She should be crying. That was what a normal daughter would do. She should be breaking her heart that he was gone, the man who taught her to ride a bike, who put her to bed at night, who came to her school plays and her graduation. Freya picked at the cuff of her pyjamas. But he hadn’t done any of those things.
“Freya? I’m speaking to you.”
“I’ll have eight, please Grandma.”
Her grandmother tched, throwing two sausages into the pan, oil splattering against the tiled wall.
She tried to muster it up, the sense of loss. A catastrophic re-shaping of her world. But she couldn’t find it. Just this vague sense of a murky figure - a shape behind a newspaper, a back walking out of the door – gone. She had experimented with self-delusion, telling herself that she was trying to be strong, looking out for her mother and her brother. But it hadn’t worked, wouldn’t stick. Because even though he was gone, and you were supposed to re-work it now, tidying up history to favour the dead, there was still that chasm there, the one that had always sat so neatly between herself and her father. In her darker moments, as she listened to her family grieve, she had found herself wondering just who it was they were grieving for.
“Come on. Breakfast. I’ve done you an egg as well.” Her grandmother set the plate down in front of her, harder than was strictly necessary. Two thick sausages. Quartered mushrooms. An egg, glistening yellow with oil. The yolk had been broken.
Freya stared at it. Sometimes you had to lie. That was what her mother said. To protect people’s feelings, to keep things nice and calm. You’re too honest. It must be something to do with the psychology, all this stuff about talking everything through. People
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