From The Dead

From the Dead

It had been called off. The sniffer dogs. The posters. The candlelight vigils. The media conferences. The orange lines of rescue volunteers trudging through the bush. All the resources we had at our disposal were exhausted and public interest was waning. She went from the headline, to second lead, to a comment between sports and weather. The police told us they would keep investigating, but after two weeks the probability of success drops. I’ve always heard it was hopeless after 48 hours. We were in that tortured spot beyond joyful rescue but before 'at least we have closure'.

I remember after that final visit from the police all of us sitting in the lounge room. Nobody was talking. For the first time in a long time we simply did nothing, we could do nothing. We were together in that room, myself, mum and dad, but each of us alone in our thoughts. Do we go back to work, to school? Do we prepare dinner instead of having takeaway every night or just not eating? Do we vacuum? Do the laundry? People were so eager to help in that regard when things were hopeful.

We sat silent for a long time. Until there was a familiar knock on the door. Playful and rhythmic, it was her knock, the secret language of family. We exchanged looks to one another, hopeful yet guarded. I think mine was fear. One second later we were at the door, Dad nearly ripped it off its hinges.

It was Amy. Dirty and tattered but all in all complete. I stood back and watched Mom and Dad envelop her. Alternating between hugging and inspecting. Dispelling disbelief through their senses. Touch, then sight, then touch again. Rationality came in spurts against enormous emotional power surges. We checked her for injuries and called an ambulance and the police.

In the chaos of emotions she exhibited none. She didn't cry, she didn't laugh, she didn't scream. She didn't say anything or do anything. The opposite of our hyper emotion. The doctors gave a similar diagnosis to our initial reaction. A little banged up, but all in all completely fine. The police would work with what they could, but Amy brought no evidence with her return. Until she talked, the case was stalled.

Now some weeks later she still hasn’t said a word. The doctors said it would be best for her recovery for us to try and keep things as normal as possible. The rest of the family couldn’t be more pleased to have her back, to have the everyday back. They accept she will take time to recover. She will tell her story in her own time. But to me she is a ghost just following the habits of her former body. I watch her awkwardly navigate the house, I see her eat things she normally wouldn’t, and she doesn’t sleep. When she catches my eyes I look away. She fills me with dread. Perched up on the bay window looking out into the moonless night.

All those search parties and prayers were in vein. All the doorknocking and police work a waste of time. When she first didn’t come home our thoughts became progressively worse. It started innocently as ‘she’s lost track of time’. That became ‘she’s staying late at a friend’s and forgot to call’. Then it changed to ‘she’s runaway and she’s hiding somewhere to punish us’. Before finally turning to something more sinister which we never could verbalise. At reaching the runaway phase of this worry I went to our spot, hidden away in the bush nearby. A makeshift cubby of sorts. I was hoping to find her there pouting or kicking cans angry at mum or school. She was there silent but not sulking. She was twisted, pale and cold, partly hidden under the brush. The police told me I was traumatised that they had searched that area thoroughly and I was just desperate to find her. They also threw in that it was a good lead and important to tell them things like that. I know what I saw. She’s dead and there is something else living in my sister’s room. My parents want me to go to therapy, they think I’m having some traumatic reaction or emotional overload, that’s why I don’t talk to her. I don’t care what they say I’m locking my door at night and keeping my bat under the bed.