the librarians, Mrs. Delahunty, began taking an interest in us. First, she gave us book recommendations. Then, she gave Rose and me worksheets on which to write the names of all the books we’d read. If we got to a hundred, she said, we’d be gifted a book from the library to keep! It was through filling out that worksheet that Rose and I learned to write. Some days, when we deliberated on what to read next, Mrs. Delahunty would come over and make suggestions.
“Did you enjoy The Giving Tree, girls? If so, I think you would love Where the Wild Things Are. Sit down and we’ll read it together.”
Afterward she’d ask us questions. Do you think Max really went away? What do you think actually happened? Mrs. Delahunty said that answering questions helped our brains understand what we’d read. As the year went on, Mrs. Delahunty chose more and more difficult books for us, and by the year’s end, according to Mrs. Delahunty, we had the vocabulary of twelve-year-olds! Because of this, the following year we skipped prep and went straight into grade one. Mum was very proud of this. Lots of people said things to us like What a wonderful mum you must have! and Your mum must have spent a lot of time reading to you.
The first time someone said that, I started to point out that, no, it wasn’t Mum who spent time reading to us, but then Rose tapped her bracelet against mine. Mum had given us our bracelets when we were born—mine was engraved with a fern, and Rose’s with a rose. Somewhere along the way, they became our way of talking to each other without talking. Rose always taps her bracelet against mine as a warning. Stop. It’s a good system that almost always works. There’s only been one time that Rose couldn’t stop me from doing the wrong thing and that was a mistake that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
Today, my therapist and I dove deep on my yearning for a baby. I talked about how it felt physical, like hunger, like pain. Like loss. My therapist thinks this stems from my childhood—a desire to do right what my mother couldn’t. An attempt to heal myself. Maybe he’s right.
As conversation steered in this direction, he asked me to talk about my earliest traumatic memory. It took me a while to find it—it must have been buried a long way down in the dusty depths of my subconscious—but now that I’ve retrieved it, I can’t stop thinking about it. It is from when I was five years old; the year after Dad left, not that I have any memory of that. My first scraps of memory that I still hold are from the following year, the year Mum took us to the library. Fern had loved that year! She refers to it with such fondness—how the library became her home, how she discovered the hidden worlds within the pages of books, how that year is the reason she became a librarian. It makes me want to scream. Sometimes I wonder if, like those choose-your-own-adventure books that we used to devour, the two of us were living parallel, alternate lives.
Do you know what I remember from the library year? Sleeping on couches that smelled of dog; being dragged from our old flat in the middle of the night and not being allowed to bring any toys, not even Mr. Bear, even when I begged Mum to let me take him; hauling striped plastic bags out of strangers’ houses every morning and putting them in the boot of Mum’s little car to take wherever we were headed next; waking up every morning with a pain in my stomach, a combination, I realize now, of hunger and fear.
You know something funny? I don’t think Fern even knows we were homeless that year. She probably told herself it was an adventure, or a holiday or an experience. Or maybe she didn’t tell herself anything at all. She had a gift for accepting life the way that it was, rather than questioning it. Some days—heck, every day—I envy her that.
It was all Dad’s fault we were homeless, apparently. After he left, Mum couldn’t afford to pay the rent on her own. She said the landlord was charging so much that no honest person could afford it. That was why we had to sneak out of there during the night with