Please Don't Leave Me Here by Tania Chandler Page A

she’s too tired to work. Her head is fuzzy; she needs to rest. She puts her laptop aside and lies on the floor, calves up on the couch to take pressure off her back. She closes her eyes — just for a minute.
    In a dream, Papa and Ryan are fixing up the room at the back of Nana and Papa’s old house. It’s as big as a flat. A safe room — nobody will ever look for her here. A painting hangs on the wall: two sad, ghost-like figures embrace on a finger-painted canvas. The male figure holds a bouquet of white flowers with fresh-blood-coloured centres.
    Nana steps in front of the painting. ‘It’s under the carpet,’ she says.
    Brigitte kneels and rips it up, pulls up the floorboards, digs under the room. Her fingers bleed, her nails black with dirt. It’s wrapped in the yellow bunny rug: the little blue box tied with white ribbon. A shadow falls across it.
    â€˜Don’t open it,’ a gravelly voice says.
    Too late. It’s open. A bright-blue butterfly flutters out. Inside is a letter from Kurt Cobain, the red dog collar and the key attached to the letter J.
    A siren rings.
    The phone’s ringing. Sam? What’s happened? She gets up from the floor, rushes to the phone in the hallway, stumbles, trips — her lower limbs have fallen asleep, and she’s got pins and needles.
    She fumbles with the receiver, drops it, and picks it up. ‘Hello.’ Her voice is hoarse. She rubs her calves with her free hand.
    â€˜Brigitte?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜It’s Yasmine from kinder.’
    â€˜What’s wrong? Are Finn and Phoebe OK?’
    â€˜Yes. We’ve been trying to ring you — it’s twenty past four. They’re waiting for you.’
    Shit . Twenty minutes late. She rubs her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. I got held up. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
    The car keys? The car keys! She up-ends her hand bag: receipts, water bottles, pens, Tic Tacs, toy cars, pills, and other assorted crap spill out. And keys. She grabs them (and the pills), and leaves everything else in a pile on the fake Persian rug.
    Kinder is deserted. Brigitte flies through the door. It smells of pine; they’ve decorated the Christmas tree in the foyer. ‘Morningtown Ride’ rocks and rolls and rides from the CD player. She shivers — God she hates this song. She bursts into the three-year-olds’ room. Phoebe is crying, and Finn is pushing a car backwards and forwards on the rug. She crouches, and opens her arms for her babies. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says to Yasmine. ‘I had some work that took a bit longer than expected.’
    Yasmine is cheerful and polite as always. ‘It’s OK. We knew something important must have come up.’ She’s taken out her nose ring; the piercing is infected.
    Brigitte clicks Finn and Phoebe into their child restraints in the car, and finds lollypops for them in the glove box. ‘Sorry, guys.’ She seatbelts herself in, and looks at them in the rear-view mirror, sucking away happily: they have her nose, her mouth, Sam’s eyes.
    â€˜When is Daddy coming back?’ Phoebe asks.

15
    It’s 7.00pm. Bedtime. Here we go again. Brigitte lacks the energy for the night-time ritual and drama. She’s begrudgingly grateful that Aidan is here to help.
    From the bathroom, she calls the twins to come and get ready for bed. Finn comes immediately and stands on the step stool at the basin. She helps him put toothpaste on his Bob the Builder toothbrush. Brigitte calls Phoebe again.
    Finn brushes and rinses and spits all by himself.
    â€˜Good boy, Finny.’ He lets her help wash his hands and face. She does up the top button of his Spider Man pyjamas, and he runs off. She can hear Phoebe arguing with Aidan in the lounge room.
    Please just hurry up and go to bed. Brigitte looks at herself in the mirror. She’s lost weight. She should pluck her eyebrows while she’s waiting, but