There’s Something Familiar about the Man in the Photo

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           His vacant expression and wavy hair are identical to the toddler-me who’s sat next tohim. We’re on grandma’s burgundy sofa. When I ask who he is, Mum tells me my grandfather died not long after the photo was taken, that he’d had a heart attack and that he wasn’t a nice man. ‘He did cruel things,’ she says. Her hands are shaking, only calming when the photo is put back in the bottom of the drawer and Bear is jumping at her calves, so I don’t ask any more questions, though I’m desperate to ask why grandma doesn’t have a photo of her late husband displayed at her house, and what he did that was so bad.
 

           We take Bear to the park, throw a ball for her, and I’m giddy from the other boys watching me as I tell my puppy good boy! Bear sleeps on my bed, but when Mum cries in the bathroom at night, Bear whines at the door until she’s let in. Bear brings me a stick and we wrestle with it until I win. Then she nips my ankle, and it leaves a red mark, though it doesn’t break my skin. Mum’s loud scolding of Bear stills the park, and I don’t like the other boys watching me anymore. Mum tells me she needs to know who’s boss. Then her eyes saucer, and she tells me it’s time to go home. She’s silent as we walk, and she gets that haunted look she always does when we pass the pond. I asked her once if she was afraid of water, and she nodded but said I didn’t need to be.
 

           Grandma’s dying. Mum says it’s sad, but she’s suffering. The word suffering makes me remember something I heard on TV once, some hospital drama where the family wanted to pull the plug on a mummy-like relative hooked up to machines. You wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this, one of the family members said, and the doctor’s face softened as he nodded, and everyone seemed happier as they hugged the mummy and said goodbye to it, the wavy green lines on one machine settling to horizontal. So, I repeat the phrase the woman said to Mum. Before we go to Grandma’s, she takes Bear into the bathroom, and I want to knock on the door and tell her I just wanted to make things better, but I wait in the kitchen instead.
 

           When we arrive at Grandma’s, Mum feeds her mashed-up apple crumble on the burgundy sofa. Grandma’s jaws work as blobs of grainy fruit run down her chin, and Bear licks them off. Grandma used to make the crumble, be plumper, talk, and smile. I can’t get the bathroom door to open properly, as it’s wedged by a box of
incontinence pads, so I go behind the garage to cry next to the rain butt, which is cool against my back. Bear has followed me. Her fur against my cheek, her warm body against mine: she’s like a heat pad on my heart’s sore muscles. She stays with me until my tears stop. My face feels clammy and blotchy, and I don’t want Mum to know I’ve been crying. I stand up and open the rain butt lid. The water is dark but bug-free, so I splash it on my cheeks, unable to see the bottom, and I imagine it goes down into the earth’s iron-hot core.
 

           Sensing I’m soothed, Bear darts into the unmown garden to play, disappearing amongst the undergrowth. Before I can dry my face on my sleeves, she yelps. I call her, and she limps out of the grass on three legs, the fourth tucked under her, red in her foot fur. She whimpers as I scoop her up and ask my poor dog what happened. I know I need to take her inside to Mum and we’ll take her to the vet, get her stitched up, attach one of those cone collars so she’ll leave the wound alone, and give her
extra treats for being brave.

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           The rain butt water feels icy on my cheeks in the breeze. Bear’s pants fade in my ears. You wouldn’t let a dog suffer like that. I’m not sure who’s just whispered to me, dank breath on my neck, but there’s an echo from inside me that knows they’re right. I look into the rain butt, Bear trembling in my arms. My silhouette ripples
against the grey sky. Someone is next to me in the reflection. There’s a familiarity about them, and they tell me again not to let the dog suffer, so I curl my hand around Bear’s scruff. As I move her headfirst into the water, she whips around and bites me. A blood bracelet coils round my wrist, red droplets sinking into the depths. I can see the bottom now: burlap apple sacks are piled up, wriggling and writhing. From the opening of one slips a tiny paw. Bubbles rise to the surface like the water is fizzing. She needs to know who’s boss, says the voice, and the reflection next to me is loser, pushed against me. The pain grows in my wrist, like it’s being squeezed. As I move Bear to the water, I hear a girl wail before her voice turns into gurgles. More bubbles, then

eventually gasping. Then a hand is on my shoulder.
 

           It's Grandma, upright, her chin crusted with fruit. She stares into the water, the reflection looming over hers. ‘Enough,’ she says before she clasps the rim of the container. Her tiny frame pushes against it, and my shoes are submerged as the murky water cascades across the garden, and I sob into Bear’s quivering body.