I walk over to the tree. Sawdust sticks to my soles. I dodge the splinters shed by the planks and peer inside the panel. Tree roots slither behind the chipboard. They disappear into the depths of the floor. The sawdust is dark and damp, and an earthy smell drifts in.

The apple tree looks strong, though it’s pale. I stroke its light stem. It must have grown from one of the seeds I pushed into the walls or the cracks in the floor as a little girl. It’s been growing all these years.

I look at the wall. I remember the dirty wallpaper under the panel, with its pale shadows left behind by the furniture. This is the spot where Mum drew me one renovation day many years ago. Turquoise tights, pigtails and bobbles. I’m pretty sure this is the same spot.

Splinters, smashed planks, twisted nails. Perhaps Dad’s right: growing up hurts.

Dad turns round and goes to make coffee. A short while after, the coffee machine starts bubbling, and he walks back into the living room, picks a loose piece of batten up off the floor and bends to inspect the wall. He pushes his hand inside, squeezes the sawdust he’s grabbed and smells. He grabs another handful. This time, he’s holding a handful of black, crumbling timber. He gasps for air and gulps; he glances at the edge of the ceiling, the window frame, the corner of the room.

‘Phew. What now? I always…somehow I always.’

Dad squeezes the black crumbs of wood in his hand. He grips a plank visible through the hole and tugs; the rotten timber cracks like crispbread.

‘Rainwater must have got in here. This is wet – the whole wall is wet. Wet and rotten…’

‘What do we do now?’ Krista asks.

‘You mean with this wall?’

‘And in general.’

‘I don’t know,’ Dad answers. ‘I really don’t know.’

Then suddenly we hear a sob. Dad and I turn and see Krista standing in the middle of the floor. She stands there, helplessly far from any furniture, shivering.

‘Help. Help me.’ Krista’s crying. She’s pressing her hand against her mouth, looking as if she needed a chair or Dad or some other support.

‘Rushing,’ she sputters from behind her hand.

Dad goes to Krista, and just as he manages to put his arm around her, there’s a splash inside Krista.

13

13

Sometimes, the end of the world comes. Sometimes, Paradise blasts out. Sometimes, someone dies so imperceptibly that there’s no time to take it in. Perhaps a person like that will try to come back as a ghost to continue her interrupted stories. Though you should really just make your exit. You should stop by the roadside and let the car go. You should become black and white. You should shrink and change your tense.