They find her body after twenty-three hours of searching.
She is lying at the bottom of a small outcrop of grey-brown rock. The rock is covered in a slippery green moss and one of the searchers, a woman named Adelaide, almost loses her footing as she peers over the edge despite being a resident of the mountains and a keen hiker. She attributes her near slip to the tears clouding her view. It is a terrible thing to see. The girl lies with one leg slightly angled and her arms above her head, her eyes closed and her blonde hair tangled around her face, a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Her phone is lying in one open hand, the screen unbroken.
Unlike her.
She could just be sleeping were it not for the halo of dried blood that surrounds her head.
They find her just as the sun is beginning to rise, as cockatoos squawk to welcome the day.
Adelaide had been sceptical about finding anything in the early-morning spring mist, but the search had begun at dawn, a new group of searchers keen to get going. Some volunteers had looked through the night despite the cold and the danger of walking through the bush in the dark, where snakes twist in dense foliage and foxes hunt their prey. Those shining their torch beams at every skittering noise had taken some comfort from the hooting of owls even as they ducked to avoid swooping wings seeking dinner. There had been little conversation for the few people searching in the dark. Everyone was tired, and only the occasional radio check had interrupted the sounds of the night-time bush. Adelaide had left to go home and get some rest, knowing that she would be up before the sun rose to return, hoping that she would receive a message that all was well and the girl had been found. Her sleep had been light and restless as she listened for a text telling her she was not needed.
This morning, with the passing of nearly twenty-four hours, more people arrived to help.
A missing child spurs everyone on.
It was a flash of colour, a bright neon pink that caught Adelaide’s eye. She had been looking for pink.
The description of the missing girl began with pink.
Zoe was last seen wearing a bright pink parka and blue jeans with silver sneakers. She has blonde hair and green eyes. Height: 5ft 3. Weight: approx. 52 kilos.
Zoe’s mother had objected to the parka, believing it would not be warm enough for overnight camping in the Blue Mountains, but Zoe had apparently insisted.
Adelaide would not have been able to spot a grey or green or brown jacket, as the wearer lies amongst the overgrown bush and creeping ferns. It’s lucky it is pink.
Adelaide calls for help and she leans over to see better, taking a step or two forward, her foot slipping on the moss. ‘Oh, baby,’ she says, tears spilling over. Adelaide lives in a small house in the Australian town of Leura with three cats and a budgie. She never married or had children but she is a favourite aunt to her six nephews and nieces. The youngest, Peta, is sixteen, and for a moment, Adelaide sees Peta lying still in amongst the bush. She cannot help more tears as she watches the SES volunteer, who arrives quickly and rappels down the side of the rock.
It is only a few metres off the ground and, were it not for the slippery moss and the instruction to wait, Adelaide would have climbed down herself.
Zoe didn’t fall far and would probably have had a story to tell as she healed in hospital from a broken leg or arm had she landed differently. As it was, her head hit a small buried chunk of rock with only its point sticking out of the ground.
As it was, she didn’t survive.
The news filters through the search parties via mobile phones and walkie-talkies with lightning speed. When her phone buzzes at the same time as the walkie-talkie of the SES volunteer she is with, a woman named Irene, Lydia feels her heart lift because it can only be news that they have found her, they have found Zoe. Her tense body is flooded with relief and she imagines herself berating her daughter: ‘You gave us a real scare, Zoe. How could you have done that?’ She has a vision of her arms around her child, of how tightly she will hug her as she thanks God that she has been found.
As she swipes her screen to answer the call, she watches Irene’s face fall, watches the woman put a hand to her mouth. Earlier, as the morning began, Lydia took comfort in Irene’s obvious knowledge of the bush, her broad capable shoulders, face weathered by the sun and her quick smile. ‘Kids, eh?’ she said and Lydia nodded and it only seemed possible that this would one day be a story told at dinner parties – that time when Zoe disappeared from school camp.
Lydia’s whole body was buzzing with adrenalin at five this morning, her hands numb with cold despite her gloves. She had only returned from searching overnight for an hour before she was ready to go again.
‘You should stay here and rest. You’ve been out all night,’ Irene said to her when she arrived to take over from other helpers.
‘Would you?’ Lydia replied.
Irene began to nod but then moved her head to shake it instead. ‘No, no, I wouldn’t.’
Lydia sipped her coffee, hot and bitter, while Irene checked her pack for everything she might need. ‘I’ve lived in the mountains all my life. There’s no place I haven’t been to. We’ll find her,’ she said. ‘Only last week we found those tourists who had been missing for four days.’
Lydia recalled the story from the news, remembering that it was a couple of Chinese tourists who had gone missing. They had been found after four days, dehydrated and suffering from hypothermia but very much alive and still cheerful despite their ordeal. The thought immediately gave Lydia hope. Zoe could easily survive a day and a night in the bush. Easily. They would find her today, and tonight she would be home safe, tucked up in her bed. Lydia passed the hour she had been walking with Irene planning Zoe’s favourite meal for tonight: spaghetti carbonara with garlic bread and lemon cake for dessert. She tried to mentally go through her fridge for the ingredients, finding that listing the number of eggs she would need and wondering if she had enough Parmesan cheese kept her heart beating steadily instead of allowing it to gallop and pound as it had done all night.
‘Zoe!’
‘Zoe!’
‘Zoe!’ echoed all over the mountains.
Lydia was quiet, her voice hoarse from a whole night of shouting her daughter’s name.
Zoe, could you please not leave your towel on the bathroom floor?
Zoe, have you finished your homework?
Zoe, do you want to help me make some cookies?
Zoe, it’s time for bed, night, love you.
Zoe.
Zoe.
Zoe.
‘Any minute now,’ she comforted herself. ‘Any minute now.’
Now, as she watches Irene and answers her own phone, Lydia knows, and it feels as though the knowledge has always been there, that she has always known that this is how it would end. Irene’s shoulders slump; defeat bows her body. Zoe has been found but she is not just dehydrated and suffering from hypothermia. She is not just hurt. If she was any of those things, Irene would be rushing Lydia to where Zoe has been found. If she was simply hurt, there would be some cause for celebration, and Lydia is sure that she would hear the immediate roar of the rescue helicopter that she knows is waiting on a nearby field. There would be movement and panic and voices calling through the trees, but there is nothing like that. Just silence and sadness and Irene’s pale face.
Zoe is not just hurt. It has only been a day and a night but she is not just dehydrated and suffering from hypothermia and maybe a broken bone or two.
This will not be a dinner table story. This will not be something Lydia shares a wry laugh with friends about. This will be the end of something, of everything. The unthinkable has happened. Her little girl is gone. For a moment she thinks about not answering her phone because then she will not have to hear the truth. But she can see tears shine in Irene’s eyes and she feels a flash of sympathy for the woman because she is the one walking with the mother of the child they have been searching for. I am the mother of the child. She understands that she cannot turn back this time, cannot erase this moment.
It is Gabriel calling her. Her husband, Zoe’s stepfather, has somehow heard the news first, and she feels that this is wrong. She should have heard the news first. It’s her daughter.
‘Oh God, Liddy, I’m… oh God,’ he says. If he were here standing right next to her, he would put his arms around her, would take her weight as she feels her body sag. But she sent him off with someone else, wanting the people who love Zoe to be spread out, to be covering more of the dense bush, where thickly abundant tree roots poke up through the ground, waiting for unsuspecting walkers.
‘I know,’ she croaks. ‘I know.’ And then she hangs up.
Her thoughts flash on Zoe’s father, Eli, on his exhortations that she ‘take care of their babies’ as he took his last breaths. She has failed her late husband. She has failed her elder daughter Jessie, and mostly she has failed Zoe, who is gone. She called her phone many, many times after she got the call from the school at 8.30 a.m. yesterday. She had anticipated Saturday morning breakfast with the paper, maybe a short walk with Walter, although the old dog prefers sleeping these days, and perhaps an afternoon movie if she and Gabriel felt like it.
But her mobile had trilled at 8.30 a.m., startling her from her contemplation of the garden. The time is seared on her brain. She will never be able to see that time again without linking it to her daughter’s death. Was she still alive at 8.30 a.m. yesterday? When did she take her last breath? Her first breath was an indignant howl at being disturbed from the safe world of the womb. What did her last breath sound like?
Was she still alive when the phone call disturbed Lydia’s peaceful Saturday morning plan?
‘Is this Lydia Bloom?’
‘Lydia Lawson but yes, I was Lydia Bloom.’
‘Zoe Bloom’s mother, correct?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, more irritated in that moment than anything else by the interruption to her day.
‘I’m afraid it’s Paula Fitzsimmons from the year eleven camp.’
‘Yes,’ she said, slowly, carefully. Zoe had left for camp on Friday and Lydia expected her home on Sunday. As she replays the conversation with the teacher, Lydia remembers that her first thought was, What has that child done now?
‘I’m really sorry to tell you this, but Zoe is missing.’
‘What?’
‘She’s missing. We know she was in her cabin last night but we can’t find her this morning.’
‘That’s… just ridiculous. What do you mean you can’t find her? Have you looked for her?’
‘We have, Mrs Lawson, and I’m really… I’m so sorry but we can’t seem to find her. We have people out searching and we have called the police. They will be arriving shortly.’
‘But I don’t understand. How can she be missing? She’s at camp with you and everyone else. How can she be missing?’
‘I am so sorry, Mrs Lawson. I understand this is hard to hear but your daughter is missing and the police have been called.’
‘Have you called her? Does she have her phone with her?’
‘We have but she’s not answering. We assume she has it with her as it’s not in the cabin. I have to go now. We are all helping to search. I needed to tell you in case you wanted to come up here.’
‘Obviously, I’m coming up there,’ Lydia spat, fury replacing bewilderment.
‘Good, you have the information on where it is?’
‘Yes… yes, go and find her, just go and find my child.’
‘We’re trying, Mrs Lawson, we’re all trying. I’m so––’
Lydia abruptly ended the call, her heart racing. How can she be missing? She’s at camp. Children don’t go missing from camp.
The minute she hung up on the teacher, she called Zoe’s phone. It went straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, you’ve reached Zoe. Leave a message and I may just get back to you.’
‘Zoe, where are you?’ she barked into the phone.
Over the next few hours, she called her daughter continually, leaving a message each time she heard her voicemail.
‘Zoe call me.’
‘Zoe, please let me know you’re okay.’
‘Zoe, people are looking for you!’
‘Zoe, where are you?’
She couldn’t help thinking that her daughter would answer her call. Whatever had happened, she would answer a call from her mother. Eventually, Lydia gave up, accepting that it was switched off or the battery had run flat, meaning the police couldn’t pinpoint the signal, meaning she was missing a whole day and a whole night.
They found her. They found her. They found her.
She thinks about the last words Zoe said to her as she got out of the car to climb onto the bus leaving for camp. ‘Why do you have to be such an uptight bitch?’
‘You’re the bitch,’ Lydia replied. Not something she had ever said before and not something she had ever imagined she would say. The words had darted out of her mouth, pointed and poisonous, and she had instantly regretted them. A good mother shouldn’t speak to her child that way. A good mother shouldn’t lose her temper with her teenage daughter. A good mother should understand that her child is in a transition phase, that her body is governed by hormones and confusion. Lydia has always considered herself a good mother, or a reasonable mother at least. She had shocked herself with her words and had instantly felt her stomach twist.
Zoe was spoilt. There is no doubt about that. Lydia always indulged her younger daughter, allowing her to get away with things that her older sister, Jessie, would never have been allowed to get away with. But lately Lydia found herself putting her foot down, saying no and stopping Zoe from doing exactly what she wanted to do. She was turning – or trying to turn – Zoe’s behaviour around, trying to make up for the fact that she had been so lax with her. She could feel her daughter slipping away from her and into a life that could – that did – result in tragic consequences. She was too interested in boys, too fascinated with drugs and alcohol, too keen to be allowed to travel by herself. She answered ‘nothing’ and ‘no one’ and ‘just out’ to Lydia’s questions when she left the house. She ate her dinner in front of her laptop or the television. She breezed past her mother without even acknowledging her when she arrived home from school. She was distant and angry. She was sixteen. She was.
‘Time to start putting my foot down,’ she said to Gabriel only a couple of months ago, and he agreed, but Zoe chafed at the new rules and hated her for them. And now she is gone.
Lydia texted her afterwards, sent her a message as soon as she got home and the regret of angry words settled in.
I hate it when we fight. I didn’t mean what I said to you and I hope you have a good time at camp
Zoe didn’t reply and Lydia imagined her stewing in anger. She knew her daughter would tell her best friends Shayna and Becca that her mother was uptight and neurotic and bent on keeping her from ever having any fun.
‘No,’ she had told Zoe when she asked if she could attend a rave in the middle of the bush with Shayna and Becca the weekend after school camp. ‘You’re too young. It’s too dangerous. No.’ She had already denied this request but her daughter didn’t give up easily. She was patient and would wear Lydia down to get what she wanted.
‘No,’ Lydia had said to Zoe about getting a smartphone when she was fourteen but Zoe hadn’t let up. She’d argued that all her friends had one. She’d left phone plans on Lydia’s desk. She’d pouted. She’d cried. She’d said she was being ostracised for not having one, and finally Lydia had given in and got her daughter a phone.
But Lydia was determined to not give in on this. The word ‘rave’ only conjured up images of drunk or high teenagers and the stories that inevitably appeared in the media once or twice a year, with a devastated parent: ‘She had never taken drugs before and now she’s gone.’ Lydia never wanted to be one of those parents.
So, she had said no.
‘I’m capable and intelligent and I’ve never done anything stupid and you’re still trying to keep me tied to the house. Why can’t you let me live my life? I don’t want to be stuck at home like you every Saturday night. I want to be able to go out and meet people. You’re always so difficult about anything that might be just a small bit of fun for me. Why do you hate me?’
Lydia had sighed, knowing that there were probably quite a few things that her daughter had done that she would consider stupid.
‘I don’t know why you’ve chosen this morning to have this conversation, Zoe. I don’t hate you. I need to keep you safe since you seem incapable of making good decisions for yourself.’
That’s when Zoe had called her a bitch and she had replied the same way. And now she is gone.
They found her. They found her. They found her.
A hideous irony. She was at a school camp, under the supervision of her teachers, far away from anything dangerous, supposedly. She would have been safer at the rave.
Her phone rings: Gabriel again. For some reason he doesn’t seem to think she has understood what he was trying to say and so he repeats the news. ‘Lydia, they’ve found her and she’s… It’s not… She’s… gone.’
Again, she hangs up. She feels her body sink onto the wet, muddy ground, the moisture quickly soaking through her jeans, chilling her whole body. All around her birds call to each other and crickets chirp, hidden in bushes. There is a smell of damp earth and, surprisingly, lemon from the white flannel flowers that are everywhere. She stares ahead of her, feeling the clusters of leaves on the bushes in front of her closing in.
Irene hunches down next to her. ‘Oh, love,’ she says, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Lydia nods. ‘Yes,’ she agrees. Sorry is the right word because inside her sorrow has begun to spread through her veins, thick and dark. She feels heavier, colder. She understands that she will never feel any different. She understands this instantly.
Zoe was sixteen. Zoe was beautiful, precocious, flirtatious, clever, funny, angry, defiant. Zoe was her baby and her baby is gone.
My mother left my lunch outside my door. I waited until I heard her footsteps going back down the stairs to open up and take the tray inside. I didn’t feel like a whole discussion and I didn’t want to have to deal with her looking at me in that concerned way, like she’s afraid I might off myself at a moment’s notice. ‘I’m here for you sweetheart,’ she’s said about 500 times since it happened. I mean, I like that she cares and that she just wants me to know that I can talk to her, but right now, I feel like everything I’m feeling or thinking is kind of stuck inside me, stuck inside and covered in glue so I can’t really explain it all.
Lunch is chicken schnitzel with roast potatoes, peas and a green salad so it’s more like dinner food but she knows I didn’t eat breakfast so maybe she’s hoping to tempt me with this. It’s one of my all-time favourite meals and one that I haven’t allowed myself to eat for a long time. I know she made it specially for me. My brother, Jason hates chicken and so when she makes it for dinner, she has to make another meal for him. He’s so spoilt. If I was his mother, I would just tell him to eat what’s put in front of him, but Mum is such a softie with us. You’d think that would have made us a little wild because she’s a bit of a pushover, but if I think about doing something wrong, I think about Mum’s disappointed face. Her blue eyes get so sad and her mouth frowns and she looks like she’s going to cry and she says, ‘Oh, Shayna, how could you?’ It’s the best form of discipline if you ask me because I have never done anything wrong – at least not until now – but I don’t want to think about that. And even though Jason is only thirteen, he’s so busy topping all his classes and being the head of the chess team and the cricket team that he’ll never have time to do anything wrong.
I look down at the meal and feel like I want to cry because Mum’s put some peas on the plate in the shape of a smile just like she used to do when I was five years old – but I feel like I may never be able to smile again.
An image flashes in my head. A moment in class at the end of last year. I was upset because I had just gotten the worst mark for my history exam. I was sitting next to Zoe, trying not to cry. I knew I should have studied harder but it was on the same day as the maths exam and I had concentrated on that. I was squeezing my nails into my palm because I thought the pain would stop the tears.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Zoe said to me. ‘It’s over and your mum will understand.’
‘But I didn’t even manage a B, Zoe,’ I said and then a few tears spilled down my cheeks and I blushed because I could feel everyone starting to look at me.
Zoe grabbed the exam paper away from me. ‘I said don’t worry about it. It’s one exam in a lifetime of exams.’ And then she drew smiley faces all over the paper in different colours. ‘See, now it’s a happy paper,’ she said and I started laughing and for a few minutes I didn’t feel bad about the mark.
I push away the memory. I want to resist the food, to simply slide the tray back outside my room and return to lying on my bed and scrolling through the endless posts on Instagram about Zoe with all the hashtags – #beautifulgirl #gonetoosoon #missyouforever – but I’m starving. I’ve been starving since they found her yesterday, at six in the morning when we were all fast asleep. I thought we would wake up to the news that they had found her and she was fine. I hadn’t slept well. I zipped and unzipped my sleeping bag again and again, feeling trapped and hot one minute and cold and exposed the next. I listened to her name echoing all over the mountains as the search parties tramped through the night under thousands of stars. ‘Zoe, Zoe, Zoe.’ I hoped, I prayed that in the morning it would all be okay. I hoped, I prayed that I would never have to think about Friday night again.
But it wasn’t okay. It isn’t okay and Friday night will haunt me forever.
My stomach is a tangled mess, and for some reason the only thing that seems to calm me down is eating. I put the tray on my bed and turn around to stare at myself in the full- length mirror, hoping that the sight of my heinous body will stop me from eating. I lift my long blonde hair up above my head and angle my face, staring into my own blue eyes and pouting my lips. Zoe always loved my lips.
‘You look like you’ve had fillers,’ she said.
I haven’t. I’m just lucky.
‘But then you look like you’ve had fillers on your butt as well,’ she said right afterwards and then she giggled and punched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Only joking.’ But she wasn’t joking. Zoe could be a complete bitch but she always told the truth. My butt is enormous.
‘Shayna, you’re a size eight,’ my mum says when I complain about my weight. ‘How much s. . .
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