When Rain Turns to Snow

by Jane Godwin

Genres: Young Adult; YA Social Themes

Synopsis

A runaway, a baby and a whole lot of questions... Lissa is home on her own after school one afternoon when a stranger turns up on the doorstep carrying a baby. Reed is on the run - surely people are looking for him? He's trying to find out who he really is and thinks Lissa's mum might have some answers. But how could he be connected to Lissa's family - and why has he been left in charge of a baby? A baby who is sick, and getting sicker ... Reed's appearance stirs up untold histories in Lissa's family, and suddenly she is having to make sense of her past in a way she would never have imagined. Meanwhile, her brother is dealing with a devastating secret of his own. A beautiful and timely coming-of-age story about finding out who you are in the face of crisis and change. Praise for Jane Godwin: 'refreshingly unpredictable, bold and refuses to minimise the complex lives of [its] characters' - Saturday Age on As Happy as Here 'an empathetic exploration of family, friendship and how all our actions have consequences' - Readings Monthly 'gentle, well-written and thoroughly engaging' - Adelaide Advertiser

Release date: June 30, 2020

Publisher: Lothian Children's Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

That’s a short word, but you can rest for a while on the ‘s’ part. You can actually say that word for as long as you like.

Mist is a homophone, like reed – when the sound of the word has two meanings, but you spell it differently. Mist can also be missed. Like someone is missed, or missing.

So after dinner on Monday night, I’m putting rubbish in the bin around the side of our house, and I can just make out a shape, like a sheet covering something, up against the heating outlet under the old wooden awning. It’s pretty dark, and the light around the side hasn’t come on because it needs a new globe and that’s the stuff Dad used to do. I know that’s sexist and everything, but I’m stating a fact. Dad changed the light globes in our house. Dad mowed the lawn. Sure, he did cleaning and stuff, and he read to me when I was little. And Mum did gardening too, she just never mowed the lawn. But now she does.

Anyway, often there’s stuff around the side – firewood, bags of compost, stakes for the garden up against the house like leaning wooden soldiers. But this shape seems bigger, bulkier. Maybe Mum’s bought something and she’s hiding it from us. But it isn’t anyone’s birthday, and nowhere near Christmas. It’s like the middle of June. And why hide it here?

It’s misty and cold, I can feel water in the air, and I want to get back inside. I only see the shape out of the corner of my eye. I don’t even think about it much.

The next morning, it’s really cold, there’s fog suspended everywhere so that the Dandenongs have disappeared. Sometimes it’s so clear you can almost make out the individual trees on the mountain range, and sometimes it’s a still, blue mass, like a painting. But this morning it’s a filmy grey sheet and if I didn’t know differently, anything could be at the horizon, not mountains at all. There’s frost on the grass and I know the car windscreen will have ice on it and the wipers will make that scratching sound when Mum turns them on.

When I leave for school, I go around the side. The air’s so cold it makes my eyes water. Steam is coming out of the vent at the heating outlet. Have you ever noticed that? When the heating’s on inside, the unit lets out warm air from a vent outside, like a kettle boiling, or when you breathe out steam on a cold morning. But the lump that had been against the heating outlet the night before isn’t there anymore.

Gone.

I wonder about telling Sadie when I get to school. But she’s talking with Amber and the others, who are all rubbing their hands together in the pink fingerless gloves that they bought online at the same time. And I haven’t made a list, so I don’t say anything. If I did say something, Amber would probably say some mean thing back. But of course I can’t even think of what it would be. That’s why I have the wit of the staircase, I can never think of what she’ll say next.

I stand near them, stamping my feet and hugging myself against the cold.

I used to think that Amber let me hang around them because she likes my brother, Harry. Harry’s in Year Eleven, he’d never be interested in her. But she always says, ‘I’m like my mum, I go for older guys. Guys our age are so immature.’ Amber does look older than she is, especially when we go out, because she wears her mum’s shoes, and heaps of make-up.

Harry is good looking, I can see it. And he’s muscly and strong because he plays footy. But he’s never had a girlfriend, as far as I know. He’s more into sport and he’s also pretty clever so he studies quite a bit. Lots of girls like him, they’re always telling me.

Amber will only come over to mine if she thinks Harry will be there. She used to talk about Harry all the time, but lately she seems to have stopped that. Thank god. It’s embarrassing.

It was much better last year when Hana was here. She was, well, she still is, my best friend. In March, she moved back to Western Australia with her family. Mum used to tell me to branch out, have more friends. Maybe Mum knew that Hana would be moving one day. Her parents work in the mining industry and they come from WA. But Mum never said outright, Hana’s family will be moving back to WA next year. When I told Mum, she said, ‘Oh, really’ but I got the feeling that she already knew. Her face didn’t change, her eyes didn’t do that dancing thing that happens when you’re actually surprised.

Hana likes words, same as me. That was our thing. We’d do the cryptic crosswords together. And the quick. And the target words. And sometimes the sudoku, although Harry or Mum usually had to help us with that.

A word that Hana taught me is kvetching. It means to complain loudly. Like, Harry is kvetching that there are never any bananas left. Hana hardly ever complains herself, but sometimes she says to people, ‘Stop your kvetching!’ And even if they don’t know what it means, they usually shut up. Hana could handle the girls in our year much better than I can. She didn’t really care what they said or did or thought.

Sadie’s being nice to me today. We sit together at lunchtime, and after school we get on the train first and then when the other Year Eights get on, she doesn’t go and sit with them like she sometimes does. I wonder why she stays with me today, but not yesterday and maybe not tomorrow. When I get off, I see her go over to them. Sadie likes it that I live close to the school, and closer to the city than she does. She can stay at my place if we’re all going out somewhere, unless Amber invites her to stay at hers.

I walk home quickly from the station because it’s still so cold. You know those days when it never warms up at all? It’s not even four-thirty, but the sun’s already going down and the cars have their headlights on. It’s smoggy, and still. Smog makes such a soft light in the afternoon. Like a weak sunset.

Sometimes the smog worries me, makes me think of climate change, and that maybe in the future days will always look like this. Like in China, there’s terrible smog. My dad lives in China, in Beijing, but he says some days it’s clear, some days the sky is as blue as when he was a kid growing up in the country back here.

Mum works till six or seven most nights at Move Australia. It’s a physio and Pilates studio. They have classes there, and there’s a hydrotherapy pool, and they see patients. The pool is so warm, Mum lets me go in it sometimes. I went there quite a bit after school when Hana first moved. Warm water makes everything feel better. When does a warm bath not feel good?

I’m just thinking that I might read my book for English in a warm bath as I reach the gate at the top of our driveway.

The lump is back. Is there an animal under the blanket?

I open the gate quietly, lifting the latch so that it doesn’t click. I leave it open so it won’t make a noise. I get closer, creeping down the side of the house.

The lump doesn’t move.

I bend down to look.

Someone is in the blanket, asleep under the awning on our driveway.

I can’t see who it is, or even if it’s male or female, adult or child. Only a hoodie and a bit of face. I tiptoe straight past the sleeping person, up the three steps to the deck and the back door. My fingers feel frozen and I fumble to get my key from my wallet. I slide the glass door open, then lock it as soon as I get inside. I don’t turn the light on, even though it’s quite dark. Should I call the police? That might be over-reacting. My heart’s beating fast. I stand very still and look out into our back garden. Bare trees, yellowing lawn. My hammock, wet from the rain, hanging heavy to the grass. I don’t want whoever is sleeping to wake up because then what will I do? Maybe it’s a homeless person. How cold must it be for those poor people in winter?

I pace around the house, put the heater on, return to the back room. It’s all glass out to the deck so I can see if anyone has entered the garden. No one there. In the last shaft of sunlight that cuts across the wooden floor, I see dust on Mum’s wooden owls and on the photo frames with pictures of me and Harry when we were little. I decide to call Mum. We’re only supposed to call her at work if it’s an emergency, but I figure this is an emergency. I speed-dial Mum. Her phone rings. And rings. And rings. She has it set to ring forever before it goes to message bank. Hello, you’ve called Fiona Freeman. Leave me a message, and I’ll –

There’s a noise outside, on the steps, something moves.

I turn around.

He’s standing on the deck.

A kid, maybe my age, or a bit younger. Thirteen? It’s hard to tell because that grey hoodie is pulled down over his face. He wears round glasses, with thin steel frames.

There’s only the sliding glass door between us. The blanket’s in a bundle on the outdoor table behind him, and a backpack.

‘What do you want?’ I call. My voice trembles, croaky.

He’s still, staring.

I hold up my phone. ‘I’m calling my mum, now.’

His eyes crunch up, like he’s worried, or even scared, like me.

‘Then I’m calling the police.’ Is he a burglar? Does he have a knife? If Mum were here she’d definitely call the police. I wish Harry was here, but he’s at footy training till seven. And I’m not sure he’d be any help, actually. What would Hana do?

My phone pings. I jump. I feel as if I have to keep looking at him because this will stop him from coming closer. ‘What do you want?’ I say again through the glass. I’m glad I locked that door. ‘You can’t come in. Go away! Go home!’

He turns to go. Oh thank god. He’s leaving.

I look at Mum’s text.

Did you call me? Got a client in 5. Having a quick drink with Troy after work. Home by 8. Soup in fridge you can heat up for dinner. Love you xxx

But Mum and I always have dinner together …

Hang on, he’s not going, he’s getting something from the blanket. His hood falls from his head like he’s a monk, or someone from Lord of the Rings. I can see that he has a number two haircut, like in the army. He’s quite small. Could I fight him? I don’t think so, because I’m small too, for my age. He leans over into the bundle. What’s he getting? A rock? A knife? A gun? I grip my phone. ‘I’m going to –’

There’s a noise – like a little animal or something, a little cry.

What’s he got?

The kid turns around.

He’s holding a baby.



His place makes me feel nervous. People half asleep on the stairs. And his room’s like a cupboard. He can’t even fit a proper bed there but he’s still proud of it.

There’s incense burning beside the mattress. Incense doesn’t make me calm, it makes me think a fire might start. And I know that sometimes their friend Cathy takes some bad drug and they have to take her up to the clinic or call the ambulance.

The baby is squirming in his arms. I think it’s a girl. She has hardly any hair but she’s wearing a pink towelling onesie. He’s holding her around her middle, out in front, like she’s some bulky item that’s hard to carry. Her little legs are kicking. She’s lost a sock.

I try to think of the right thing to do, to say.

‘Put down any weapons.’ It comes out weak, as if I’m reading a line from a play, even though I’m trying to be assertive.

He shakes his head. I mean, he’s holding a baby.

Finally, he speaks. ‘I’m not going to hurt anyone. Sorry to frighten you, but I’m wondering if you can …’ He pauses as if he’s not quite sure what I can do. ‘… help.’

He’s definitely a kid, his voice hasn’t even really broken.

‘Can you open the door?’ he says. ‘Please open the door.’

‘I’m not opening it. What do you want?’

He keeps standing there, with the baby, looking helpless.

I keep standing there, too. Me on one side of the door, him on the other. A stand-off.

‘Does Fiona Freeman live here?’ he asks.

I’m shocked. ‘How did you know that?’

He nods. ‘That’s what I thought.’

I open the sliding door a little. He steps towards me.

‘Don’t come in! Stand there,’ I say.

He freezes, like it’s musical statues.

‘Do you know her?’ I ask him. ‘My mother?’

The baby is wriggling. The pale pink onesie is dirty.

He shakes his head.

‘I’m her daughter Lissa,’ I stammer. ‘Lissa Freeman.’ Should I have told him my name? Was that a bad thing to do?

‘Reed.’

‘Read what?’

‘My name. Reed Lister.’

Lister. Sounds like my name, Lissa.

Listen, glisten, Lister, Lissa.

Sadie would say he’s a nerdy-looking guy. The hoodie’s way too big for him. He’s wearing jeans and new-looking runners. Dirty but neat, it’s dirt like a well-cared-for kid who’s been on school camp, dirt you could easily wash off with soap and warm water, not like you see on the faces of people in the city sitting on the footpath with nowhere to go. And he’s a teenager, I can tell from his arms and his jaw, but he’s little. Like a little man.

He’s hitching the baby up a bit, holding her with only one arm now. She’s kind of dangling. Babies are usually clean and smell like talcum powder. Her face is quite pale, almost grey.

‘Do you need to see my mother? Like, do you need a physio or something?’ Mum sees mostly adults but sometimes she sees kids with sporting injuries. ACLs, back injuries from rowing, hip flexors, rotator cuffs, rolled ankles. Occasionally patients come to our house, but hardly ever. And Mum would have told me, wouldn’t she?

He shakes his head. His glasses are fogging up. The steel rims are silver, like a man’s glasses. He looks damp. The baby does too. The watery air has settled on them like dew. Mist. That’s probably bad for a baby. She should have a beanie or something, to keep her little head warm.

‘Do you need help?’ I ask.

He says nothing, rubs an eye, his glasses go crooked.

‘You’re going to have to tell me what you need.’

He just says, ‘I’ve come a long way.’ He looks exhausted, like he almost might cry, and the baby, too. She’s still wriggling around, as if she’s uncomfortable but can’t work out where. He opens his eyes wide. They’re a grey/green colour, it’s like his eyes are asking me a question, wanting something from me. Expecting something.

I want him to leave me alone, leave my house. But there’s something about him, and I can’t yell at him to go. He looks as if he needs more than one kind of help. All I can think of to say is, ‘Do you need some food?’

He nods.

‘Stay there.’ I close the door and lock it, go over to the kitchen bench, pick up an apple and the last banana from the fruit bowl. I have to put the fruit on the floor so I can unlock the door again. I hold them out to him.

‘Thanks.’ He reaches with his hand but as he’s holding the baby too, he can’t take both the banana and the apple, so I have to go outside and put them on the table, as if he’s an animal and I’m leaving snacks out for him. I rush back inside, our eyes meet for a second, but I’m keeping my distance from him and the baby.

He settles himself at the table with the baby on his knee and peels the banana.

I stand at the door, open it a bit more.

The baby is totally staring at the banana.

‘Does the baby need anything?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’

He eats the banana in hungry gulps. ‘Do you have any water?’

I pour . . .