Forgetting Sylva

Transition

Hannah, I can tell, is nervous.

We walk slowly through Marcus's backyard. The sun is bright above us, light spinning down through the gaps between the clouds as they filter past. It is a big yard; about two or three acres, stretching on and on and on, impossibly far until the land simply stops. There is no fence, no divide. But then, it doesn't need one. At the edge of the property is a cliff that curves in a lazy arc halfway around our little suburb. When we were younger, Marc and I would walk, agonisingly slowly, to the edge. At the most, it would take us an hour of picking over the land, making sure I had my footing. Sometimes, Marc's dad, Richard, would have to come out and get us, because I got so tired walking that I could not walk back. We had no way to contact him, so we would wait, Marc and I, sitting near the edge of the cliff; we never sat too close, because Marc was always scared of falling. But we'd watch the water crash against the rocks, and listen to the wind as it tore through our hair, and we would wait for him to come. And then Richard would emerge from the trees and lift me into his arms with a soft sentence, usually growled: "You kids shouldn't come out this far," he'd say, but the words were fond, and he would often have a small trace of a smile on his face.

As the years went on, that man disappeared a little more day by day. It was the death of his parents that made him this way, I think; Marc and Olivia never really knew them, as they lived far away, but mum has told me that Richard and his parents had always been close, on the phone at least every second day. I cannot imagine what losing one parent could do to a person, let alone losing both. I can understand how he shrank back from the world, hid inside of himself, though it makes me sad.

Marc always wanted to be like his dad. He also hated small parts of him; the part that favoured the needless, ceaseless killing of the trees on their property. It was probably the grief that led him to do it. At least that was his outlet, rather than his family. Regardless, I miss the man who would carry me home and smile at his son's senseless chatter. They hardly talk at all now.

Dead and dying trees lie around us, littering the ground like the carelessly thrown toys of a giant. They seem specifically placed to inhibit my easy movement across the earth, but I don't mind having to find ways around them and, at times, over them. It is slow, but it is peaceful.

I stop in front of a tree and Hannah hops over the trunk. She stops, and then turns around, and I can tell that in the face of her nerves I am an afterthought, and it makes me want to smile, but I hide it. "Do you need a hand?" she asks, biting her lip. I nod. She is so frightened of hurting me, when she offers her hand, that, for once, my grip seems strong.

"Thanks," I say, as I lean on her, stepping down to the ground.

She lets go of my hand and walks beside me. She steps forwards, then realises she is going too fast, and slows down, stopping completely. She does not know how to adjust her stride to suit mine, and it is making her fidget, and she is so worried about how to deal with this situation that she is not realising that she is the one creating it.

"Hannah," I say, as she skips ahead, reminding me of a deer, skittish and quick. She turns, red hair flying, eyes wide.

"Is something wrong? Are you ok? Do you want me to get Marc?" She looks ready to run.

I hold up my hand as I settle down on a fallen tree trunk, and then drop it to the bark at my side. It is rough and uneven, comforting, beneath my skin. "No, I'm good. Just need a break." Marc left us about five minutes ago, saying he was going to get 'drinks.' Really, I know he left us together to bond, or something of the like. He is too honest to be subtle.

Hannah shuffles her feet. Twists her fingers together. Looks at me, and then looks away. "What's wrong?" I ask, abruptly.

She looks at me, her eyes widening further. "What do you mean?" she asks. She seems vastly different from the confident, fiery girl that Marcus described to me. But perhaps I am unsettling her. I have that effect on people. I look at her for a moment, and she sighs and takes a seat, a little further down on the trunk of the fallen tree. She turns her body to face me, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "I'm sorry. I don't... I don't know how to deal with this."