The Hungry Ghost

You can’t see the stars here in Singapore. Ghostly, dimmed
spots fade in and out on a sky that’s not black but a murky,
yellowy grey.
“I can’t see the stars today, Freja.” That’s what Mum
always says when she’s sad. Even if it’s the middle of the day.
Are the stars invisible here, or is it just me?
I give up on finding a star, and slump back into the cushions
on the deep window seat. The only sound in the silent
house is the low hum of the air-con unit. It blasts cool air
down on my shoulders. Flyaway strands of hair blow into my
eyes. I think about retying my ponytail.
It’s midnight, but I’m wide awake. My watch still shows
the time in Denmark. Six o’clock. I don’t want to set it to
Singapore time yet. Perhaps I have jet lag, because it feels
like my whole body is confused.
I’m not sure when yesterday ended and today began.
The two have blended into one endless day, where too many
things happened. I remember looking at my watch exactly
twenty-four hours ago, at six o’clock. That was when Aunt
Astrid, Mum’s sister, handed me over to Dad in Copenhagen
airport, like I was a parcel being passed on.
Outside the window, tips of twigs scratch against the glass.
The tree’s so close I think I could jump to the nearest thick
branch, if I had to escape. But where would I go?
Singapore is 10,071 kilometres away from home. The
distance is almost impossible to understand. Once, with my
scouting troop, we hiked thirty kilometres in one day, to get
the activity badge. Even if I walked that far every single day,
it would take more than eleven months to get back to Mum.
In the light from the yellowy sky, I can make out shapes
in the room. My suitcase lies open on the floor, spilling a
jumble of stuff I had to take out to find my pyjamas. The
only other things I’ve unpacked are my compass and the
Swiss Army knife Dad gave me last summer for my eleventh
birthday.
A beanbag leans against an empty bookcase. Two framed
posters hang above the bed. One is of Mount Everest and the
other of a jungle waterfall. Dad might have chosen them.
And only them. Everything else in the room is pink and girly.
Chosen by Her. My stepmother. Clementine.
I open the window to take a closer look at the tree, because
a scout should always be prepared. The hot air that streams
inside is sticky and dense, making me cough. It smells like
something somewhere is burning. That calms me a bit,
because bonfire smoke is my favourite scent.
Cicada song and something louder—frogs or perhaps
toads—sound like an orchestra during warm-up. If they’re
toads, then I hope they’re edible, unlike the ones we have
in Denmark. I’ll ask Dad tomorrow. It sounds like there are
lots of them, and that could be handy in a survival situation.
I’m glad I have rope in my suitcase, because the thick
branch is further away than I thought, and it’s too risky to
jump from the first floor. Below, outdoor lights are burning
on the covered terrace. Part of a sun lounger is visible next
to the swimming pool. Behind the pool, which isn’t even
fenced in, the lawn and an overturned tricycle lie in halfdarkness
under a row of palm trees and flowering bushes. At
the back of the garden, where a high hedge blocks the view
of the neighbours, something’s moving.
A tall man sneaks along the hedge. He’s talking. I pull the
window almost closed and creep back until I’m kneeling on
the floor, peeking down into the garden.
The man is near the house before he steps out of the
shadow under the trees. Light from the terrace falls on his
yellow hair. It’s Dad! He must be on the phone again, having
another business call with someone in London or New York.
I get up and lean out of the window.
“Dad,” I call in a stage whisper, expecting him to look
up and wave.
He doesn’t. Still muttering, his arms by his sides, his hands
empty, he turns and walks away from the house. He’s wearing
PJ bottoms and a T-shirt. No pockets. So where’s his phone?
“Dad,” I call again, a bit louder. He still doesn’t react.
Why can I hear him, when he can’t hear me? And who’s he
talking to at this hour, if he isn’t on the phone?
When Dad reaches the high hedge and changes direction
again, a bright patch starts following him. It looks like a
person. As they get closer to the house, I see that it’s a girl
in a knee-length white dress. Graceful as a ballet dancer,
she cranes her long neck. One thin hand—with the palm
turned up—stretches towards me, in either a dance move or
a plea for help.
Dad isn’t talking any more, and he doesn’t pay any attention
to the girl. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know she’s there.
Before they emerge from the shadows, the girl pirouettes and
turns away, with a swirl of waist-length dark hair.
Who is she? And what’s she doing here in the middle of
the night?
I get down and rummage through the suitcase to find
my big torch. But when I return to the window, the girl has
vanished. And so has Dad.
The stairs creak. Dad crosses the landing outside my
room. If he can’t sleep either, perhaps we can go downstairs
and have a night-time chat. I want to ask him about the girl.
After springing across the room, I open the door and stick
my head out, just as the door to the master bedroom closes.
In the glow from the night light on the landing, I notice the
letters again. Wooden animal letters glued to the outside of
my door: a frog, a rabbit, an elephant, a jellyfish, an alligator.
They spell my name: FREJA.
I remember a door with letters like these when I was
little. I think there was a monkey too. But there’s no M in
my name, so that memory must be false.
The letters remind me that this isn’t just a holiday. That
this is my room. My room for the next year, in my new home,
with my new happy family.