Spin Cycle by Ilsa Evans

a knoll anyway? Is it sort of like a bunion, or a corn? Whatever they are, they have definitely gone with the wind now. I open one eye and fix it on the luminous green numbers of the bedside clock.
    â€˜AAAAaaiaah! It’s not even six o’clock!’
    â€˜AAAaaiaah! Mummy! Mummy!’
    I fling the doona aside, clamber out of bed (not naked and no Reeboks) and hobble quickly down the hallway towards the kitchen because that is where the screaming seems to be coming from. It’s freezing out here. I skid to an abrupt halt in the doorway as I see my youngest daughter standing precariously on a kitchen chair at the uncovered birdcage – and holding out one tremulous hand towards me. Reluctantly I let my gaze travel slowly from her pale, tear-stained face to what she has clutched in her fist. Sure enough, it’s the dead budgerigar and from the looks of it, rigor mortis has definitely set in. I think quickly.
    â€˜CJ, what’s happened? What’s wrong with Hanson?’
    â€˜Aaahaiah, he’s dead, Mummy, my one and only pet – and he’s dead !’
    â€˜Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Here, give him to me and let’s have a cuddle.’ I barely finish talking before she thrusts the dead bird into my outstretched hand, and then launches herself at me. ‘CJ – no! Wait till I’ve put him down!’
    â€˜Oh, Mummy! Is he berry squished?’
    Now that she has managed to use the two of us as some sort of weird avian flower-press, she seems to have cheered up remarkably and proceeds to examine the corpse in minute detail. I think I’m going to be sick.
    â€˜Mummy, why is he so hard and –’
    â€˜I’ve got a good idea!’ I quickly drop the corpse onto the counter (I know that’s not terribly hygienic but I can tell you a dead bird in the hand feels – well, indescribably disgusting). ‘Why don’t you get your shoebox from your new runners and we’ll give Hanson a really nice burial?’
    â€˜But … but why’d he die, Mummy?’
    I am riddled with guilt as I look down at the little face gazing at her dead pet. I don’t feel guilty because of the damn bird – I still feel it overreacted totally by dying – but because of last night and yesterday afternoon. Indeed, it seems like every time I spend any time at all with CJ lately, she spends it in her room and I spend it somewhere else. Either that or she is tear-stained. I have always had such a comfortable relationship with CJ in the past that it has become perhaps too easy to concentrate on other areas that I imagine might need work, like Benjamin. It occurs to me now that perhaps I should not have taken so much for granted, that CJ is also growing upand she needs me, and affirmation of the security I represent, just as much as the others.
    â€˜You know, you know! I c’n tell! What happened ?!’
    I come out of my reverie to realise that CJ has ceased her postmortem and is staring at me with narrowed eyes and an extremely suspicious expression.
    â€˜I didn’t do anything!’ Even to me that didn’t sound convincing so I try again: ‘Why do you ask? Did you find something suspicious?’
    Oh, for god’s sake, pull yourself together. This is a five-year-old you’re dealing with, not bloody Quincy or some other forensic specialist. Take a few deep breaths and use a bit of parental authority.
    â€˜Look, CJ, sometimes things like this just happen. It doesn’t mean that anybody is to blame and it’s certainly not fair to try and blame someone just to make yourself feel better. It’s just one of those things. Now, I’m not going to get annoyed because I know you’re upset, so just go get the shoebox and we’ll arrange a lovely funeral for Hanson.’
TUESDAY
7.35 am
    Close-up to scene: a suburban backyard desperately in need of a mow. Four jacketed figures can be discerned amongst the grass