Rebecca · Issue 858, by the other Amy Harrison

The rutted track was infiltrated with jutting mounds of flaky earth, making us trip and scramble up the diminishing path. Like serpents we weaved in between the spindly branches, taking the hands of the bowing trees and grabbing at sparse tufts of grass. Blades tore off into our palms and propelled out of the creases of our skin like papery butterfly wings, fluttering and the fading, setting us back in our progress. Dry earth crept beneath our nails and a smell of heavy dustiness permeated our fingers, spreading to our faces as we wiped away lingering beads of sweat. At regular intervals, we stopped to pull ourselves up earthy ledges, teetering over the edge as our legs dangled, the steep hill falling away beneath us. Rebecca held out her delicate hand every time, crouching over me, her wispy blonde hair falling like ribbons and stroking her knees. I looked up at the deep set, milky-blue eyes and thin, nipped face, each exquisite detail ingrained in my memory, integral to my childhood. Her eyebrow arched in a dare and her fingers wiggled in my direction,

“Come on lazy bones!” Lip between my teeth, I reached out to meet her, but couldn’t grasp the cupped hand, no matter how far I stretched. I climbed up, struggling, alone. A buttercup pressed between her fingers, Rebecca stood close, flicking it beneath her chin to show the luminous glow it set on her skin.

I was annoyed. She loved to play games. Silently brushing myself down with swipes, she dodged away between the beaten trees and disappeared into the dark cocoon of bracken. The echo of her giggles haunted the air and I began to enjoy game.

“Wait for me!” I tried to echo those agile steps, only to fall, my grip slipping as bark crumbled off the trunks with my touch. Slowly I made my way into the sodden cave of leaves, my clothes becoming saturated as each plant stroked me with silky tips.

“Come on slow coach, what’s keeping you?” I could hear Rebecca’s voice taunting me from the top, willing me to come up and find her. I wrenched myself up the hill, catching glimpses of her iridescent skin through the segments of green life, but I could never catch her. She would flash into site and just as quickly swoop away. I heard her trainers crack and crunch on the ground and I tried to follow, but the sound was swallowed by the distant buzzing of cricket’s song. Finally I reached a boulder. Hunched over and panting I sat on the lumpy seat and I squinted at the caravan park spread below. Our mellow yellow caravan sat at the bottom of the hill, covered in leaves from the winter. Its paint was flaking in rusty curls. I watched my parents out on the sweeping veranda; my mum was sunning herself, relaxing back into the old plastic chairs. Her ruby hat sat on her head like a poppy petal, blocking her features from view. My dad was plonked in the shade, tuning the radio in hope of catching the races. He smacked the side of the “old contraption” to get it working. Faint crackles of the commentary made its way up the hill side, along with the cries of anguish,

“Blasted thing, I’m never going to find out how my horse got on!” The corners of mouth tugged in a smile, but I soon remembered how furious they’d be to know where I was.

They didn’t like me playing alone with Rebecca. Actually, it was forbidden. I didn’t like to disobey them, but I needed her. Somehow she knew when I was sad and would appear to take me off on some sort of adventure. Like this morning, when she discovered me tangled under my duvet, hiding my tear stained cheeks. I knew that I wouldn’t get invited to Chloe’s party. Every time the clumps girls in the playground turned their huddle away from me and forgot call me in to skip, I folded further into myself like a damaged, pleated wing. I tried to ignore them like they ignored me. I had Rebecca. Rebecca was all I needed. When we were together we felt like the same person. We made our way to the grassy plain that spread across the top of our hill running as fast as we could through the whistling breeze, our throats aching as the fresh cold air hit. The tickly dunes cushioned us as we collapsed into their troughs, our giggles penetrated by our ragged breath. In a far off land, lying shoulder to shoulder, we remained unmoving it started to get dark.

That year we had to leave early. My parents were sitting at the fold out dining table sipping bitter-smelling coffee when I emerged that morning, and informed me casually that we would be leaving on the Friday to miss the weekend traffic,

“Make the most of your last week darling, go off and play with your friend from 4B.” My mother chimed.

“Yes Mum, I will.” And with that I burst out of the door, leaving it rattling behind me,

“Be careful, you nearly had the door off,” I could hear my Dad call in the distance as I ran towards to our hill. I needed to tell Rebecca. So I waited, scrunched into the hillside in our usual spot, but she did not appear. The shiny invitation was still carefully pressed into my jeans pocket. I could not stop sliding it out, running my fingers over the ridges of the stick-on gems and re-reading the words: ‘Amy Harrison is invited to Chloe Hay’s 10th Birthday Party!” I desperately wanted to show Rebecca, to show her they had remembered me. But she did not come that time. I felt relieved as I galloped down the familiar track; I desperately wanted to try on my new dress from the party. The next day I went back to the top of the hill, and every other day of that last week, patiently believing that Rebecca’s twittering laugh would echo through the long stems. She did not come. After that holiday she never came again.

For years Rebecca was lost to my thoughts. She had merged into the jumble of memories flung to the back of my mind, not really needed. But now I find myself looking back, wondering how I would have survived without her. I think of her sometimes, and I miss her. I try to picture her and place her in my thoughts, but other faces flash and blur recognition away. She is beginning to get lost, to float and accumulate into the distant years of youth. Curiosity took its hold and I found myself rummaging in my trunk of photos, scanning every one furiously, hoping to recall something. A small Polaroid caught my eye as I delved my hands into the shining collage. I fished out the photo by its yellowing rim, its surface was scratched with years of disregard. A younger version of me peered out from beneath the surface, shyly looking out from beneath a heavy dark fringe, a dark hole where two front teeth should have been. I could remember that moment where Mum caught us before we snaked into the track behind the conker tree, and demanded a holiday snap. We posed, wanting desperately to soar away and once the flash had snapped we streaked up the hill. But as I studied the scene pinched between my two fingers I could not find Rebecca. I was captured standing alone, bashful and happy in the full sunshine. Staring into the blue depths of the shadows I searched for my friend. I wanted to climb into the frame, to peek around the trees, knowing that at any moment she could surge out from hiding. But I could not. The more I looked for her the more she faded. And now I begin to wonder if my magical memory, that had always seemed so real, was merely the imagination of an unhappy child.