The Hungry Ghost

You can’t see the stars here in Singapore. Ghostly, dimmedspots 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 Mumalways 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 cushionson the deep window seat. The only sound in the silenthouse is the low hum of the air-con unit. It blasts cool airdown on my shoulders. Flyaway strands of hair blow into myeyes. I think about retying my ponytail.It’s midnight, but I’m wide awake. My watch still showsthe time in Denmark. Six o’clock. I don’t want to set it toSingapore time yet. Perhaps I have jet lag, because it feelslike 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 manythings happened. I remember looking at my watch exactlytwenty-four hours ago, at six o’clock. That was when AuntAstrid, Mum’s sister, handed me over to Dad in Copenhagenairport, 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 thickbranch, if I had to escape. But where would I go?Singapore is 10,071 kilometres away from home. Thedistance is almost impossible to understand. Once, with myscouting troop, we hiked thirty kilometres in one day, to getthe 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 shapesin the room. My suitcase lies open on the floor, spilling ajumble of stuff I had to take out to find my pyjamas. Theonly other things I’ve unpacked are my compass and theSwiss Army knife Dad gave me last summer for my eleventhbirthday.A beanbag leans against an empty bookcase. Two framedposters hang above the bed. One is of Mount Everest and theother 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, becausea scout should always be prepared. The hot air that streamsinside is sticky and dense, making me cough. It smells likesomething somewhere is burning. That calms me a bit,because bonfire smoke is my favourite scent.Cicada song and something louder—frogs or perhapstoads—sound like an orchestra during warm-up. If they’retoads, then I hope they’re edible, unlike the ones we havein Denmark. I’ll ask Dad tomorrow. It sounds like there arelots of them, and that could be handy in a survival situation.I’m glad I have rope in my suitcase, because the thickbranch is further away than I thought, and it’s too risky tojump from the first floor. Below, outdoor lights are burningon the covered terrace. Part of a sun lounger is visible nextto the swimming pool. Behind the pool, which isn’t evenfenced in, the lawn and an overturned tricycle lie in halfdarknessunder a row of palm trees and flowering bushes. Atthe back of the garden, where a high hedge blocks the viewof the neighbours, something’s moving.A tall man sneaks along the hedge. He’s talking. I pull thewindow almost closed and creep back until I’m kneeling onthe floor, peeking down into the garden.The man is near the house before he steps out of theshadow under the trees. Light from the terrace falls on hisyellow hair. It’s Dad! He must be on the phone again, havinganother 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 lookup and wave.He doesn’t. Still muttering, his arms by his sides, his handsempty, he turns and walks away from the house. He’s wearingPJ 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 hetalking to at this hour, if he isn’t on the phone?When Dad reaches the high hedge and changes directionagain, a bright patch starts following him. It looks like aperson. As they get closer to the house, I see that it’s a girlin a knee-length white dress. Graceful as a ballet dancer,she cranes her long neck. One thin hand—with the palmturned up—stretches towards me, in either a dance move ora plea for help.Dad isn’t talking any more, and he doesn’t pay any attentionto the girl. It’s almost as if he doesn’t know she’s there.Before they emerge from the shadows, the girl pirouettes andturns away, with a swirl of waist-length dark hair.Who is she? And what’s she doing here in the middle ofthe night?I get down and rummage through the suitcase to findmy big torch. But when I return to the window, the girl hasvanished. And so has Dad.The stairs creak. Dad crosses the landing outside myroom. If he can’t sleep either, perhaps we can go downstairsand have a night-time chat. I want to ask him about the girl.After springing across the room, I open the door and stickmy head out, just as the door to the master bedroom closes.In the glow from the night light on the landing, I notice theletters again. Wooden animal letters glued to the outside ofmy 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 waslittle. I think there was a monkey too. But there’s no M inmy name, so that memory must be false.The letters remind me that this isn’t just a holiday. Thatthis is my room. My room for the next year, in my new home,with my new happy family.