Liesl Jobson

Baby Finger

Before I turned six my third sister was born. Dad said five women were enough. The harem was complete. Estelle was beautiful, everyone said so. Her name meant 'star'. But I was still cleverer. That Christmas I drew an angel with a harp and said, Look, Mum, I drew a 'hark', knowing the correct word, hoping she'd laugh, think me cute, wishing I'd overhear her tell this to my grandmother on the phone later. I tried to make droplets of water from the tap hover on my cheeks, like the crying poster girl. I wished an artist would draw me looking sorrowful. I practised turning my eyes down in the mirror above the mosaic tiles. My mother let me touch Estelle's soft fontanel, explaining that if I conked her on the head by accident, she would be brain damaged. Instead I bit her finger when nobody was looking. When my mother came through and found me comforting the new baby, she said I was a good girl, her little helper.