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When Melissa is six, an injured possum takes up residence in their garage and she and her brother are barred from going inside, even to get their bicycles, lest they get bitten.
‘Just until Daddy’s brought the men to take it away.’
She assumes, in her six year old innocence, that away meant to somewhere nice- woods or fields, she’s still a little hazy on where possums live normally but she knows enough to know there will be a cozy little possum house, acorn cups to drink from, maybe chipmunks or raccoons to befriend and go on adventures with.
Her brother swiftly disabuses her of that notion with the self-satisfied smugness of a two-year-older sibling as he whispers from the top bunk bed, casual and cruel, that away actually meant cages, bars and an injection to put it to sleep forever ‘to kill it dead for real’.
He turns over with a huff of disappointment when Melissa’s tears fail to fall: she blinks until the blurriness goes away and formulates her plan in her head.
The possum is hurt and scared: it’s biting people because it thinks it needs to keep itself safe.
Just as her teacher had explained when the other girls squealed and scattered when a spider appeared on the mat at storytime: ‘It’s more afraid of you than you are of it.’ She’d smiled with warm approbation as Melissa gingerly scooped the scuttling creature into her cupped hands so it wouldn’t be trodden on, and opened the window for her to set it free.
‘See how brave and sensible Melissa is being, everyone? Spiders aren’t going to hurt you.’
It was a refreshing change- brave and sensible rather than shy and quiet, reckless and scruffy. For once, the other girls were able to overlook the rip in her dress (from climbing onto a fence to see the doggy on the other side on the way to school) and the smudges of grape jelly on the skirt (from hastily-wiped sticky fingers at lunch, because if she wasn’t quick, the boys would claim that there were already too many people playing soccer to let her join in) and crowded around her in wide-eyed admiration.
‘Weren’t you scared ?’
‘No.’ She wasn’t not even lying- it hadn’t occurred to her to be scared. She’d felt sorry for it’s panicked skittering over the vast expanse of carpet, she’d wanted to give it somewhere to be safe. ‘I knew it wasn’t going to hurt me’
She wants to do the same for the possum, to give it somewhere to be safe too.
As luck would have it, the wildlife control people were held up- it Labour Day weekend, there’s a staff shortage, their house is far out- and so Melissa knows, from listening in to Daddy’s frustrated phonecalls over breakfast, that she’s got at least three whole days to make a new friend.
When she slips into the garage, it’s quiet at first. She sits, crossed legged on the damp concrete floor, her offering of half a pb&j in hand, silent and still. She doesn’t mind waiting: it takes time to trust.
When it eventually edges out of it’s hiding place, dragging it’s injured leg behind it, Melissa doesn’t move: she lets it test the waters, edging closer then retreating. When it noses the sandwich, she feels a flush of victory.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ she whispers on the second day. The possum squeaks like it believes her.
When she puts out a hand to stroke it’s mangy coat, it sits passively, calm as a lap cat. It’s big, wet eyes look grateful that finally, someone is treating it with kindness: someone understands it isn’t a threat, just misunderstood.
When she hears Mommy or Daddy talking about the dangers of a feral animal living in the house, Melissa makes sure to reassure the creature on her next visit: ‘It’s ok, they just don’t understand. But I’m not scared of you.’
Eventually, she knows, she’ll have to clean it up, bring it into the house- it can’t live in the garage forever- maybe even get it a little collar with a bell like their neighbours cat has. But for now, she’ll accept it as it is: a small, damaged creature that just needs to be l-
Her parents come running at the sound of her scream.
The bite needs four stitches in the emergency room, and a tetanus shot that makes Melissa scream again.
She still has the scar on her hand.
When the shotgun blasts, her calloused fingers rub over the raised flesh.
Fool me twice, shame on me.