Not My Daughter

by Suzy K Quinn

  ‘Liberty’s sixteen.’

  ‘Exactly. Sixteen. Don’t you think it’s time to loosen the reins and let her live a little?’

  ‘Sleeping Beauty had a really bad year when she was sixteen.’

  I head into the house with the groceries, throwing a backwards glance at the gate, willing Liberty to buzz herself in.

  She doesn’t.

  I hate this part of the day.

  ‘She’ll be back any minute. Okay?’ Nick gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘You worry way too much.’

  I nod, but I’m not reassured.

  Inside, I dump groceries on the counter and watch the front gate through the kitchen window.

  I never thought I’d live in a house like this – a little piece of English history. Growing up in America, my mother called the many different 1950s homes we lived in ‘antique’. Around here, most of the homes are four hundred years old.

  ‘Okay, so how do we cook this stuff?’ says Nick, looking at the ingredients.

  ‘Um …’ I glance at the kitchen window. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Just playing devil’s advocate,’ says Nick, ‘but what if Liberty gets bad grades in these mock exams? What’s the plan? I mean, we can’t ground her, can we? Since you don’t let her out of an evening.’

  ‘Just as long as she tried her best.’ I glance at the clock. ‘I’m going to give her until 4.30 p.m. Then I’m calling the police.’

  Nick laughs. ‘They’re going to lock you up for wasting police time. You’re always overreacting. Liberty will be with her friends, probably writing songs or something. She’s okay. Don’t you remember being sixteen?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I say. ‘But mostly I try and forget.’

  Once upon a time …

  The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her. Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand and said that she, above all others, was his dance partner.

  – CINDERELLA

  The year was 1996. The band were Crimson. The lead singer was Michael Reyji Ray.

  I’d never known a high like it. The heat, the noise, the rush.

  A multicoloured sea of arms waved in the air, Celtic armband tattoos and wrists jangling with thin Indian bangles and knotted cotton friendship bracelets.

  Michael, Michael, Michael …

  The girls wore light summer dresses with spaghetti straps and DM boots. The boys wore Michael Reyji Ray ‘Psycho-Delia’ T-shirts, ripped jeans and Vans trainers.

  The stadium smelt of beer, incense and CK One perfume.

  ‘There are no strangers here,’ Michael boomed into a golden microphone. ‘Only friends you haven’t met.’

  For 13,000 teenagers, Michael Reyji Ray was God that night. We worshipped him.

  The world had never felt so real. So awake. I heard the roar of the crowd, felt tribal drum music under my feet, saw colours everywhere. Rainbow flags fluttering on parachute silk.

  Michael had short, bleached white hair and wore a black T-shirt, jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses. His feet were bare, despite the cold night, because, he told us, he wanted to feel the beating heart of the earth.

  To me, this statement was beautiful and artistic.

  ‘He thinks he’s Jesus,’ Dee croaked as Michael spread his arms on stage. She had a cold that night and was a begrudging chaperone.

  ‘Music has power,’ Michael boomed. ‘And tonight, we’re going to change the world.’

  ‘Oh, wow.’ I grabbed Dee’s arm, blinking back tears as we jostled against the cattle bars. ‘He is incredible. And he’s looking right at me, Dee – do you see it? Tonight is destiny. Michael Reyji Ray saved my life, Dee, I swear to God. It was his music that got me through cancer.’

  My sister was less than impressed. ‘He doesn’t even write his own music – the rest of the band are the talent.’

  ‘He writes all the lyrics and they’re the amazing part,’ I gushed. ‘It was destiny I found that first Crimson album, Dee. I swear to you. And now I’m so close to him.’

  On stage, Michael downed a beer. I took a large gulp from my own bottle.

  ‘Lorna, go easy on that stuff,’ said Dee, taking a bite from her hot dog and adding a chewed, ‘You’re not out of the woods yet.’

  ‘I am,’ I insisted. ‘It’s six months today since they gave me the teen-cancer-girl all-clear. Exactly today. Profound, right? On the very day I see Michael sing live for the first time.’

  As the night went on, I danced and screamed like a lunatic, downing beer, singing, holding up a light to the slow songs and putting my arms around complete strangers while my big sister looked on pityingly.

  Dee didn’t get it. She wasn’t a Ray-ite. She didn’t get the depth and meaning and poetry of Michael’s lyrics. Those of us who did swayed and cheered and sang together.

  It was beautiful. I felt like Michael was looking right at me, singing the words to me.

  Live your life, little one. You’re a survivor …

  When the concert finished and the crowds emptied, I needed to stay and get near the stage. It felt special – the spot where Michael had stood. I climbed right over the cattle bars at the front, watching the empty stage with big moony eyes.

  Eventually a female security guard approached.

  ‘Girls,’ said the security guard. ‘Time to leave.’

  ‘We should go home,’ said Dee from the other side of the cattle bars. ‘Lorna, it’s cold. I have an excess fifty pounds to keep me warm. You’re skinny as a twig right now and still in recovery.’

  ‘You go home. Go. I’ll catch a cab later. I’m gonna hang out and wait for Michael and the band to leave.’

  ‘I can’t let you—’

  ‘Dee, he’s in this venue somewhere. I might meet him. Michael Reyji Ray.’

  ‘Never meet your idols, Lorna,’ said Dee. ‘I bet he’s even shorter than he looks on stage.’

  ‘I have to try.’

  Dee shakes her head. ‘Come on, Lorna. I can’t stay out late. I’m teaching kids tomorrow.’

  ‘Then go.’

  ‘As if I’d leave my little sister. Come on. We need to get back.’

  I pulled my trump card then. ‘Dee, meeting Michael Reyji Ray was on my list. The one I wrote in the hospital. Things to do before I die …’

  Dee’s face faltered. ‘I’m responsible for a whole class of middle graders. I need to sleep—’

  ‘I’m telling you to go. I’ll be fine. There are no strangers here, right? Only friends I haven’t met. Come on, Dee, I’m sixteen. You moved out of home at sixteen.’

  Dee sighed. ‘Okay, fine. Fine. But if you’re not back by 1 a.m. I’m calling the police.’

  ‘You’re the best big sister in the world. Always have been.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Stay out of trouble, little sis, and look after yourself. Take care of your body. Remember how lucky you are to be alive. You’re still crazy thin.’ She managed a tired smile. ‘Even so, you look a darn sight better than I did at your age.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the most beautiful person I ever met.’ And I meant it. My big sister always looked like an angel to me with her cuddly, curvy body and warm, smiling eyes.

  Dee laughed. ‘And you’re my best little cheerleader. Enjoy yourself. Okay? You deserve a good time after everything you’ve been through.’

  I know Dee still feels guilty about that night. If she’d have stayed with me, Michael might never have happened.

  But it’s not her fault.

  Men like Michael are predators. They’re experts at luring you in.

  Lorna

  Liberty’s still not home and I’m starting to panic, pacing back around the kitchen.

  The griddle sizzles as Nick lays large, flat mushrooms on hot oil. He watches the pan intensely, glancing between the smoking mushroom and a little black kitchen timer.

  ‘Great job, Nick,’ I say, trying not to sound as distracted as I feel. ‘Smells delicious. Liberty is going to love this. A plant-b
ased feast.’

  ‘Yeah, it looks good, doesn’t it?’ says Nick, voice cheerful. ‘I’m going to try Darcy on one of these mushrooms tonight. It would be great if she ate a vegetable. This yellow food phase is just going on and on.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a phrase,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just how Darcy is. You told the nursery that Bella’s mother is taking her home tonight, right?’

  Nick snorts, still watching the mushroom, spatula poised. ‘I was a parent before you came along, Lorna Miller. Don’t worry. I told them.’

  ‘I’m giving Liberty one last call,’ I decide, taking out my cell phone. Mobile phone, Lorna, mobile, not a cell phone. You’ve lived in this country for seventeen years …

  ‘Lorna.’ Nick shakes his head. ‘She won’t answer. How many times have you called today?’

  My flip-flops shuffle on the slate floor. ‘Three?’

  This is a lie.

  ‘Hold up.’ Nick points at the window. ‘I think this is her.’

  Skywalker is going mad, jumping around at the gate.

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ I watch our front gate swing open on its pivot, and my tall, slender daughter appears, army backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her skin is lightly tanned from the sun. Different to my pale skin. I’ve always been pale. The palest kid in California.

  Liberty’s wearing a messed-up version of her school uniform, her tie the skinny way around, skirt rolled up and something else: an oversized denim jacket with band patches sewn on it. I’ve never seen the jacket before, and … what happened to her hair?

  I feel Nick’s arm around my shoulder. ‘Whoa. Very rock and roll. It suits her.’

  ‘What has she done to herself?’ My voice is shaking.

  Liberty’s long, chestnut brown hair has been cut to her chin, flicked over in a deep side parting and streaked an uneven blonde, some parts bright white, others orangey.

  I put my hand to my own hair. It was short like that once too.

  When Liberty comes through the front door, I accost her in the hall beside Nick’s ‘Steps, Achieve, Goal’ pinboard.

  ‘Liberty, what happened to your hair?’

  Skywalker barks and barks.

  Liberty raises a hand to Skywalker. He sits instantly, tail still and obedient. ‘I cut it. And bleached it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At school.’

  I watch as Liberty hangs her army backpack and the unidentified denim jacket.

  ‘Where did you get that jacket?’

  ‘A friend.’ Liberty clicks her fingers and Skywalker trots to her side.

  ‘Who? Male or female?’

  ‘Does it matter? Gender is fluid these days. Get with the times, Mama.’

  ‘What happened to your duffel coat—’

  ‘Abi has it. We swapped.’

  ‘For a jacket covered in music badges?’

  ‘What’s the problem with a couple of band badges? You’ve got tattoos all over your arms.’

  ‘Liberty, honey. Your hair. Your beautiful hair.’

  ‘It’s my hair. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Hey Libs.’ Nick pops his head out the front door. ‘Your mother just worries about you, that’s all. We want you to be safe.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘Because you are not my legal guardian.’

  ‘I’m responsible for you, just like your mother is,’ says Nick.

  ‘Not legally,’ says Liberty. ‘You and my mother aren’t married yet. Remember?’ Then she mutters under her breath. ‘Steroids cause memory loss.’

  Unfortunately, Nick hears. He’s mild-mannered about absolutely everything. Except steroid accusations.

  ‘I do not take steroids,’ he snaps. ‘These muscles are born of hard graft.’

  ‘There are helplines you can call.’ Liberty tries to dart upstairs, shoulders shaking with laughter.

  I grab her arm. ‘Hold it right there. Number one, apologize to Nick. Number two, we have to figure out how to fix your hair.’

  ‘Fix it?’ Liberty gawps at me. ‘There’s nothing to fix. And I was just teasing, Nick. That’s all.’

  Nick goes back into the kitchen and starts cutting tofu, head bent over.

  ‘Apologize to Nick. He’s trying his best. He drove to Long Bridge for your vegan stuff today.’

  ‘You’re always on his side.’

  ‘I’m on both your sides.’

  Liberty flips around her new short hair and kneels to stroke Skywalker’s long, salt and pepper body. ‘Thank you, Nick,’ she says in a tired voice. ‘Sorry, Nick.’

  ‘I’m trying my best, Libs,’ says Nick. ‘All I want to do is be a good … sort-of dad.’

  ‘Tell us about the mock exams,’ I say. ‘How’d you do?’

  Liberty ignores me and pours vegetarian dog biscuits into Skywalker’s bowl. Skywalker sits obediently, as Liberty has trained him to do. Only when she gives him the command does he start eating.

  Nick stumbles into the awkward silence. ‘Hey, you’ve done a great job with that dog, Libs. Look at how well trained he is. Just brilliant.’

  ‘What else do I have to do?’ says Liberty. ‘Mum never lets me out.’

  ‘Yeah, we were talking about that,’ says Nick. ‘I think it’s time your mother let you out more.’

  Liberty looks up then, managing a smile. ‘Really? You told her that? Did she punch you?’

  Nick laughs. ‘Just a couple of broken fingers.’

  ‘So tell us about your exams,’ I say. ‘Don’t keep us hanging on.’

  ‘I’ll tell you at dinner time,’ says Liberty. ‘Where’s my little buddy? Up in her room reading her number chart?’

  ‘Darcy’s still at nursery,’ I say. ‘One of the other parents is bringing her home.’

  ‘I brought her some patterns from Maths class,’ says Liberty, going to her school bag and pulling out sheaves of paper. ‘I’ll put them in her special drawer.’

  When Liberty opens Darcy’s personal kitchen drawer – the one with all Darcy’s ‘important’ items in it – she bursts out laughing. ‘I love that little girl. She’s so funny.’ Liberty pulls out a handful of Chinese takeout menus. ‘Of course she loves these menus. Every dish is numbered.’

  ‘I’ll say one thing about this blended family,’ says Nick. ‘At least the kids get along.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t get along with Darcy?’ says Liberty.

  ‘Her birth mother, for a start,’ says Nick. ‘Not everyone understands someone so particular.’

  ‘Well, I think Darcy’s hilarious. I love how straightforward she is. And clever. Worth putting up with you for, Nick.’

  Nick laughs uncertainly.

  ‘Liberty, please stop being so hard on Nick,’ I say. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’

  ‘Well yeah, he definitely has his uses,’ says Liberty. ‘But why not just download a diet and fitness app? That way I don’t have to find his hair in the shower.’

  ‘There’s a fine line between funny and mean, and you’re in danger of crossing it.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Liberty mutters. ‘Sorry, Nick. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

  ‘Let’s get all this food cooked,’ I announce. ‘Okay? What’s this? Jackfruit? What is it, some kind of vegetable?’

  ‘I’ll give you a clue,’ says Liberty. ‘You won’t find it in one of your disgusting hot dog cans.’

  ‘Don’t mock the afflicted. I can’t help my taste in food. I don’t know how you got so sophisticated.’

  ‘Maybe I got my sophisticated tastes from my real dad.’

  The room falls silent. And then I hear myself say:

  ‘Liberty. Go to your room.’

  Once upon a time …

  After my sister left me at the Crimson gig, I followed a tide of fanatical, oddball hangers-on. They swept me out of the stadium and towards the east car park, where the band’s tour bus waited on gleaming tarmac.

  The girls were obvious groupies, shivering in knee-high boots, Wonderbras
and short skirts. The boys were boggle-eyed and acne-ridden under shaggy, Michael Reyji Ray haircuts. They were a fun and sweet crowd, all glossy-eyed and talking about the gig.

  I talked music too, but I was there for something more. Something deeper. Love. Wholesome, honest, authentic love. Michael and his music had cured me of cancer. His lyrics spoke to my heart and soul while I was in hospital. The words were written just for me. And I loved him.

  It was dark and freezing that night, but excitement kept us warm as we huddled outside the east car-park stadium doors.

  I said silent prayers, shivering in my oversized denim jacket – the one I’d decorated with band patches and sharpie silhouettes. Please, God, please. Let Michael grace us with his holiness.

  Just after midnight, it happened. The black-painted fire doors flew open and out came Michael Reyji Ray, Paul Graves, Alex Sawalha and a dozen crew members dressed in black ‘Crimson’ T-shirts.

  We all screamed and cried.

  Michael walked a little ahead of the other band members, looking thoughtful, hands in greying jeans pockets and walking on bare feet. The way the band and crew had arranged themselves around Michael – he was a king with his subjects.

  Michael walked past all the half-dressed girls in short skirts and knee-high boots, his face still apparently deep in concentration.

  And then a miracle happened.

  Michal noticed the illustrations on my jacket and stopped walking. His eyes followed the long, hard sharpie pen lines and crosshair shading. ‘So what do we have here then?’ he asked, voice scratchy and deep. ‘A little artist. Is this me?’

  ‘I … yes,’ I stammered, grinning like an idiot. ‘This is you. And this is Sid Vicious. And David Roger Johansen.’

  ‘The New York Dolls?’ Michael asked. ‘You like them, do you?’

  I nodded and nodded. ‘I love them. I love punk music.’

  ‘A little American punk princess.’ Michael pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took my face in his hands. When his eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been hit with something. He had unwavering, kaleidoscope eyes that saw everything – hopes and dreams, pain and fear. They were the most amazing eyes I’d ever seen and they were looking right at me.