Versailles

by Yannick Hill

  ‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ called River.

  ‘Squawk!’ Money flapped his wings, his feathers brushing violently past the metal bars. Money was a mimicking bird, but right now he was just pissed.

  ‘Sorry, Money, I didn’t mean it. Sorry, dude.’ River turned his attention back to Jenny. Blinking cursor. Blink, blink, blink. Flying crocodile. He couldn’t stop thinking about flying crocodile. It was like a trigger. It made him want to do stuff. Play outside, jump in the pool, take the speedboat. The open waves. But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and besides, River wasn’t doing outside at the moment. Inside was more his jam. Inside this room was where the magic happened. Well, maybe not in that way, and not in this room, per se. No, but inside his head. Creativity, that was his way out, his outlet. River was an artist, his medium ­anonymity, the internet his canvas, a glittering ocean of possibility. Yeah. Blinking cursor. Flying crocodile. River turned his smartphone face-down on the desk and clicked ‘Play again’ on the retarded horse video.

  7

  There was no one else around. The early evening sun made everything seem gold. Swoosh went the cars on the highway – swoosh, swoosh. Missy dived into the motel swimming pool and swam three lengths underwater. By the time she surfaced, the guilt had changed color, and these were new smells to her. She still felt badly, but as she pushed away from the side of the pool with her feet and swam some more, there were other feelings, mixed with memories, of playing with her brother in the water, their endless games, the water pushed beyond the edges of Versailles’ outdoor pool and onto the grass, an unexpected gust of wind across. Flying crocodile. She still felt bad about the Twinkies, but swimming always brought her into the present, she found it relaxing. This time alone – there was no one else around just now, her phone inside her bag inside her room, locked away and almost forgotten – this time alone was precious.

  Away from Versailles, her father, his cameras. The guilt changed color again. Her mother staring in the mirror, all the unworn clothes in her wardrobe. Staring in the mirror and no one looking back. She would call her mom tonight. If only to hear her low, slow voice, wishing her a happy birthday. She would call her after this, make sure she was okay. Missy turned underwater and pushed off the concrete wall. She was an excellent swimmer. They said she could turn professional if she wanted. Could have. A natural talent. It was in her blood. Synthea had always been a strong swimmer. Missy remembered as a kid. Watching her mom swim out into the ocean, so far you couldn’t see her anymore, as though she’d swum over the edge of the world. Missy would play in the shallows, but always with an eye on the horizon, waiting for her mom to reappear.

  She’d always wondered what her mother thought about on those long swims out into the ocean. Deep, private, adult thoughts. Secret. Strange. Important. Thoughts Missy herself had never had. Once out of sight she imagined her mother transforming, not just into a different person, but another creature altogether. Returning from the shallows to the beach, Missy would wrap herself in a towel, shivering on the warm sand, not with cold but foreboding. The thought that her mom might come back still somewhat changed, different in a way only Missy could see.

  Years later, after Missy stopped sleeping with the light turned on, she asked her mother outright: What do you think about, Mom, when you’re swimming out there, with the white horses? Synthea smiled and said it was when she dreamed up some of her best designs, out there. She said swimming into those depths was calming, but also frightening, and it was the fear that really cleared her head. The icy water below the surface: it made her feel alive. Missy remembered her mom’s tone of voice when she said these words. The fear, her feeling alive, the cold water around her feet. Something about her tone made Missy want to avoid her eye. Almost like it was her mom talking about sex or something, it was weird. Her mom had secrets. And Missy didn’t think she liked secrets. She never lied. But was keeping a secret the same as lying? She thought about the Twinkies in the footwell of her car.

  Missy turned underwater. The coolness of this water under open air. She turned and pushed off again, propelling herself forward like an arrow. Swimming was dreaming. Swimming was freedom, flying away from Versailles, her father. Out of sight. Her millions of followers looking elsewhere, sparkle and fade. The dying embers of her user data. And then a roar above the surface, the sound of engines above the surface of the water, like something from a neighboring dream.

  Missy came to the edge, slowly peeked over the edge of the swimming pool. It was the bikers, maybe not the same ones as before, but they had the same painted faces. They were pulling into the parking lot on their shiny motorcycles, one by one alongside each other, like in a movie. And they were staying at her motel, all these other people. Missy kicked her feet with excitement, bringing her head higher out of the water. She took a picture with her mind, saving it for later. She ducked back down with a small splash. Too shy, too shy to show herself just yet. Some time later maybe, when it got a little darker. Missy dived underwater and swam some more. Swimming was dreaming, swimming always brought her into the present, Twinkies in the footwell of her car, all but forgotten.

  Meanwhile, inside her locked motel room, at the bottom of her soft, tan leather backpack with the cowboy tassels, her phone began to ring. It vibrated like a trapped insect, lit up and demanded her attention, but her attention was elsewhere. And then the room was quiet again, a voicemail recording Missy may never hear, the notification telling her it was Synthea Baer who was missing her. Synthea, her beautiful mother, far, far away from here, roaming Versailles’ corridors like a ghost. The gleaming palace. Versailles, Versailles. House of a thousand cameras. The house that Casey built. Loving father, CEO of the world’s pre-eminent social network. The dying embers of her user data. Thirty days to reactivate. And what a story it would make.

  8

  She had to find her daughter. She wasn’t in her bedroom. She wasn’t with her brother. She wasn’t in the kitchens looking for a birthday cake that did not exist. Early evening on her sixteenth birthday and nothing planned, no cache of gifts, no kiss on the cheek. Her princess. Synthea suddenly had a sense of great distance, horizontal distance. She could not remember the last time they had spoken. It could have been days, or even weeks. Time torn free of the mast, her ship lost, her soul was lost. But Missy wouldn’t leave the house without saying something. She wouldn’t leave the house without saying goodbye.

  Perhaps she was outside. The garden, the swimming pool. That was it. She would find Missy outside. She was outside by the pool reading and drinking iced tea, or taking a stroll on the beach. That had to be it. She could see her walking along the shoreline, collecting shells for her room. She loved to decorate her bedroom with sea shells. She’d been doing it since she was a kid.

  Synthea descended the marble staircase in her bare feet. The effects of the medication were wearing off. She could sense the world coming back into focus, the difference between a bad dream and a nightmare. It could have been weeks since she last spoke to her daughter. She didn’t know, not for certain. The past was a great horizontal distance. The future vertical, the sheer unknown, a depth measured in fear. But back to the present. She had to find her daughter. The garden, the swimming pool, a walk along the beach perhaps, the glittering ocean. She turned the handle to the front door and pushed. It was heavier than usual, like there was someone on the other side preventing her from leaving the house. Like someone in a neighboring nightmare. She leaned with her shoulder against the door and it opened, the wind subsiding long enough for her to close it again, a strong north-westerly from the ocean, pushing hard over the uncut grass, the blue water of the swimming pool. Tall palm trees swayed in the background, the tallest palm trees Synthea had seen in her life. She was taking all this very carefully. Every step, every movement. A world of hidden traps, everything set to spring and cause pain.

  The swimming pool. Something about the swimming pool, and it wasn’t just the wind. Something happened here not so long ago. Something very bad, but
it escaped her, like the memory of a dream. Missy was nowhere to be seen. It could have been weeks since they last spoke. She wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. She wouldn’t do that, it wasn’t like her daughter to just leave without saying goodbye. Synthea stood at the edge of the swimming pool, at the very edge with her toes over the water, so that she had to rock back on her heels to stop herself falling in. She stepped back onto the grass and began to walk deeper into the garden. She did not look back. She did not look back at Versailles. She walked across the grass, grass that needed cutting, but was gleaming gold just now in the twilight.

  She could see Missy walking along the shoreline, collecting shells for her room. She loved to decorate her bedroom with sea shells. She’d been doing it since she was a kid. Or what if . . . A rush of anxiety that hurt her fingertips. What if Missy had gone swimming and . . . What if Missy had gone swimming in the ocean and she was still out there? What if . . . Synthea passed through the garden like a day spirit, a silver-gray suit jacket over a long, white nightdress. Bare feet over grass and then sand, between the tall palms and onto Versailles’ private beach. No Missy. She looked up and down, up and down, again and again in case her eyes deceived her. White horses out there. But her daughter wasn’t here. Missy was a strong swimmer, but this ocean . . . White horses. She was a strong swimmer, just like her mom, but— Synthea walked toward the water’s edge and closed her eyes. They’d told her Missy could turn professional if she wanted. A natural talent. It was in her blood. Eyes still closed, Synthea removed her jacket and let it fall into the lapping waves.

  She hadn’t been in the water in what seemed like a long time. Something stopping her from going all the way in. Because I miss you, Casey had said. She loved to swim. She especially loved to swim early in the morning, when her husband was asleep. But there was something stopping her. Her boss telling her it was okay, she would be welcome back, any time. His mouth telling her to stay in contact. And then her husband’s voice again: Because they miss you. They tell me all the time how much they miss their mom. Come home to us, my love. I’ll get you anything you need. A view of the ocean. A window so big it will feel like you’re outside. We always talked about that. A house in nature, windows in place of walls. We always talked about that. I can make it happen. They tell me all the time how much they miss you. We can have the best of both worlds. What’s all this money for if not to live our dream? Come home to me, my love. Because I miss you.

  Her hate for him a perfect thing, its edges softened to infinity by her forgetting why.

  But she remembered this: sitting with her daughter inside a circle of candles. It was outside, the sky was dark and full of stars. She was warm after a long swim in the ocean, still in her swimming costume, and Missy finding her like this, in a circle of candles, the dark grass of the vast lawn all around them, ­Versailles across the way, floodlit and gleaming like a spaceship ready for take-off. She remembered. She and Missy inside the circle of candles, but it’s a memory with no soundtrack: her daughter’s mouth opening and closing but there are no words. Her Missy. She has her father’s long limbs and delicate fingers but she is strong. So strong. She cannot hear the words coming from her daughter’s mouth but she can see her anger. Anger from love. Missy looks like she is going to cry but she doesn’t cry. Her Missy. She remembers. Leaving Missy in the circle of candles and making her way back to the mansion. No longer like a spaceship. Clouds moving across the stars like a heavy curtain, a cold wind on her naked shoulders. Then looking back at Missy and Missy blowing her a kiss, candles flickering in the breeze. But this isn’t memory. This didn’t happen. This is something new.

  An adaptation. Missy’s kiss was now, right there in her mind’s eye. A cosmic gesture, daughter to mother. Like seeing her through water, like seeing her through blue water. And that’s when she knew, standing in the shallows, that Missy was still alive somewhere. Not out there in the ocean. No, but she wasn’t here either, anywhere near Versailles.

  Missy missing on her sixteenth birthday. She wasn’t out there, but there was something wrong. Synthea gathered the skirts of her nightdress and made her way quickly back to the house. Her husband would be home soon. Clouds moving across the blue sky like a heavy curtain.

  9

  Missy wanted to go ask them where they were going but they were set up around their motorcycles in the parking lot with their music playing, eating off a barbecue and drinking beer and whatnot, she didn’t want to bother them because what was she going to say: Hi, I’m Missy Baer, daughter of infamous internet entrepreneur Casey Baer, and I ran away from home today!

  Actually they’d called her over to join them but she was too shy she guessed so she came in from the balcony and switched on the TV in her room, first thing she did. It wasn’t hooked up to cable so there weren’t too many stations but that was okay. Missy settled on a reality show in which people literally had to survive on an island without any supply drops. She hadn’t watched this show before and was shocked when two men got in a fist fight over a girl and drew blood on camera. It was streaming over one of their mouths and down his neck and he was hitting for the camera to get out of his face. So ugly, he had to be ashamed. It’s what made Missy fall for the sword video. That wasn’t reality at all, more like a dream of what the future might be like, her future, like being a superhero with no violence. The guy on the TV spit out what looked like a tooth and sure enough they cut to him being interviewed under studio lights with one of his front teeth missing. She didn’t think they allowed that kind of stuff on TV.

  She pressed the mute button on the remote and flopped back on the mattress, listened to the voices and music of the clown faces downstairs. She glanced at her bag with the cowboy tassels and thought about getting out her phone. She hadn’t checked it since seeing the missed call from her mom. She knew she should call her back, but now that she had time, there was something stopping her . . . Synthea, so far away, still wandering Versailles’ corridors in her bare feet. Those pills in the white boxes . . . Something about her mother’s voice, so different from before. Missy realized now that she couldn’t bear to hear it. Her own mother. The time they used to spend together. They could talk about anything . . . Her phone was switched to silent, no vibrations or notifications, but Missy could sense it in her bag, still as a dead insect, its sting still active.

  Those voices outside. She wanted someone to talk to, tell people what was happening to her, where she was going, but she didn’t know where that was just yet. Her millions of followers. If only they could see her. In her own motel room, car parked outside, the engine still warm from her long journey. If only they could see her now. One picture. One last picture. Her lying on the bed like this, hair still wet from swimming in the motel pool, sword by her side. Status update. Break the internet. #MissyMissingNow. Snap. Filter. All she had to do was log back in. The glowing embers of her user data. Her millions of followers looking elsewhere.

  She reached for her bag. Why did she do this? Because sharing made it feel more real, this journey north. Her escape from Versailles.

  For years it was all she knew. Her home, Versailles. The corridors, the kitchens, her room, River’s room, her mother’s studio, the gardens and the beach. For a long time she knew nothing of the outside world besides the distant sounds of the city floating in over the fences bordering the estate. Sirens. People yelling. A gunshot now and then (one time she remembers some kids launching a bunch of fireworks at the mansion from behind the fence. Then the sirens and heli-copters and Casey taking them into the den like it was war). A soundtrack to a life she and her brother only got to see on television, or on the internet. And when they finally were allowed to go to school, like, with other kids, it was under the kind of security usually reserved for the First Family. Versailles (some journalists had actually started calling it The Other White House) was Missy’s life for as long as she could remember and now that she was free? She didn’t know what to do with all the new information. Sharing would make it feel more .
. . One last picture. All those millions of followers and she hadn’t posted anything in weeks . . . All those millions and she could count her real friends on one hand. The ones in between, the kids she’d met at school? They only talked to her because of her second name. Because of who her parents were. And yet . . .

  Missy stared at her bag, knowing the phone was in there, waiting for her. She reached inside and the phone felt cold, but still familiar. She felt its beveled edges, the uncanny velvet of the unbreakable glass, her mother’s design, dreamed up on one of her long swims out into the ocean, transforming, transformed, yet still familiar. She felt the beveled edges of this thing inside her bag. She should call her mom, let her know she was okay. But then someone calling her name from outside. At least she thought it was her name. Missy bounced herself off the bed, opened the door and looked out over the parking lot at all the bikers gathered there.

  Not her name, but one similar. ‘Cassie!’

  She tried to make out Cassie, but there were too many people, all the talking and laughing and Missy couldn’t take it anymore. She had to tell someone. All of them. She leaned over the balcony and shouted, ‘Hey! It’s my birthday!’

  It played like a movie. The crowd in the parking lot whooped and cheered. One of the women, totally naked except for a pair of leg warmers and panties, got to her feet and held up a red plastic cup for Missy. ‘Come on down here, girl, I got something for you.’

  Despite her clown face, the lady looked friendly so Missy gingerly made her way along the balcony and down the stairs, her phone forgotten.

  The woman threw her arms around Missy and handed her the drink, which was a deep pink color. Whatever it was it tasted strong and Missy told herself to take this slow. But these people were relaxed, they carried on laughing and drinking and Missy got to talking with the naked lady.