by Rachel Dann
‘So, don’t lecture me now about fighting or striving for what I want. You were the very first person who taught me how pointless that is.’
I hold on to the rough wooden rail of the balcony and stare down at my hands, knuckles white and trembling. Dad looks completely shell-shocked and unable to speak. I’ve truly blown it now, I think, horror slowly spreading through me at the realisation of everything I’ve just said.
I don’t know how long we stand there in silence, but after a while my pounding heart returns to normal and my tears subside. I gradually become aware of the sounds of birds chattering in the trees around us, settling down for the night, and the thick clouds on the horizon descending further as the light begins to fade. To my amazement a tiny hummingbird no bigger than my little finger, its feathers a luminous sapphire blue, appears by the edge of the balcony rail. My father and I are standing so still and silent that the hummingbird seems unaware of our presence, hovering gradually closer until it is barely a foot away from me, level with the banana plants overflowing the balcony, and so close I can hear the gentle hum of its wings.
Then, amazingly, Dad reaches over and takes my hand.
‘I know I haven’t been the best father,’ he says, at last, very quietly. ‘I won’t try and explain all that your mother and I were going through back then, only that we were very young – so much younger than you are now, even – and at the time it really seemed that leaving was the only viable option for me. It was either leave – and separate a family – or stay, and watch it self-destruct completely. I hope, on some level, you can understand that, Kirsty.’
Not trusting myself to speak, I can’t even look at my father, but a brief flash of awareness jolts through me at his words. A fleeting vision of some possible future life, my almost future life, in which Harry and I have a baby. For a few agonising moments I imagine what it would be like to feel how I do now – I force myself to be brutally honest – misunderstood, unsupported, unloved, while being irrevocably bound to the very person causing you such unhappiness. The thought makes me shiver. I feel myself glancing sideways at my father, a seed of understanding reluctantly taking root.
‘There’s no excuse for my absence from your life ever since, I know that,’ he continues grimly. ‘And don’t think I’m not aware that you resent me for it. All I want you to know is… I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry ever since the moment I made that terrible, impossible decision. The guilt has haunted me ever since.’
Out of the corner of my eye I notice, with a pang of alarm, that tears are filling my father’s eyes. For the first time ever, I find myself wondering whether that day with the removal van as is indelibly etched on his memory as it is on mine.
I hear my father take a deep breath beside me, as if willing himself to continue.
‘So in truth, Kirsty, part of my reason for coming here to Ecuador was also… to ask for your forgiveness.’
I still say nothing, but continue watching the hummingbird on its winding trajectory around the vivid flowers at the balcony edge, allowing myself to be hypnotised by its simple beauty, feeling my anger begin to disperse and float away from me.
‘It took you doing something drastic and unexpected like going travelling for me to realise – life is just passing us by, and my only daughter is… twenty…’
‘Eight. I’m twenty-eight, Dad.’
‘Right. You’re twenty-eight, and I don’t even really know you. See, I can’t even remember how bloody old you are.’ Tears start to roll down his cheeks.
Suddenly I realise the resentment I’ve felt towards my father for all these years is evaporating as effortlessly as the last clouds over the river as night falls around us, leaving only the need to console this sad, ageing man beside me, consumed with regrets. I do the only thing that feels right and turn to wrap him in a hug. He squeezes me back, his arms solid and tight around me.
‘God,’ Dad eventually says, pulling gently away to reveal a trail of my tear stains on his jacket. ‘Shall we see if Samuel’s got anything stronger than lemonade?’
I’m about to ask him whether he thinks that is a good idea, after everything that’s happened, when suddenly little Tamia bursts out of the undergrowth and comes sprinting towards us. ‘Kristie! Kristie! Your boyfriend is here!’ She beams at me, skipping in circles around us, savouring the word boyfriend. ‘He’s come to rescue you!’
WHAT?
Exchanging puzzled glances with my father, we stumble back into the house behind Tamia. Could Harry really have come all the way here to find me? Even as the thought crosses my mind, I realise with a sick lurch of adrenaline that it doesn’t fill me with the hope or excitement it would have done barely even weeks ago. Heart in mouth, I stop abruptly in the doorway as I reach the main reception room, a split second after I spot a familiar black dog stretched out on the floor in the entrance and realise that the man at the table chatting to Samuel is not, in fact, Harry.
It is Sebastian.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Samuel stops in mid-sentence as I appear in the doorway, and steps aside to let me past. Tamia jiggles on the spot in excitement, grinning at me, before running over to pet Lewis. My father looks from Sebastian to me and back again, then raises his eyebrows.
Desperately trying to slow my racing heartbeat, I approach Sebastian, trying to keep a polite smile on my face. I hear my father engage Samuel in awkward conversation in broken Spanish behind us.
‘I promise I’m not a stalker,’ he says quietly, meeting the silent question in my eyes. ‘But I just felt so awful leaving you to get home on your own after the hearing this morning.’
I blink, momentarily unable to process the fact the Naomi’s hearing had taken place only today, suddenly feeling very tired.
‘I tried phoning to check you got back okay, but your mobile was off,’ Sebastian continues, looking anguished. ‘I called Liza and Roberto’s home phone but no one was there… eventually I got through to Liza on her mobile and it turns out they’re away for the whole weekend visiting family; she told me what happened, that you’d headed off to Mindo on your own… so I left straight away. Liza gave me the name of the clinic… it took me a while to convince them I was here to help you, but I eventually managed to get this address from that barmy old doctor… what was her name…’
‘Okay, okay, you’re really not convincing me of your non-stalker status right now!’ I hold up my hands to make him stop, but can’t help laughing. ‘Seriously, you really didn’t have to… I mean…’
‘It’s cool, Quito gets crazy during public holidays, and it’s nice to get away for a weekend. You know, give Lewis a change of scene.’ He nods at the dog, still spread out in the corner of the room, his head being adoringly stroked by Tamia. ‘And I thought you might appreciate a lift back to Quito.’
‘He came to rescue you,’ Maya whispers in delight from the corner.
‘Well, it’s very kind of you to come all this way. But you know I didn’t actually need rescuing, right?’ An edge I don’t recognise has crept into my voice.
‘Of course, I didn’t actually…’
Suddenly I realise my father is standing behind us. He leans over and pumps Sebastian’s hand heartily. ‘A lift would be fantastic, thank you.’ He claps Sebastian on the back with his other hand. ‘Poor Kirsty has chased around after me quite enough for one weekend, I’m sure she’s keen to get back. It’s very kind of you to come all this way and help us.’
‘No problem, all part of the service,’ Sebastian says gruffly, shaking my father’s hand back but still looking at me. ‘We wouldn’t want any of our citizens to get in trouble over the bank holiday weekend.’ I think I see a fleeting blush pass across his face, but I can’t be sure. ‘Also, I’ve got your passports.’ He indicates his backpack. ‘I was going to call you to arrange to give them to you in Quito, but after I heard what happened today…’ He takes a brown envelope out of the backpack and holds it out to my father, at the same time as a question
springs into my mind.
‘But – Dorice!’ I turn to Sebastian. ‘Her passport was also stolen that day by the cathedral… how did she…’
Sebastian is looking a little sheepish, avoiding my father’s gaze. ‘I was wondering how to bring this up. She came by my office this afternoon – I’d just got back from visiting that man in the hospital.’ I remember him dashing off after Naomi’s hearing this morning. ‘She was all flustered and in a hurry with a taxi waiting outside to take her straight to the airport. She asked for the passport and didn’t tell me anything more. But after I spoke to Liza and Roberto, I pieced together what had happened.’ Now he does look up at my father. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Ah, that’s okay, mate,’ says my father in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone, reaching out to punch Sebastian on the arm a little awkwardly. ‘Probably not the first time someone’s been dumped and left in the middle of the jungle in a foreign country, eh?’
‘Actually, it isn’t,’ Sebastian chuckles. ‘You see it all in my job…’ His gaze slides towards Lewis, now snoring gently in the corner of the room. ‘If it’s any consolation, when my ex-wife left, I only realised when I got home from work and found a three-month supply of dog food lined up by the kitchen door. No note, and almost all her belongings still in the house…’ He laughs quietly. ‘People can be strange.’
I feel a strange chill pass over me hearing Sebastian mention his wife for the first time, and suddenly don’t know where to look. I stare purposefully at Lewis and Tamia in the corner, feeling my cheeks burn, until I realise the conversation between Sebastian and my father has finally moved on to safer territory.
‘I’m afraid we’re travelling by taxi,’ Sebastian tells my father. ‘My car is back in Quito getting new brake pads.’ He nods towards a man standing just outside the house, who I notice for the first time.
There is something familiar about him. As he turns to hand a plate to Samuel, a jolt of recognition runs through me.
‘Rodrigo?’ I reach back into my memory and dredge up the name of the taxi driver who collected Harry and me from the airport, what feels like a hundred years ago. As I take in his little hunched frame and basset-hound droopy eyes, I remember him subjecting us to his Best of the Eighties cassette tape all the way from the airport to Casa Hamaca and feel a pang of nostalgia for that moment. When there were no secrets, no big decisions to be made… Harry and I had been nothing more than another couple of tourists, standing on the brink of a new adventure.
The blank expression on Rodrigo’s face confirms as much. He has absolutely no idea who I am.
‘You picked me up from the airport a few weeks ago, with my boyfriend… never mind. How do you…’ I glance from him to Sebastian, wondering at the sheer coincidence.
‘Rodrigo is one of our trusted drivers, he’s been helping out the embassy for many years.’ Sebastian claps the old man on the shoulder, then turns to mutter to me, ‘Once you get past his proclivity for eighties love songs, he’s one of the best people I know.’
‘At your service, señorita,’ Rodrigo nods at me.
We don’t leave for another hour. Samuel insists we all sit down to chocolate cake and steaming mugs of strong, sugary black coffee before beginning the journey back to Quito. I keep sneaking glances at Sebastian, wondering at how incongruous he looks in the rustic, jungle setting, even in casual jeans and a T-shirt, his tall, athletic frame folded into the narrow wooden bench on the balcony where my father and I were sitting only minutes previously. I drink in his striking profile as he smiles and makes easy conversation with Samuel and my father, switching effortlessly between languages. On one occasion I don’t glance away quickly enough and he catches my eye, flashing me a sudden warm smile back. Tamia giggles.
Finally, Rodrigo starts clearing his throat and muttering things about traffic. We apologise profusely to Samuel for cancelling our reservation, and my father gives him with a generous tip.
By the time my father, Sebastian, Lewis and I have piled into Rodrigo’s old Hyundai, Mindo is in complete darkness and the sound of nature all around us has intensified. The hum and chatter of a thousand different insects and birds surrounds us as we wind down the windows and call out our goodbyes. Then another sound, loud and rhythmic, rises over the rest – the sound of a drum beat closely followed by a large number of human voices. As we reach the end of the main street to leave the town, a stream of people rounds the corner towards us, all walking slowly in unison and singing in low, cadenced voices.
The Day of the Dead march! My father and I twist round in our seats to watch in fascination, as Rodrigo slows the car to walking pace as we pass. The procession is made up of over a hundred people of all ages – fathers and sons, grandmothers and granddaughters, teenagers, middle-agers and even some people leading dogs on leads. They’re not dressed in fearsome skeleton masks and elaborate costumes as I’d imagined when Samuel told us about this, but just in normal clothes, jeans and jumpers and some woolly hats to protect them from the newly arrived evening chill. The first ten or so people are carrying candles, illuminating the movement of their faces as they all sing along to a song or hymn I do not recognise. At the very front, held up on the shoulders of two men, is an ornate, gilt-framed painting of the Virgin Mary.
‘Today is actually a very religious festival,’ Sebastian explains, as we leave the procession behind and gradually pick up speed again. ‘A time to remember our loved ones who have gone, and pray for them on their next path. Even though it actually began long before Christianity reached this part of the world.’
I turn to watch the last bobbing lights of the procession fade from view, knowing I will never forget the sight of so many families and neighbours walking together to spend one evening in the company of their departed loved ones. I look at my father and see my own enthralment mirrored in his face, feeling a sudden pique of conscience at the fact that I haven’t even been able to get along with one of my closest living relatives until a few hours ago. Without saying a word I reach forward to the front seat and squeeze his hand.
Nobody speaks for the next half an hour or so of our journey, but we sit in tired, companionable silence as the car judders and bobs along the uneven roads leading out of Mindo. I leave my window half down and enjoy the cool breeze on my face, looking up at the impressive starscape twinkling to life above the thick forest of palm and banana trees. Then, once we’ve navigated the narrow roads leading out of the town and joined the motorway, Rodrigo solemnly leans forward and presses a button, inundating the car with the opening notes of ‘Eye of the Tiger’.
‘Nobody mind music, no?’ He diverts his eyes from the road for several heart-stopping seconds to twist in his seat and address Sebastian and me in the back, then my father in the passenger seat. It is clear the question only has one acceptable answer.
***
I wake up feeling the car slow to a halt and something hard and plastic digging into the side of my head. A wet nose nuzzles against my cheek, and I open my eyes to see Lewis’s face inches from mine and his tail thumping frantically against the seats in front. Rodrigo’s car radio is thankfully silent now, and soft snores emanate from my father’s seat. Sitting up and pulling the seatbelt holder out of the way I realise shamefully I’ve been asleep with my head on the seat, inches from Sebastian’s lap.
‘We’re just coming in to Quito,’ he says from somewhere to my right. I can just make out his silhouette looking out of the car window, and feel thankful he can’t see my blushes or the dribble I hastily wipe from my mouth as I sit up.
‘Next stop, Royal Colonial Suites hotel?’ Rodrigo asks over his shoulder.
‘Yes, that’s right – Dad, wake up!’ I nudge him gently on the shoulder, feeling a jolt of some unidentifiable emotion as I realise what this means. We have to leave Dad in the hotel, and his flight is tomorrow. I don’t feel ready to say goodbye yet… but even so, I think of all the hopeful plans I had been making for his return to Quito, and can’t help but laugh to m
yself. Instead of an elaborate dinner at a fancy restaurant, or a museum tour of the city centre, we had spent his last day in Ecuador sitting on a wooden bench by a river, talking. And, I realise now, actually I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Sebastian gets out to help my father with his bags, and has to ring the hotel reception buzzer three times before they open the gate. Inside the courtyard is buzzing with life, a quartet of Mariachi singers wearing skeleton ‘Day of the Dead’ masks are playing lively guitar music in the corner, with wreaths of coloured paper lanterns, strung up among the fairy lights, twinkling from the palm trees. The tables are filled with hotel guests having late dinners or early cocktails, laughing and applauding the Mariachis.
‘I’ll phone you tomorrow? Before I leave for the airport?’ There’s a sort of imploring tone to Dad’s voice.
I reach up and hug him.
‘Of course. Now go inside – and no wild partying with the other guests, please.’
Dad laughs and squeezes me tightly back. ‘I’m going straight to sleep.’ He steps back and looks down at me seriously. ‘Honestly, thank you for everything. For going all the way to Mindo, for understanding about Dorice, for…’
‘Yeah, yeah…’ I punch him lightly on the arm. ‘We’ve already established that you owe me twenty-eight years’ worth of decent Christmas presents and lunches out. So, let’s start tomorrow.’
Dad squeezes my arm, then lifts his backpack on to his shoulder and turns towards the hotel. ‘We will, I promise.’
I can feel Sebastian looking at me as I climb wearily back into the car beside him.