Broken Places

by Wendy Perriam

  Although, actually, he had done quite well already; devoting the whole of yesterday to viewing the city’s landmarks; starting with the Central Library, whose exhilarating structure and 1.5 million books had put his modest Balham workplace in the shade. And, even this morning, he had taken in the ‘Experience Music’ Project and the Science Fiction Museum, just a stone’s-throw from the Needle. Yet both tours had seemed achingly hollow without Erica beside him to marvel at Captain Kirk’s command-chair, or join him in a jam session, complete with ready-made fans. His daughter seemed to have deliberately planned to be out all day, every day, and must even have persuaded her friends’ mothers not to include him on the excursions. There was always a reason, of course. It was a ‘girly’ thing they were doing, or some pursuit that would bore him to tears.

  Nothing would bore him, if only he could be with her, but how could he impose himself when she had no wish for his company? All he could do was hope that things would change. Today was only Tuesday, after all, which meant he’d been with her – or not with her – a mere three and a half days. Strange, though, how that stretch of time felt as long as three and a half months.

  So what now? Did he brave the elevator and go whizzing up to the observation deck? Yes, was the obvious answer – except he was uncomfortably aware that, in 1965, an earthquake had jolted the structure sufficiently to send the water sloshing out of the toilets, despite the fact it had been specifically built to withstand the fiercest pressures. Were earthquakes common here, he wondered, glancing at the long line of people waiting to buy their tickets, all putting him to shame? If only he could reincarnate himself as some intrepid person: Douglas Bader, Scott of the Antarctic, Edmund Hillary.

  Cloaking himself in Hillary’s skin, he took his place in the queue. Now he had no fears. What was a mere 600 feet compared with Everest? But a brief glance at the placard, ‘Take a test-drive in the sky!’ sent him skulking out again. He would have to tell Peggy that the queue had been so slow to move, he’d decided not to waste his precious time standing about in line.

  Disconsolately, he mooched into the gift shop. Erica’s presents were still lost, along with all his gear, and the airline now suspected that the case might never turn up. They had offered compensation, of course, and, on the strength of that, he had bought himself some decent clothes, reflecting, while he shopped, on the idea of compensation. Shouldn’t people be compensated for never having had a mother, or for growing up in care? Or perhaps the whole justice system should be completely overhauled; the judges made to bear in mind that while less than one per cent of children were taken into care, some twenty-five per cent of the adult prison population had, in fact, been through the care system.

  Trying to switch his attention from penal reform to finding some replacement gifts for Erica, he wandered round the large, confusing store. It seemed full of expensive tat, however: musical snow-globes, light-up pens, bottle-stoppers, nail-clippers – every product either made in the shape of the Space Needle, or branded with its logo, which meant every product was a reminder of his cowardice. He stopped to look at a cat-shaped cushion, which brought unhappy thoughts of Charlie, as well as new anxiety, because he hadn’t told his daughter yet that their beloved pet was lost. She had actually mentioned Charlie – twice – but still he hadn’t found the guts to give her such unwelcome news when she was already feeling low. Maybe after next weekend, when Brooke and co returned to school, but she had extra leave, they would have the chance of an in-depth conversation and could discuss not only Charlie but Christine’s pregnancy.

  In the end, he left the shop with nothing except some postcards of the stunning view from the top: the closest he would ever get to seeing it. In any case, it was now getting on for seven, so time to return to the house – not that Erica was expected back till half-past ten. She was with Brooke again today, but at another friend’s house – a girl called Barbie, of all things – for some sort of get-together, to be followed by a pop concert, out at the Tacoma Dome. The Dome was famous, apparently – one of the largest wood-domed structures in the world – although it seemed unlikely he would lay eyes on it himself.

  ‘You’d hate the concert, Dad,’ she’d told him. ‘The music’s so loud it’d make you deaf.’

  He would gladly take the risk of deafness – indeed of blindness or paralysis – just for the chance of being with her, but it appeared he had no choice.

  Once he had boarded the monorail, he sat wondering why the people here were so contemptuous of public transport. The high-speed train took only a couple of minutes to whisk him from the Space Needle to the Westlake Center Mall. And he had even found a fast, convenient bus, departing from Second Avenue and going all the way to Mercer Island Park-and-Ride, from where he could catch another bus to the square at the South End, just a short walk from the house. The entire journey from Downtown Seattle took only three-quarters of an hour. Of course, you could do it in a car in twenty minutes, and here everybody drove – as Erica herself would do, the minute she turned sixteen – and would probably despise him even more, then.

  He walked from the Westlake Center down Stewart Street towards the bus-stop, now surrounded by skyscrapers; their majestic glass and steel blazing gold and scarlet in the sunset. If only Mandy were with him, he would feel less rootless in this self-confident but dwarfing city. Yet, the more he reflected on Mandy – which he did constantly and painfully – the more he was forced to admit that they weren’t actually well suited. Right from the start, the idea that she was his fantasy mother – reincarnated in a younger form and miraculously available – had blinded him to other aspects of the relationship. She shared none of his passion for books, tended to laugh at his ideals, and her continual, chronic lateness would have become a source of irritation. He, too, was at fault, of course. For one thing, he should have been more open about his crippling fears, but was that really as heinous as her own decision to deceive him for the remainder of his life?

  Somehow, he must leave Mandy in the past and make a real effort to move on, and also stop imagining that he would ever meet his mother, either in the flesh or in some modified version. Not that it was easy, with so many reminders of mothers: children in the street calling out ‘Mom’ on every hand; women pushing prams; racks of cards already in the shops for the American Mothers’ Day. There was also the urgent question of his Precious Box. It would be tricky to retrieve it without re-entangling himself with Mandy, yet he knew that any contact might weaken his resolve.

  Soon, the bus came lumbering into view and, having clambered on, he found an empty seat next to a comfy-looking female.

  ‘Wonderful sunset,’ he remarked, but the sole response was a stony stare. Well, what had he imagined – a loquacious heart-to-heart? OK, he was lonely, but there would be plenty of time in the future for engaging total strangers in conversations they didn’t want. He wasn’t in his dotage yet – forty-five, not ninety.

  Better to sit and read, then he could lose himself – as he’d done so often in his life – in another, happier world, where daughters loved their fathers, mothers were real people and girlfriends never lied.

  He hovered outside Erica’s bedroom door, tempted to go in. In fact, nothing would induce him to invade her privacy, yet her determination to bar him access couldn’t help but rouse his suspicions. Was she frightened he would find fags – or drugs – or supplies of the contraceptive Pill, or a secret diary revealing wild transgressions? She had become a stranger – no way the child he knew. When she wasn’t out with her friends, she spent worrying amounts of time up here, either texting them or phoning them, or on social-networking sites. But suppose she had somehow found a way to circumvent ‘parental control’ and was accessing more unwholesome sites? For all he knew, some evil stranger might be grooming her for sex.

  His stomach rumbled suddenly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so he went downstairs to raid the Aladdin’s cave of the pantry. His fantasies about cosy little suppers with his daughter, or outings to
the pizza parlour, had been rapidly dispelled. And, since there was no point cooking for one, his usual fare was a handful of crisps or biscuits, and a bowl of cornflakes or peanut-butter sandwich, eaten standing up. Even tomorrow’s sit-down dinner with Kimberley and her husband, Ted, had been cancelled just this morning, because Kimberley had sprained her wrist and could neither cook nor drive. In fact, she had laid on a taxi to bring Erica back tonight, since the other mother, Virginia, had to collect her husband from the airport soon after the end of the concert, and thus would only have time to drop both girls off at Kimberley’s. Apparently, Kimberley’s house, being at May Creek, within minutes of the freeway, was much handier for the airport than trekking out to Mercer Island and back again.

  He checked his watch – 10.10 – which meant the taxi should arrive in twenty minutes. No doubt Erica would go straight up to her room, rather than stick around and chat about the concert. However, despite the lateness of the hour, he was determined to waylay her and insist they start communicating. Just last night he’d read an article about changes in the teenage brain, which were said to account for most negative teen behaviour: lack of empathy, consideration or even risk-awareness. OK, he was willing to make allowances for her synapses being slightly off-kilter, but there were limits to his patience. However much she had shaken his confidence as a father, he refused to tolerate this stand-off the whole three weeks he was here.

  Just as he was stuffing in a handful of pretzels, the phone rang and, assuming it was Erica or Kimberley, he rushed to answer it.

  ‘Oh … Christine,’ he faltered. ‘How are you?’ Idyllic, by the sounds of it – a Christine on cloud nine, unable to disguise the honeymoon glow.

  ‘Sorry to ring so late, Eric, but I wondered how things are going.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s your cold?’

  ‘Much better, thanks.’

  ‘And is Erica OK?’

  ‘Mm.’ It sounded lame even to his ears, so he added some supporting detail – about the party and the pop concert and Kimberley’s sprained wrist.

  ‘Lord! How did she do that?’

  ‘In the gym, apparently. She was lifting weights and—’

  ‘Typical!’ Christine said dismissively. ‘It’s all “me-time” for that bloody woman. The only thing she cares about is making herself slimmer and more glamorous. She employs a whole gang of beauticians, hairdressers, personal fitness trainers and even …’

  And who are you to talk, he bit back.

  ‘She’s made Brooke the way she is, of course, and that, in turn, has influenced poor Erica, and I have to say it worries me. On the other hand, the two girls seem devoted to each other, so it would be wrong to try to separate them, even if one could. But now you’re there, maybe you could exert some sort of influence.’

  Not a chance in hell, he thought, wishing desperately she’d end the call. No way must she discover that he had seen so little of Erica, or he would truly be in trouble. Besides, just the sound of his ex’s voice was enough to conjure up loathsome pictures of her in bed with Dwight. He and Mandy should be on honeymoon, not Christine and her supercilious bloke.

  ‘What time is it in Hong Kong?’ he asked, having done his hesitant best to answer her shoal of questions about Erica.

  ‘Quarter past two in the afternoon. We’ve just had this delicious lunch at—’

  He blocked his ears; had no desire to hear any romantic, gastronomic, or – God forbid – erotic details. ‘And it’s Wednesday there, not Tuesday.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I get a bit confused, what with Seattle being eight hours behind the UK, and Hong Kong eight hours ahead.’ All the time-differences made him feel unsettled, and his body-clock hadn’t yet adjusted, so he was still finding it hard to sleep. When finally he did drop off, he’d wake after only an hour or two and wonder where he was. Crazy to sleep so badly in what must be the most luxurious bed in the whole of the North-West Pacific.

  Once he’d rung off, he went upstairs to Christine’s office, deciding to email Stella again, just as a form of comfort. The messages they’d already exchanged had made him feel less isolated; kept him in touch with life back home. She had also given him the cheering news that Meryl Jones, no less – the high-powered Assistant Head of the whole Wandsworth Library Service – had decided to champion their Remembrance Project and that, with such a formidable ally, they were now certain to get funding. He’d longed to pick up the phone and say how pleased he was, but knew Stella was bound to ask about his daughter, and felt too ashamed to admit that he was spending his time as a tourist, rather than as Dad.

  And now, again, he was tempted to ring, just to hear her voice, but, again, thought better of it. In any case, he could hardly drag her out of bed at 5.55 in the morning, so, instead, he switched on the computer.

  Four messages were waiting – all from her, in fact, although instead of the usual moans about some memo from management, or further details of Meryl’s support, these concerned a new post – just created – for an Outreach and Community librarian at the new Wandsworth Town Library, and how the job was perfect for him and he simply had to apply.

  No way. His daughter’s barbs had made him extremely wary about risking further rejection. Why should anyone recruit a ‘totally weak’ and ‘freakish’ candidate?

  Trevor thinks you’d be ideal and even Meryl’s rooting for you. She wanted to be sure you had the details, which must be a hopeful sign.

  Typical of Stella to be so optimistic. It was definitely straining credulity that someone as prominent as Meryl would be rooting for him personally. She probably wanted all eligible staff to have details of the post, to encourage competition. Yet Stella seemed to be assuming that he’d already got the job, since she went on to suggest that they make their Remembrance Project a joint activity with Wandsworth Town, so the two of them could still work together.

  Despite his dismissal of the whole idea, he was touched by her belief in him; the way she always had his interests at heart. And the emails did remind him how valuable his work was in giving structure to his life, along with a sense of purpose and achievement.

  However, he should be thinking of his daughter, not himself. She would be back in a matter of minutes now, so he decided to unfreeze one of the stash of pizzas and put it in the microwave, to be ready when she appeared. Once done, he rehearsed his lines: ‘I know it’s late, Carmella, but I thought we’d have a little supper together.’ The Carmella stuck in his throat, but no point alienating her further by refusing to use the new name.

  By the time the pizza was bubbling-hot, there was still no sign of her. Having turned on the main oven to keep it warm, he made a salad and laid the table; even twisting paper napkins into swan-shapes, Mandy-style.

  By 10.50, still no daughter, and no reply from her mobile – distinctly worrying, when he had given her strict instructions never to switch if off when she was out. Having left a stern message and also sent a text, he felt concerned enough to phone Barbie’s mother, Virginia, although the call was answered by what sounded like another teen.

  ‘It’s Eric Parkhill here.’

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Is that Barbie’s brother?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘D’you mind if I ask your name?’

  ‘Joe.’

  ‘Hello, Joe. Is your mother there?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Of course – she’d be at the airport, picking up her husband. How could he have forgotten? ‘Any idea when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Well, do you know what time she left?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘When she does come in, could you tell her I rang?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Just say Erica’s Dad. OK?’

  Neither ‘Nope’ nor ‘Yeah’ this time, just a grunt as he rang off.

  God, he thought, teens were a pain! Yet their blasé mothers w
ere almost as bad. If Erica had been delayed, why hadn’t either Virginia or Kimberley had the courtesy to let him know? Obviously, people were more permissive over here; didn’t share his view that not-quite-thirteen-year-olds should be back home by eleven.

  It was actually 11.02, so he rang his daughter’s mobile once more.

  The cell-phone you are calling is switched off.

  He left another message anyway, followed by another text, just hoping that when she picked them up, she would realize how concerned he was. He also decided to ring Kimberley, although adopting a deliberately casual tone, so as not to seem over-anxious.

  ‘It’s OK, Eric, she’s on her way. I’m afraid the taxi turned up rather late. A new driver was on and I guess he didn’t know the route. But she should be with you in less than fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Great!’ His relief was so overwhelming, he could have kissed the woman – even kissed her soppy dog. ‘How’s your wrist?’ he asked instead.

  A grave mistake, since she launched into an endless disquisition on exactly what the doctors had said (doctors in the plural); how serious the sprain was and how excruciating the pain; what she could and couldn’t do with that debilitated arm, and how she intended to sue the gym, because she was bound to put on loads of weight without her daily session, and had to pay her private fitness-trainer, despite the fact she wasn’t using him.

  By the time she had concluded, fourteen of the fifteen minutes had passed, and he began to rethink his plan of having supper with his daughter. It really was too late now and, in fact, if she didn’t turn up soon, it would be time to get her breakfast, instead. Maybe the taxi had got lost, if the driver was a greenhorn, or perhaps as clueless as the one who had brought him from the airport. No – Kimberley had told him she used a highly reputable firm, and no way would she entrust either Brooke or Erica to any but the most dependable of drivers. So what the hell was going on? May Creek wasn’t that far, especially at this time of night, when the roads were near-deserted.