But we are going. They just don’t know it yet.
By the way, I checked on Earth-Pig Fish and Skullcap-Fish before I went to sleep and they seem content, so I believe Douglas Benson From Another Dimension has indeed solved the problem. Oops. I’ve just remembered I haven’t told you about Earth-Pig and Skullcap. This is part of the problem, Denille. Everything is changing. Trips to America (it’s happening. Make an entry in your diary), computer programs involving multiple dimensions, eye patches on teachers and sundry other things have resulted in me neglecting you.
I promise to be better at writing and hope you can forgive me.
Best wishes,
Your penpal,
Candice
Y
IS FOR YELLING
The excitement must have been too much for Mum, because she didn’t rise from her bed on Saturday. Dad warned me to be quiet. I pointed out I couldn’t do noisy if I tried.
I went with him to the shed and watched while he did things on his computer. He didn’t put on his earphones and he chatted while he worked. It was funny. Since I’d given New Orleans as a present to Mum, he hadn’t smiled. But as soon as he sat in front of his computer, a smile appeared and never left his face. Each tap on the keyboard was a small song of joy.
‘Mum isn’t depressed about her birthday presents, is she?’ I asked.
‘No, Candice,’ said Dad. ‘Not at all. Absolutely not. Not in a fit.’
‘That means “yes”, doesn’t it?’
Dad put a hand in the air and wiggled it from side to side. ‘She’s still in shock, I think. You pulled a big surprise, kiddo. But it’s not about that. It’s this illness – it comes and goes and there’s no rhyme nor reason to it. She’s having a bad day today, but tomorrow may be different. Does that make sense?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I suppose you’d have to be depressed to really understand.’
‘Exactly.’
‘We are going to New Orleans though, Dad.’
He stopped smiling then.
‘Candice, I’m sorry, but we are not. This is not open for negotiation either. We appreciate the gesture, but it’s not happening. I’m sorry.’
‘It is.’
Dad sighed and turned back to his computer.
‘How’s the program going?’ I said.
Dad swivelled in his chair and stroked his chin with two fingers.
‘Think of the Great Wall of China,’ he said. ‘I reckon I’ve laid the first brick.’
‘Dad?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘I know you’ve got a billion bricks to lay, but would you take me out for lunch today? Just the two of us? There is a fast food eatery I know that does burgers of dubious origin.’
I could see Dad struggling with the idea and not because of the bricks. I didn’t know how expensive the birthday meal had been, but I did know we’d have to cut costs for a couple of weeks to pay for it. This had happened before. After my tenth birthday [I got lots of gel pens that year] we’d eaten virtually the same meal every day for a month. Mince and mashed potato. Mince and rice. Cottage pie. I like mince, but even I got sick of it. So I understood that money was in short supply. But I had also given them a present worth fifteen thousand dollars. Well, I’d tried. How could Dad say no to lunch after that?
‘Sure, Candice,’ he said. I could almost hear him mentally working out the finances. ‘That would be fun. We could discuss your wedding plans. How many bridesmaids you want, the floral arrangements, that kind of thing.’
‘I think I preferred it when you weren’t funny,’ I said.
‘Really?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not really.’
I was leading Dad into an ambush and I felt guilty. So I left him to his computer and went to talk it over with Earth-Pig Fish and Skullcap-Fish. I needed constructive and unbiased advice. Fish are good at that.
Does motive matter when you are about to interfere in something that isn’t your business? I had already achieved a fair amount. Okay, Mum might not be cured, but her good days were becoming more frequent. Dad was a different person. He made jokes. He had purpose. We were going on a family holiday, despite all the evidence to the contrary. It felt like my family was returning. Slowly, true, but returning. I’d even helped Miss Bamford [I’m not sure if I believe in coincidences. They seem too . . . coincidental]. Jen Marshall had defied friends and expectations. Chalk another one up for Candice Phee.
I was on a roll. Like a gambler who cannot resist risking everything on another throw of the dice.
I put all this to Earth-Pig Fish and Skullcap-Fish. They swam their circles. Go with the flow, they seemed to say. What goes around, comes around.
We’d read a play by Shakespeare last term and there was a line that went something like this: I am stepped in blood so far that to go back would be as tedious as to go o’er. I felt the same way. I might as well carry on. Not that I was covered in blood.
Not yet, anyway.
We arrived at the fast food eatery at exactly twelve-thirty. It’s a place where waiters come to take your order at the table, but Dad paused at the counter to check the pictures.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘That burger looks really good. I reckon I’ll have that.’
I might have warned him, but sometimes it’s important to make your own mistakes. In any event, it was unlikely he’d be eating too much, even if chicken parmigiana with a side order of sausage, egg and chips was on the menu. It wasn’t, incidentally.
We found a booth by the window and Dad slid onto the bench. I slid in next to him.
‘You don’t want to sit opposite, Candice?’ he asked.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
‘But I’ll get a crick in my neck talking to you.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘For you, maybe.’ But he didn’t say anything else. We picked up the menus folded into the napkin dispenser and looked at options.
While our heads were lowered, Rich Uncle Brian slid into the bench opposite Dad.
Uh, oh!
Dad glanced up and did a double-take. His face flushed. Think of a clear summer’s day and then think of storm clouds boiling up over the horizon, filling the sky. Imagine that happening in the space of a-second-and-a-half. It was touch and go whether his head would explode.
‘What the hell?’ he spluttered [actually, he didn’t say ‘hell’]. If it wasn’t such a tense situation I’d have been interested in Dad’s body language. The muscles in his arms flinched. He half-stood, but the table stopped him. He glared at Rich Uncle Brian like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then he glanced at me. If looks could kill, I would have curled up and kicked my legs. Briefly. ‘What the hell?’ he repeated.
‘Hello, Jim,’ said Rich Uncle Brian.
‘Let me out, Candice,’ said Dad. ‘We’re going.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re staying.’
For a moment, I thought blocking Dad in wasn’t going to work. It seemed likely he would simply barge me out of my seat. I gripped the edge of the table and made like an immovable object. But Dad sat down again.
‘Are you ready to order?’ asked a young girl with blonde hair and pimples, unaware she was standing on the edge of an erupting volcano. Notebook and pen were poised. When there was no response, she looked up, took in Dad’s expression and tucked the pen behind one ear. ‘I’ll give you more time,’ she added, and bustled away, maybe to call the cops. Dad’s face had gone beyond storm and was approaching hurricane.
‘Is this your doing, Candice?’ he growled.
I nodded.
‘Let me out.’
I shook my head.
‘We need to talk, Jim,’ said Rich Uncle Brian.
‘We have nothing to say.’
‘I think we do.’
‘What you think is of no interest to me. Leave. Now.’
‘I want to talk about your program. The multidimensional social media idea.’
There’s storm. Then there’s hurricane. What’s beyond that? I have no idea,
but Dad reached it within half a second. He turned to me, as if not believing what his ears were telling him. He’d mentioned this to no one. Except me. But I could tell he was searching for some other explanation. Anything, no matter how fanciful, that wouldn’t mean betrayal by his own daughter. He couldn’t find it. I saw it in his face.
‘Candice?’ he said. His voice was low and pain-filled. It would have been better if he’d shouted.
‘I didn’t speak about it, Dad,’ I said. ‘I wrote it down and showed it to Rich Uncle Brian. I didn’t break my promise.’
‘What?’
‘You told me not to speak about it to anyone. I haven’t. But you didn’t say anything about letting someone read it.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m literal, Dad. You know that.’
‘You are also smart, Candice,’ he said. ‘So don’t play the “literal” card. You knew how important this was to me and now you’ve ruined it. It wouldn’t have been so bad if you’d told a friend, or something . . .’ I thought about the letter on its way to Denille, but decided to keep this to myself . . . ‘but to talk about it to . . . him! He robbed me once. Now he’ll rob me again. You broke your promise, Candice. How could you do that? How can you live with yourself?’
‘I am not going to rob you, Jim. Would I be here if that was the case?’ said Rich Uncle Brian. ‘And don’t raise your voice to Candice.’
‘I am her father,’ yelled Dad. ‘Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do.’
The waiter approached once more, but did an about-turn and headed off to another table. The chances of getting my dim sims were shrinking by the moment.
‘Let’s talk business, then,’ said Rich Uncle Brian. ‘I know you don’t like me, Jim. That’s fine. You don’t have to like a business partner.’
‘Like I’d go into business with you, Brian!’ replied Dad. At least he’d called him Brian. Was this progress? ‘And another thing. How dare you give Candice money for a holiday? How dare you? Vicky and I felt . . . I can’t describe it. Filthy.’
RUB leaned over and lowered his voice.
‘I don’t want to talk about that, Jim. Not here. Not now. Not in front of . . .’ He nodded his head towards me.
‘Candice,’ I said, but no one paid any attention.
‘Good. Don’t talk about it. That’s great, because I don’t want to hear. Leave, Brian.’
Rich Uncle Brian stroked his moustache. He glanced at me. For a moment I thought he might jingle some coins, but he didn’t.
‘You stubborn mule, Jim,’ he said. ‘Okay. Listen.
The trip to New Orleans was never going to be funded by Candice’s trust fund. As if I would do that.’
‘So who was going to pay?’
‘I was.’
‘I take it back,’ said Dad. ‘I don’t feel filthy. I feel violated. I will die before I accept charity from you, Brian.’
‘Not charity,’ said RUB. ‘Business, Jim. Just business. There is a social network convention in New Orleans in October. All the big players will be there. I want you to go. As a representative of my company.’
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Here’s what I’m offering,’ replied Rich Uncle Brian. ‘Unlimited use of my company resources to develop your program. As much time as you need. A team of programmers. Come on, Jim. How long is it going to take you to write this by yourself? Someone else will get in first, even if you register a patent. You know how quickly the world of computing changes. It will eat you up and spit you out. You need me, Jim. And you know it.’
Dad’s eyes narrowed and I got the impression Rich Uncle Brian’s words had struck a nerve. I sat back. Wherever this conversation was going, I would be a witness only. I just wish I had a dim sim to nibble on.
‘And, what?’ said Dad. ‘I hand over all rights to you? Forget it. I’ll go to one of your rivals.’
‘You retain full copyright. You get ninety percent of profits, I get ten. You become a director of the firm. On a salary. The lawyers can thrash out the details later. That’s the bare bones of the offer and you’re welcome to check whether my rivals can match it. But they can’t. Come on, Jim. Think about it, man. This is business.’
Dad thought. He also spoke. So did Rich Uncle Brian.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t do much thinking either. I wanted dim sims.
Dad and Rich Uncle Brian didn’t become friends over the next half hour, but when it was all over they shook hands.
We went to the car park and Rich Uncle Brian tousled my hair before driving off in his four-wheel drive. We climbed into Dad’s white ute.
‘Don’t think I’ve forgiven you, Candice,’ said Dad. ‘Not yet.’
‘I haven’t forgiven you either, Dad,’ I replied. ‘You promised me lunch.’
I hummed for a couple of kilometres.
‘So does this mean we are going to New Orleans after all?’ I said.
Dad pulled at an earlobe.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Probably,’ he added.
I smiled. Some things are better even than dim sims. Not many, mind you.
Late that night I heard Mum’s bedroom door open. I listened as she moved into the kitchen and then there was a scrape as the back door opened. There’s no mistaking the sound. The wood has warped and doesn’t fit the frame. I hopped out of bed and padded along the corridor. The back door was ajar. I put on my slip-on shoes and went into the garden. Mum was sitting on a concrete wall bordering a flower bed. Her head was turned to the night sky.
I sat beside her. She glanced at me and smiled, then returned her gaze to the blackness above. I looked as well. The night was nailed on with hard, bright stars.
‘Where is she, Candice?’ asked Mum.
Dad had shown me where to look. I pointed.
‘She’s there, Mum,’ I said. ‘Sky is there.’
Z
IS FOR ZERO-HOUR
Dad had offered to take me to Douglas’s house on Sunday, but circumstances prevented it. For one thing, he’d bought himself a new remote-controlled plane and wanted to test it. For another, he had arranged a meeting with Rich Uncle Brian. They were going sailing to finalise the details of their business plan. Over buckets of vomit, probably. So I took my bicycle with three wheels. It was a beautiful day with scarcely a cloud in the sky. I didn’t fall off once.
I fell off twice.
I hadn’t used the bike since I’d stopped visiting the ravine following Douglas’s promise he wouldn’t kill himself. You need to practise things like that. Bike riding, I mean. Not killing yourself.
The facsimile parents were pleased to see me. I wondered if they were also thrilled about me becoming their daughter-in-law, though I wasn’t sure Douglas had told them yet. Maybe that was going to be raised over lunch.
Which was great, incidentally. It was things you could pick at – biscuits, cheese, dips, crusty bread and fresh fruit. Strawberries. I love the way they explode sweetly in your mouth when you crunch down. After lunch, facsimile father Joe put an arm around Douglas Benson From Another Dimension’s shoulder.
‘Let’s leave the women to clear up, son,’ he said. ‘I need help cutting firewood.’ I worried about women cleaning while men played with axes [I am a modern girl], but wasn’t in a position to object. Douglas seemed even less impressed. I suspected he would have preferred pondering problems of quantum physics or experimenting with harp melodies to wielding axes. He scowled. He scratched the knobbly bits on his head. But he went.
This left me alone with facsimile mother, Penelope. I felt stressed. It’s not often you wash dishes in total silence [unless it’s with a family member. So actually, it is often]. True, I’d met her before, but even so. And it’s impossible to write notes when your hands are covered in washing-up suds. I’ve tried. The ink runs.
‘I want to thank you, Candice, for what you’ve done for Douglas,’ said facsimile Penelope when the final plate was dried. I didn’t know what to say so I just nodded. We sat at the kitchen table. She placed her chin into a cupped hand and examin
ed its wood grain. The table, not the hand.
‘Things have not been easy since his accident,’ she continued.
Possibly I raised an eyebrow [it’s not out of the question I raised two] because she continued. ‘He hit his head about a year ago. Jumping out of a tree, of all things. At first we thought it was concussion. That’s what the doctors said. But concussion passes. This didn’t. He wasn’t the same boy at all. Quite a personality change, really.’ She scratched a fingernail over a wet patch on the table. ‘Before, he was . . . well, a typical thirteen-year-old. Since the accident, he’s been more . . . gentle.’ She laughed. ‘It must have knocked some sense into him as well, because his school grades have improved enormously.’
‘Fancy,’ I said. I had to say something.
‘Yes,’ said facsimile Penelope. ‘The doctors told us a blow to the head can sometimes produce personality changes. Sometimes it’s permanent. Sometimes the old character resurfaces after a time. Anyway, now he seems to have these delusions . . .’
I didn’t know what to say. Humming was antisocial under the circumstances, so I kept quiet.
‘Anyway, he had friends before the accident, but since . . . there’s been no one. Until you. And that’s why I want to thank you, Candice. For being a friend to my son.’
I was relieved. I hadn’t looked forward to discussing tiered cakes, trousseaus and reception venues.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said.
And she was.
Douglas and I had a great afternoon. We walked to the ravine. I even plucked up the courage to dangle my ankles over the edge, though I kept one arm wrapped around a tree so tightly it cut off my circulation.
‘This is it, Candice,’ said Douglas, gazing over the river far below. ‘The day I return. I know it. I can feel it.’
‘The maths work, then?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how good it will be to get back.’
‘You can,’ I said.
‘No. I mean, it’s difficult to find the words. My world is great, Candice. It looks much like this, but in many ways it is very different. Mum and Dad will have missed me. I can’t wait to explain to Mum what I’ve discovered about gravity and string theory. She is going to be so excited. And afterwards, I can listen to Dad play his Aeolian harp as we watch the suns go down.’
My Life As an Alphabet Page 15