The Missing One
Page 14
‘You’re Elena’s daughter. You’ll stay here, of course. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? I don’t have a crib but we’ll work something out. Honestly, I wouldn’t think of letting you go back out in this, and nor should you – you have a child to think of.’
I stiffen. ‘I didn’t intend to … this was not the plan. I actually need to head back to Vancouver.’ I glance down at Finn. His eyes are half shut now.
‘Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen tonight, is it?’ She is standing above me. She lowers her voice again. ‘You look kinda peaky, Kali.’
‘Kal,’ I say, faintly. She’s obviously thought of me as Kali for almost four decades and plainly isn’t going to stop now. There is a distant thumping in my ears and the crackle of the fire, the wind, her voice all sound a bit muffled. It occurs to me that I might be about to faint.
‘We’ll talk in the morning. You need to get some rest – look, the little guy is almost asleep. No reasonable mother would even dream of taking a baby back out in this.’
She is right, of course. Then again, no sensible mother would bring their child to the edge of nowhere and bed him down in a stranger’s house. I wonder what my father would say if he knew I was planning to actually stay with Susannah Gillespie.
She lays a hand against her forehead and closes her eyes. I see her take another long slow breath. Then I realize that she wants me to go to bed. She wants me to take Finn away so she can absorb what I’ve just told her about my mother. She, too, looks distinctly pale.
As I get up, the room tilts slightly to the left. She steps across and puts a firm hand under my elbow.
‘Did you guys even eat?’ she asks.
‘No, no, we’re fine. We ate at the ferry terminal. Endlessly. All day. We were there for hours. There wasn’t much to do but eat. I’m just a bit off-balance. Very tired. I haven’t had much sleep lately. Jet lag.’
Finn is heavy against my chest and I can tell from the feel of his limbs that he is asleep. She steers me away from the sofa and guides me past the fire through a door into another corridor. She walks ahead of us. The sippy cup falls out of Finn’s hand and I stop and brace myself to kneel and pick it up without jolting him awake, but the dogs are right behind me, and I don’t want his head near them, so I decide to just leave it where it is for now.
The house, I realize, has no upstairs. The dogs’ claws click on the wood floor. Ahead, Susannah is holding a door open. She doesn’t smile. She just watches me. For a moment I feel as if I’m being led to a prison cell. Again, I feel panicky. I try to breathe. This is fine. She is an old family friend.
‘OK, so, the bed’s clean,’ she is saying. ‘But can he sleep in the bed with you?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. Of course. Thank you.’
‘All you have to do is get in and sleep, then. You’re all set.’
There is a huge, furry white rug and a low double bed along the wall under a window. ‘Bathroom.’ She points at an ensuite door. ‘There’s shampoo, soap, shower gel, toothpaste in there – let me know if there’s anything else you need, for you or … the little guy.’ I wonder if she’s forgotten Finn’s name. She stares at him for a moment, then looks away, at the blank window.
Her profile is striking – a firm chin, high cheekbones, a definite nose and that impeccable posture, as if she’s suspended by a string from the crown of her head. ‘I’ll go get your bags – you have a car outside? Is it locked?’
I nod.
‘City habits, huh?’ She holds out a hand. ‘You want to give me your car keys?’
*
I lie Finn gently on the bed and look around. There is a fern in a big pot in one corner, and a whole wall of books. A colourful Mexican blanket is folded on the end of the bed, and there are piles of pillows in pinks and reds. A Seattle Film Festival poster hangs on the wall over the bed head. There is a huge white vase, the size of Finn, next to the bookshelves. The room is civilized, normal, tasteful. I turn to say ‘thank you’, but she is gone.
As I kneel by the bed, my head spins. I ease Finn’s clothes off then pull the quilt over him. His nappy is sodden, I haven’t changed it in hours and I should clean his teeth, but if I get him up to clean his teeth and change him now he will wake up, and then God only knows when he’d sleep again. After last night, I can’t risk that.
I lie on my back next to him and close my eyes. I can hear the wind gusting against the window but no sea sounds, and for a second I feel the lurch of the ferry pulling away from the mainland to cross this wild sea.
There was just me, Finn and two other passengers on board – both heavy-set, middle-aged men who obviously knew the crew. I read The Cat in the Hat to Finn over and over until I felt too sick to continue, and then we lurched around the cabin for the rest of the trip, Finn running wildly ahead, pausing only to bash at things with both hands.
Drinking beer beneath the neon lights of the passenger deck, the men didn’t talk to us, though they glanced over their shoulders from time to time. I tried not to think about what they could do, if they wanted to, out in the middle of the ocean where no one could see.
And then I’m back outside the Magnolia B & B, battering on the door, and the gruff man is shouting from a foggy porch. Doug would be appalled if he knew about any of this. I’m going to have to think more clearly from now on; plan things better. Tomorrow I will go back to Vancouver. Finn and I will visit the aquarium and the children’s museum and any other safe tourist attraction we can find. Then we will fly home. This quest for my mother is mad. I will never find her here, in this house of gusts and glass. She is gone. For ever.
Then I hear a creak. I open my eyes with a start – I didn’t realize I’d closed them. Susannah is looming in the doorway with my bag in her hand. She is motionless, half in shadow, watching me. In the gloom, her eyes are almost luminous. My heart is beating too fast.
Her bare feet are noiseless on the rug as she walks towards us. She puts the case down by the bed.
‘I really am sorry.’ I sit up. ‘To land on you like this.’
It’s colder in here than in the front room. I get off the bed – wanting to seem busy and alert – I kneel to open the bag and dig around for Finn’s pyjamas and a clean nappy, even though I know I’m not going to use them right now.
She watches me. His usual bedtime routine involves bath, three stories, at least ten rounds of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ and his musical car mobile. But he is out, shattered from the broken routines, the junk food, the novelty and upset of all this travel.
I feel Susannah move away. I root around for my sponge bag. When I look up, she is still there, watching from the door. Then I realize that she is not watching me, she is staring at Finn. She becomes aware of me looking at her, and lifts her chin.
‘He’s a beautiful child,’ she says. ‘He has perfectly symmetrical features, classically spaced, like a Botticelli Christ. He’s just so much like—’ She stops herself. Takes another breath. I wait, but she doesn’t go on. We both gaze at Finn’s sleeping face.
I am cold, and so tired, but she’s still standing there and I’m not sure what she wants. I pull the Mexican blanket off the bottom of the bed and wrap it round my shoulders. She turns and fiddles with a dial on the wall by the door. Perhaps she wants to talk about my mother.
‘It’ll warm up soon,’ she says. Her voice is hard again.
‘It’s fine. Don’t worry. Thank you so much.’ My legs are lead tubes, weighing my hips down. My head throbs, evenly.
She rests one hand on the doorframe. ‘I can’t believe she died,’ she says, in almost a whisper.
‘Nor can I.’
Our eyes meet.
‘I really didn’t mean to land on you like this,’ I say.
‘Oh Kali,’ she says. ‘I always knew you’d come one day.’
Chapter six
I wake to the distant thud of waves on rocks, and the caw of gulls somewhere high above the house. I’m sticky and hot, curled like a comma around Finn, who is
sleeping on his back, both arms flung up by his ears, cheeks pink. I want to pull him towards me and breathe in his sweet sleeping smell, but I shouldn’t wake him. I turn my head and look over my shoulder at the door. It is shut.
I’m still in my jeans and jumper, on top of the duvet like Finn, though I’ve kept the Mexican blanket over me. The curtains let in pale light, but the room feels airless. My mouth is furry. I didn’t clean my teeth or wash my face last night. I just flopped down when Susannah left, and plunged almost instantly into a dead, dreamless sleep.
I reach for my phone, but it is not on the bedside table. Then I remember that it is in my coat pocket in Susannah’s cupboard, the battery dead. There is no way to know what time it is. I kneel up and, inching forwards so that I don’t wake Finn, I pull back a corner of the blind and peer out. The glass squeaks as I wipe condensation away. The fog has lifted and there is the ocean, stretching messily beneath a washed-out sky. A few clouds drift overhead.
Immediately outside the window there is a deck, one or two black rocks and a lot of pine trees and undergrowth. A big grey squirrel dashes past, leaps on to the railings, and disappears over the edge with a flick of its tail.
I ease myself out of bed, but Finn doesn’t stir. I hover by the door but I can’t hear anything outside, no movement at all. I open it a crack. Nothing.
I shut it and peel off my clammy jeans, jumper and T-shirt – all my clothes smell stale. In the shower, the jets of hot water pummel me awake. Susannah’s shower gel is called ‘Kiss My Face’, and smells strongly of mint.
Back in the bedroom, I pull on a clean T-shirt, some new socks and underwear and my jeans. I peer at myself in the mirror. It is liberating not to have to deal with hairdryers or conditioners or de-frizzing products. But I don’t look like myself any more; I wonder what Doug will think when he sees me. Then I realize that Doug’s opinion of my hair is hardly our top priority. I should text him to let him know that Finn is safe.
My eyes still have shadows under them and they look bigger with my hair like this. I am still way too pale but at least I don’t feel unwell. That would have been awful, to get sick here. I actually feel perfectly healthy today – energized by the minty shower, and definitely hungry. Starving, in fact.
It’s obviously irresponsible to have arrived like this, but it’s done and there is no point in spending my whole time apologizing. I must stop grovelling to Susannah. She is clearly not the sort of person who’d offer up her spare room out of politeness.
I linger by the bed. Finn is still in a deep sleep. His eyelashes are dark and thick, like Doug’s, and with his dirty blond hair and pixie face, he does look angelic. If Doug were here, he’d take a picture. Doug is always taking pictures of Finn. He will be missing his boy. Whatever else is going on, Doug will be missing Finn terribly by now. And though he is too young to articulate it, I feel sure that Finn misses his Dad too.
I realize that last night, for the first time since I found Doug’s phone, I didn’t have to try not to think about him. At the very least, this trip is a good distraction. Finding the texts feels slightly unreal now. I think about Doug, trying to talk to me on the phone and then me cutting him off, over and over again. Is it possible that I have somehow misread the texts? This could be a huge mistake.
But then I remember the guilt in Doug’s voice. I know him. I know everything about his voice; everything it carries. And I heard the guilt.
I have to stop doing this. This trip is not about Doug, it’s about my mother. I’m going to find out everything I possibly can about my mother’s past. This is my one chance to know what went before – what she was like before she had me. Maybe if I understand her past better, our relationship will make more sense. It is too late to make amends, but it is not too late to understand.
*
I’m desperate for a coffee and I’m so hungry. Finn could easily sleep for another hour or two. I decide to let him – the house isn’t huge. If I prop the door open, I’ll hear him when he wakes up – he always lies for a bit when he wakes up, singing, ‘Mama, mama.’ I’ll hear him. I shove the bag between the door and the doorframe and walk in socks down the corridor and into the living room.
My feet don’t make a sound. There’s no sign of the dogs. I generally like dogs, but these two don’t connect in the way that most retrievers do. They’re not normal pets. They seem empty and glassy-eyed; watchful.
The sun is brighter in this south-facing room. I look through the enormous windows at the ocean, flexing to the horizon. For a moment I think about the life that teems beneath that surface – shoals of fish, sharks, octopi. When you imagine being under the sea, you imagine warmth – a hangover from the womb maybe – but it must be bitterly cold under there. There will be Alaskan tides and icy currents rushing off glaciers. That sea is certain death.
I shiver. It is cold in the room and my jumper is too thin. This room feels bigger and much chillier than it did last night. There is a mound of ash in the fireplace, and the sofas look paler in daylight; they are more beige than brown. The glass sculpture is less blood-like in this light, too, more orangey-red – but it is still somehow uncomfortable to look at. It reminds me of a blister that is about to burst. It is also dangerously close to Finn-level. If Finn were standing next to it, it would be at his head height and he’d be able simply to reach up and yank it down. I must keep him away from this corner of the room at all costs.
In fact, Finn loose in this room doesn’t bear thinking about. There are beautiful ceramics everywhere – on low shelves, on a sideboard, a grey bowl on the coffee table, a tall vase in one corner, about his size. I will have to watch him constantly in this house.
I gaze up at the watery abstract over the fireplace. It looks more eerie in the pale light, mysterious and vaguely threatening – an underwater scene viewed through half-shut eyes.
I head through the archway and into the kitchen. There’s coffee in a percolator next to the range cooker; open shelves stacked with pottery plates and bowls – thankfully too high for Finn; a breakfast bar with a big bowl of satsumas, and two white wooden stools. To the right of the kitchen units there is a circular pine table with four chairs, and on the table there is a glass bowl full of shiny red apples. The tiled floor is covered with a blue-and-white striped rug. There are some photos on the shelves behind the table. There is no sign of Susannah, but she must be up because of the coffee. I go across to the photos.
There is a man standing on a rock, in shorts, with a backpack. He has a beard, glasses and a slightly beleaguered expression as if someone is telling him to stand up straight, move to the right, stop scowling, smile. I pick up the photo next to this: a young boy, six or seven years old, squinting at the camera. He has a chubby, defiant little face and messy hair, and a definite look of Susannah, only softer-edged. I put the frame back, next to the man.
The next picture is a beautiful close-up of a killer whale, in a silver frame. Its vast black-and-white body heaves up out of the water and droplets fall away, like illuminated pearls. Then there is a black-and-white landscape, pine trees and sea, presumably taken around here somewhere. Behind that, unframed, is a photo of a group of women with their arms around each other. I spot Susannah in the centre, younger-looking, with a wide smile. Her hair is blonder, in a ponytail, and she’s taller than the other women, somehow the focal point even though she is not in the centre of the group.
There’s a cluster of smooth stones in a little bowl. I put the photo back, and run a finger over their surfaces, then over the driftwood sculpture of a whale that is propped up next to them. Something moves out of the corner of my eye. I look up, and squint through the French windows and then, as my eyes adjust, I see her.
She is standing outside, only a few feet away from me, leaning on the railing of the deck with her back to the view. The dogs are by her side. Her pale eyes watch me through the glass.
I raise a hand and let out a half-laugh. ‘Hello!’
After a beat, she nods, just once.
I walk quickly across to the kitchen area, listening for Finn as I pass the archway into the living room – silence. The French doors open onto the deck. The freezing wind slaps my face as I step out. The sea roars below. I gasp in a breath. The air is so cold it feels as if it’s burning into my lungs. The dogs look at me, ears pricked, but they don’t move or wag their tails. The deck is as slippery as it looks. I step gingerly towards her, hugging myself. Seagulls caw and the waves thud. She turns her head away to look at the ocean.
‘Well.’ She gestures vaguely out to sea. ‘The fog lifted for you.’
She doesn’t sound angry.
‘Wow. It’s a stunning view.’
She turns back to look at me. Her eyes are sunken, with dark shadows under them, as if she hasn’t slept at all. Then again, maybe she always looks this way in the morning.
‘Baby still asleep?’ she says.
‘Dead to the world.’
The sea is more green than grey, and is quite rough, with curls of white surf. There are a couple of pine-covered islands in the distance, and one or two boats far out. There is a huge drop below us, maybe sixty feet or more. Dark rocks glisten down there, as the waves thud and pull across them.
I glance back at the house and for a second I feel sure that I’m going to see someone standing inside, watching us. But of course there is no one else here, no one except Finn. I have to make sure – at all costs – that Finn does not get out onto this deck.
The kitchen is perfectly visible. She would have had a clear view of me, nosing around. I should say something about the photos to defuse the situation – but somehow anything I could say about them would seem even more intrusive. So I say nothing.