The Missing One

by Lucy Atkins

  Then I realize that my phone will work, of course, now we’re back in town. Hanging on tightly to Finn with one hand, I rifle around in my bag for it.

  Susannah moves about overhead. I hear the wheels of an office chair slide across a wooden floor. She may look like a Californian baby boomer, and have a kitchen full of green tea and mung beans, and fold her legs into the lotus position at dawn each day, but there is nothing Zen about Susannah. She has the soul of a ruthless executive.

  Finn tugs at my hand, leaning into the gallery. ‘Dat?’ he says. ‘Oh?’

  I walk him inside, holding his hand very tightly. The room is empty except for some ceramic fish on one shelf – mercifully above Finn’s level. I let him go and he toddles away, fast, towards the end of the room, his feet echoing on the floorboards. He is heading towards the back of the gallery and I can see out through a wall of sliding windows onto a patio garden. There are three or four round bistro tables and chairs, painted light green. I wander after him and gaze out. He presses his nose on the glass, and slaps it with both hands. ‘Dat,’ he instructs, looking up at me.

  ‘It’s locked, love. I can’t open it.’

  I can imagine the empty ceramic pots that are piled at the base of the wall bursting with summer flowers. I turn and look back up the empty room while Finn bashes the glass. There are skylights and the tall front windows let in light too. The room is broad and L-shaped, and there is a red velvet sofa along the wall at the foot of the L.

  It’s easy to imagine this space displaying beautiful art and that little garden with vines covering the trellis and flowers bursting from pots, the sliding windows open, gallery visitors coming and going, seagulls coasting across the evening sky. I imagine private views where guests spill, clutching glasses of wine, into the salty night, voices filling the air. Somewhere upstairs I hear a thud, as if a heavy book has been dropped, or a big flat foot stamped down.

  I look at my mobile. There is no signal in here. I zip up the parka. ‘Let’s go out, love. Shall we go and have a walk around?’

  I pull up Finn’s hood and put his mittens on. ‘OK. Let’s go.’ He barrels off up the room, in a stumbling run, his small legs moving comically fast, as if struggling to keep up with his toppling body.

  ‘We’re going for a walk,’ I whisk him away from the shelves, towards the front door, shouting up the stairs. ‘Back soon.’

  No reply.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Susannah?’

  The office chair slides again across a wooden floor and I think I hear her mumbling – maybe she’s on the phone.

  We step out into the mist again. Somewhere out to sea a ferry horn echoes, and in the port, down below the street, masts clatter and clank. But all the sounds feel slightly muffled – as if I’m wrapped in cling film. Droplets of rain tap the top of my head and soak my face, but they feel light, far off. Finn reaches up and takes my hand – one touch that does feel solid. He goes down the front steps sideways, holding onto me, putting both feet on the smooth surface before dropping a leg down for the next step. When he reaches the pavement I pull up his hood, and he becomes a small gnome, toddling busily next to me.

  We head across the road to a railing overlooking the port and watch the fishing boats for a few minutes, but it’s too cold and damp to stand here for long. I tug out my phone: a signal at last – just a few bars, but enough. I quickly text Alice.

  Tons to tell you. All well. Staying with that friend of Mum’s on Spring Tide Island. Found out all sorts of *amazing* things. No phone reception at house. Can u talk?

  Then I dial Doug’s mobile. It only rings twice.

  ‘Kal?’

  ‘I’m just calling to say Finn is fine, really happy. There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about? I’m glad Finn’s fine but – seriously? You have to be kidding me! Look. I want you to listen to me now and I don’t care if you’re ready or not. I’m going to talk and you have to just shut up and listen and not hang up. OK? Just listen to me without hanging up. This has gone on long enough. What you saw on my phone – it was completely one-sided. I told her to stop. There were other texts, but the reason I hid them from you is that I knew I was in the wrong to allow her to send them – she’d been sending them for a while, and I didn’t stop her. The truth is in some way I probably didn’t want her to stop – you were so focused on Finn – as you should be – and the bottom line is it felt good to be wanted by someone that badly. It was an ego-boost. I’m ashamed of myself for letting it go on but I did not reciprocate. I did not encourage her. Nothing else happened between us. OK? Can you hear me? Kal? Are you there?’

  I can’t speak. I can’t seem to let his words sink through the shell of panic I have created about our marriage. I can’t process what he is saying. You don’t just get texts like that. Is that what he’s saying? That she just sent them, unbidden? Why would she just send them? He must have done something to encourage her.

  ‘Say something!’

  ‘I can’t,’ I croak. ‘I have to … I can’t get my head around this, Doug … ’

  He must have done something. You have to do something to make someone send passionate texts. You have to kiss them at least. Or confess an attraction. Or sleep with them first.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he is saying. ‘That’s OK. I know. Just – please could you just come home now. OK? Just come home and we’ll talk about all this properly.’

  ‘I can’t talk now, I’ve got Finn, there’s a wind – it’s so cold – and I can’t … I don’t know what to think. I … We’ll be home in a few days. I’ll text you my flight details.’

  ‘Can you call me later?’

  ‘There’s no reception where I’m staying.’

  ‘Where exactly are you staying?’

  ‘I have to go.’

  I hang up.

  *

  We make our way up the main street, towards the Rock Salt Bakery. Doug’s explanation doesn’t stack up. Is he really saying he allowed an ex-girlfriend to send him love texts – but didn’t encourage it? How could that be? And even if he did do nothing, it’s still a betrayal. Nothing like the betrayal of sex, admittedly, but he turned away from us. It’s … The problem is, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what has happened any more. I know he’s not a liar. Or is he? It’s as if, when I try to think about this closely, something goes blank in my head.

  It’s possible that I’ve been ludicrous, overblown, mad. But then again, maybe I haven’t. There’s too much going on here, with Susannah and this wild island and this big ocean with killer whales, and echoes of my mother’s secrets in the hissing of its waves. I can’t think straight. I need to get away from here – away from Susannah’s creepy house and her moods and half-truths. But I want to find out what she’s hiding, too. If I run away I’ll never know.

  Finn stops every few paces to poke or investigate things. He is singing to himself, but I can’t hear the song. My ears and face hurt from the bitter wind, but for once I have remembered Finn’s hat. He is bundled up and warm. I peer at my phone again – no response from Alice – then with stiff fingers, I get into my emails.

  *

  Among some messages from friends, and work – work! – all of which I ignore, there is a new email from my father.

  From: Dad

  To: Kali

  Subject: re: Sorry

  Do NOT go and see this Gillespie woman.

  I have tried your number several times, but am unable to get through – maybe it is an old number I have for you. Do not go there. I will explain everything when you get home. I am anxious to know that you and Finn are safe. Please respond immediately.

  G

  As I walk, I type my reply.

  To: Dad

  From: Kali

  Subject: re: Sorry

  Why? I’ve just stayed two nights with Susannah – there was a prob with B & B – but everything is fine. Sorry if I worried you, Dad. I agree – she’s quite something.
But she did know an awful lot about Mum. Is that why you didn’t want me to go? I know about the whales – why was that such a secret? I know about Mum’s childhood too. These things are huge. Don’t families usually talk to each other about things like this? I know she owned a floating house. I know the two of you split up for a bit. But what else don’t I know? Vancouver later today. Finn loves the boats and wildlife up here. We really do need to talk now. love K

  I press ‘send’ with a numb finger, and put the phone away and look down at Finn. A jolt of electricity goes through me: he’s no longer next to me. I spin round.

  It’s fine. It’s OK. He’s right there – kneeling by a pile of wet leaves near a drainpipe about ten feet back – poking them with a stick. I run back down to him, glancing round to see if anyone has witnessed this shameful display of bad mothering. There is no one around. His legs are soaked and mulchy. He sticks his hands into the leaves.

  ‘Come on, love.’ I kneel next to him. ‘Goodness me. What are you up to?’

  He keeps poking, intent on finding some treasure in the muck.

  ‘Come on, Finn, that looks really dirty, love. Let’s get to the bakery! Let’s get cake!’

  ‘Dat!’ Still squatting, he points across the street to a red pick-up truck.

  ‘That’s a truck,’ I say. ‘Some kind of big truck.’ He grins up at me, his fringe pressed down by his bobble hat. I stroke it out of his eyes. ‘You really love trucks, don’t you. What colour is it?’

  He looks at it. ‘Daddy.’

  Our eyes lock. I have to grit my teeth because the tears are rising. ‘We’ll see Daddy really soon, OK? I bet you’re missing Daddy. He’s missing you too, love. He really is. You’ll see him soon, though. Come on! Let’s get a great big cake.’

  *

  An elderly man in a navy-blue fisherman’s hat is chatting at the counter to a woman about Susannah’s age. Finn and I wait, hand in hand. The bakery smells sweet and yeasty, and it’s very warm in here. I look at the inflated scones and muffins in the cabinet. Giant cupcakes. Cinnamon rolls the size of side plates. Enormous, squashy bagels. It is as if the baked goods, like the landscape, have been magnified – or we have shrunk. I pull Finn’s hat off and unzip the top of his suit.

  I probably shouldn’t be eating cakes yet again. The button of my trousers is definitely digging in. Then I remember what Susannah said about my pregnant ‘aura’.

  I take a few breaths and close my eyes for a second. And there it is – the sly queasiness that has been edging its way round my body for what seems like weeks. It is as if my blood is slightly off or my inner ear needs recalibrating.

  But this is daft. I could be bloated because my period is coming. I’m still jet-lagged. I try to think back but I can’t remember when the last period was. I recall buying tampons in Boots, maybe a few weeks ago. But did I use them? I have no idea. It seems like another life, when I’d push the buggy into town and buy tampons and nappies in Boots, underwear in Marks & Spencer. Nappies – I have to buy nappies for Finn. There is a drugstore just down from the bakery. We’ll go there next.

  The old man shuffles off, holding a baby-sized sourdough. The woman behind the counter is giraffe-like, her slender neck sprouts from a midnight-blue shirt; a curly bob, dyed a vibrant wine colour, clashes with her red glass necklace. She gives me a pleasant smile then does a comedy double-take: her eyes widen.

  I smile on, steadily, trying to pretend that she is not staring. I am sweating in the parka. I unzip it, and order an Americano to go, then I bend down to Finn and fuss with his zip. He is mesmerized by the cakes. She turns away to the coffee machine, but then spins back round. Her mouth has curled into a smile and the nostrils of her long nose have swollen.

  ‘Now I’ve got it!’

  I try to keep smiling, ‘What?’

  ‘You’re with Susannah, right?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Well, you just have to be Elena’s daughter!’ she cries. She peers over the counter at Finn. ‘And I guess this beautiful little angel must be her grandchild.’

  I can’t keep up the smile.

  ‘All the way from England! I couldn’t quite place your face at first, I think it’s the hair, but then when you spoke, with your accent, and I looked at you properly it’s unmistakably … but Susannah never mentioned a thing about your visit! Is your mother finally here?’ She looks behind me, as if my mother is about to materialize by the baguettes. ‘I cannot wait to meet her.’

  ‘No! What? No. My mother isn’t here.’

  ‘Oh. Shame. You came alone with the little one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well. Well – welcome! How long are you staying?’

  ‘Actually, we’re leaving later on today.’ I hand her a bunch of dollars. ‘But, sorry – sorry – do you know my mother?’

  ‘Oh sure – well, I mean – we’ve never met, but you sure look just like her. You couldn’t be anyone else, even with your cute short hair.’

  ‘No, wait. I’m sorry.’ I give my head a quick shake. ‘I just … How do you know what my mother looks like if you’ve never met?’

  ‘The sculptures of course. Did she show you? Oh my goodness. Get Susannah to show you her Elenas! You’ll love them. When she and your mother go to all these places she never takes photos but she comes back and makes these beautiful ceramics of your mother’s face. They go back a few years now, and it’s just beautiful. Honestly, I knew you right away just from the Elenas. So beautiful! Such a bone structure – both of you! Beauties!’

  ‘Wait a minute – Susannah and my mother travelled together?’

  Maggie nods, but her smile is fading. The sinews in her neck look very taut as if struggling to keep her head from drooping floorwards. ‘They were down in Oaxaca just last month, weren’t they? I do think it’s wonderful to have a friendship that’s lasted all these years over such a great distance. Your mother sounds like a wonderful person.’

  ‘Sorry, no. I mean, I think you’ve got that wrong. My mother never travelled anywhere with Susannah.’ I consider adding that a month ago, my mother could not have been in Oaxaca since she was in bed on a morphine drip.

  Maggie’s frown deepens. Her cheeks turn carnation-pink and one hand flies up, patting at her curls.

  ‘Never mind.’ I try to smile, again, to cover the embarrassment we’re both feeling. ‘It doesn’t matter. Those sculptures sound amazing.’

  ‘Well, yes, they’re beautiful, they really are. Get Susannah to show you them. She has them in her studio, I think, or maybe she’s storing them now at the gallery. She doesn’t like people to see them generally, Lord knows why as they’re stunning pieces, but she will show you, I’m sure. She just has to.’

  She turns and bustles with the coffee. As she hands me the cardboard cup she is still smiling, but it looks very strained. She turns away and pops two muffins in a paper bag. ‘And how about a cookie? Would this little guy like a cookie? I have oatmeal raisin. Or chocolate chip … ’ She takes one, and leans over the counter with it. He reaches up, eyes round. ‘There you go, honey,’ she says. ‘Oh no – no – keep the money.’ She waves away my dollars. ‘It’s on me. And you have to try my poppy-seed muffins, here – Susannah loves them. No, please, they’re on me too. Tell Susie I said hi.’ She hands me a bag. ‘She down at the gallery?’

  I nod, ask if she’s sure I can’t pay, thank her, and then take the bag and the coffee.

  As I close the door I glance back. Our eyes meet. She blinks rapidly. There is a look of plain confusion on her face.

  There is a drugstore opposite the bakery, but it is closed – it’s only 8.40. I peer through the window and a white-haired man leaning over the counter sees me. He comes over and unlocks the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘You’re not open yet.’

  ‘Oh sure, come on in. Always happy to open early for a pretty lady.’ He steps back, smiling gallantly.

  We go in and find the nappy section. I buy a small pack and some wipes, and let Finn ch
oose another sippy cup – he picks one with a yellow duck on it. We pass down the aisle to the checkout and I see the pregnancy tests. I should just do it. Now she’s planted the thought, I have to just do it.

  The shopkeeper is chatty, asking if I’m Australian, then telling me about his aunt in Liverpool. Then my phone pings as a text comes in. I apologize, and pull it out of my pocket while he bags the things up.

  There are six new texts. They must have come in since I got the signal – all from Doug. I can’t read them. Then one pings in from Alice. I open it.

  Call u in a mo – in mtg – Did u call Doug?

  I type a quick reply.

  Yes. Call me soon! No reception where I’m staying but am in town briefly.

  I take the bag from the shopkeeper, who looks slightly less friendly. I suppose it’s very rude to be texting in front of him.

  I’m actually not sure if we really are flying back on Saturday. I realize that I don’t quite know what day of the week it is – Monday or Tuesday, I think. But better that Doug should have a sense of security about Finn. He needs a narrative for this trip. He needs to know that I haven’t abducted our child – it doesn’t matter if the day is technically inaccurate. I’ll send him the real flight details later.

  ‘Come on, love,’ I say to Finn. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘No.’ He squats by the sweets.

  My phone pings – I glance at my emails. My father’s instant reply.

  To: Kali

  From: Dad

  Subject: re: Sorry

  Dear Kali, I am relieved that you and Finn are leaving the island. You have clearly discovered a lot about your mother and I suppose you felt you needed to do that. Please be aware, however, that Susannah will only ever give you one side of the story and I doubt she will ever tell you the truth. Being someone’s daughter does not give you the right to know absolutely everything about them. Our pasts are not public property. Your mother chose to keep some things in the past, and you should respect her wishes, especially now. I know it’s the fashion these days to rake over every little detail, but I was brought up differently. My mother said ‘least said soonest mended’ and I find that to be a helpful adage. Perhaps that’s old-fashioned, but it served your mother and me very well indeed for almost forty years. Having said this, there are now clearly many things that we must inevitably discuss. Since it would not be appropriate to do this through emails please let me know the details of your return flight.