by Lucy Atkins
‘Susannah? Finn?’
I rub my head. It’s like moving through liquid. I remember pregnancy tiredness. With Finn I’d fall asleep at eight every night. But I never slept like this during the day. Then again, I have to factor in jet lag. And stress. It all adds up.
I walk towards the kitchen again, hugging myself. She should have woken me. It occurs to me that they could be in her bedroom – in there with the door shut, playing a hiding game; that might be where the noise came from earlier. They might spring out ‘Boo!’ when I come in. I spin round to go towards the corridor, but then I pause on the rug: something is wrong in here. I scan the room, afraid, suddenly, of what I might be about to see. The quilt is where I left it, folded on the sofa arm. The art books and magazines on the coffee table are still in piles. The fireplace has been cleaned out since last night. The abstract painting glows, rich greens and blues, above it.
And then out of the corner of my eye, I see the thing that is wrong. There are splatters of deep red coming out from behind the sofa. I put my fingers to my lips and take in a sharp breath.
But it is not blood. I walk round the sofa, blinking. I am looking at chunks of deep red glass. I stare at the wreckage. It looks as if a fist has crashed down on the Chihuly orb. Curls and shards litter the floor behind the sofa, and smaller fragments have sprayed over the boards, like droplets of blood. Shit. Shit. I step backwards. Something stings my heel, a wasp sting. I bend and peer at it, then dig a sliver of glass from my bare foot. A bubble of blood follows it. I dab at it with my fingertips, but several more tiny drops plop onto the floor. The sharp pain follows.
I stare at the scattered red shards and then I think of Finn, reaching up to tilt it from its plinth. Shit. I press my heel down, and wince, but I need to wake up. I press it down again. I blink.
But this doesn’t make sense. How could this possibly have happened while I was sleeping? There must have been a humongous shattering noise as the bowl hit the floor. I couldn’t have slept through that. No way. I stare at the glass. The puncture in my heel throbs. I shake my head, just once. My mouth is very dry still. I press the sleeve of Doug’s jumper onto my heel, pressing the little bulge of blood. Something is happening here, but I have no idea what.
*
Her bedroom is off this corridor, opposite the hall cupboard. I knock. Nothing. I knock again. I run a hand over my hair. I am probably going to have to pay for the Chihuly. I have a feeling that they cost thousands. I could be paying for that Chihuly for years.
I imagine him yanking it down with both hands. She must have been angry. Would she get angry with Finn? Would she have shouted at him? She can’t have or – surely – I’d have woken. Was he hurt? I think of him, surrounded by sharp pieces of red glass. I’d definitely have woken up if he’d cried in the same room. Where the hell are they?
I can’t think about Finn crying without me, or Susannah being angry with him. I push these thoughts to the back of my mind.
‘Susannah? Finn?’
The wood floor is cold under my bare feet. I touch the handle with my fingertips, and listen. Rain drums on the roof. There are gusts of wind against the side of the house, and the crash of the ocean on rocks far away. I’m very thirsty still, despite all the water. The walls of the house shift and creak like a ship’s hull. I turn the handle.
Tall windows along one wall let in a grey light. They must overlook the ocean, but of course nothing is visible through the rain. There are long white curtains, half open. The linen duvet, in a knot, has insects embroidered on it. There are books everywhere, piled by the bed, stacked on shelves, and of course ceramics, too, placed between books, or fixed to the wall. Above the bed is an oil painting of a woman, a seated nude, seen from behind. I look for the light. Above the switch there’s a plate with a woman’s angular face peering out from it, three-dimensional. I look closely, but it is not my mother’s face.
My feet sink into the rug as I step into the centre of the room. It is bitterly cold in here – so cold that I can see my own breath, as I move across the floor. There’s a South American wall hanging above a chest of drawers with a stack of colourful African-looking bangles in a woven basket. There are perfume bottles and a tree stand with silver necklaces looped over it. Clothes spill from a laundry basket. A pair of plain black knickers lies by the bed.
OK. So. They must be at the studio then. They are waiting for the rain to ease off before they come back to wake me up. I should not be in here.
There’s a closed-up writing desk next to a door which I assume leads to a bathroom. It is one of those old-fashioned bureaus where you open it up to make the writing surface. There are framed photos along the top. I glance behind me.
Then I go across the room. I push the bathroom open – there are Moroccan blue mosaic tiles all across the walls and floor and a deep bath. The sink is a mess of combs and clasps and toothpaste oozing out of its tube, a toothbrush face down on the stained enamel, a ball of grey hair on the shelf where silver rings are scattered.
I glance at myself in the mirror. I look sunken-eyed and white and a bit puffy. I splash some more water on my face and dry it with a stained white towel.
Then I peek in the cabinet: a hairbrush with curling grey tendrils in its bristles, a pair of silver hoop earrings, Band-Aids, Advil, insect repellent and three or four more bottles of pills. I pick one up. The label says ‘Seroquel’. I have never heard of this or of the names on any of the other bottles.
Perhaps Susannah is sick. She looks healthy, but what if she is living with something awful, like cancer? A serious illness would explain her reaction to the memories I’ve forced her to confront. I’ve seen this before in people I have interviewed. Their life-threatening illness forces them to face painful memories that they have never come to terms with, and sometimes it’s as if they’re experiencing the emotions all over again. It is yet another cruel side effect of ill health.
But illness, of course, wouldn’t explain Susannah’s invention of travels with my mother, or her creation of my mother’s ceramic face, ageing through the years. But maybe she was telling the truth when she said that Maggie was mixed up. Maybe there are no Elenas.
I shut the door, hugging Doug’s jumper around me. One of the photos on the bureau is of the man I assume was her partner. I recognize him from the photo in the kitchen. He’s unshaven and rugged, looking at the camera with weary, lined eyes. Then there are shots of her son as a baby, as a long-haired toddler. I need Finn. They have to be down at the studio. In a moment, I’ll go down there and get him.
There is a gold trophy from a soccer tournament six years ago and a photo, in a silver frame, of a good-looking teen in a baseball shirt with a skateboard tucked under his arm. Next to it is an unframed snap of a whale, breaching out at sea – a bit blurry and far off.
They must be sheltering at the studio until the rain eases off. I have to stop panicking. There is still plenty of time for the six o’clock ferry.
The desk has a key in it. I turn it and open out the lid.
The first thing I see is a pot of pens and a glass paperweight with a wildflower trapped inside, but then I begin to take in the rest.
I am looking at a gallery of framed photos. And every single one is of my mother.
In one she’s at a desk – maybe this desk – holding a pen. Her hair is long, hanging in waves over her shoulders, centre-parted; her expression is surprised, but pleased, as if the photographer has caught her in a good mood. There’s a black-and-white shot of her on a boat, looking lean and fit in cut-offs, beaming and holding the mast, leaning out from it, making a triangular shape with her hair streaming over one shoulder.
In a third, a close-up of her face in colour, she looks sideways at the camera as if her name has just been called and she’s about to turn her head. This one takes my breath away. She looks so young, but it is so like her too – there is disapproval in the eye, a look of masked irritation.
Tucked into this frame is a smaller picture of a toddler i
n a lifejacket, standing on a boat, with his chubby legs planted inside red wellies.
For a moment, I’m confused. I rub my face. It’s Finn.
But no – of course it’s not. This child’s hair is different, darker, and this photo is obviously old – it is slightly blurry, and the colours have that saturated seventies feel. Perhaps Susannah has a nephew? He really does look like Finn – probably because he’s a similar age, with the same chubby knees and wellies. But there is something deeply familiar about the little heart-shaped face. I feel as if I know it – intimately.
In the next photo my mother is holding a baby. With a start, I realize it must be me. There I am. Me. She is smiling, her face rounder, bright, her dimples deep, eyes very green. She looks happy. My face is almost covered by a little bonnet and I am looking up at her.
My eyes fill with tears as I stare down at the photo.
When I asked Susannah if she had photos of me as a baby, she must have forgotten about this one. This is the earliest picture I have ever seen of myself. It is the only one I’ve ever seen of my mother holding me as a new baby. And I want it so badly. Maybe she’ll give it to me. Maybe I could just take it.
The last photo is black-and-white again, and it’s my mother with a very youthful Susannah – just their faces, laughing. They are girlish and beautiful. My mother is looking at the camera and Susannah is looking at my mother. And there it is, written across Susannah’s face: a huge and unmistakable passion.
I stare at the two of them. So, my question is answered: Susannah is unmistakably in love. She was – maybe still is – completely in love with my mother.
This explains why she has acted so oddly, withholding things, getting furious and upset. She can’t talk about the past because when my mother left her for my father she never got over it. She held onto her longing – her passion – for forty years.
I gaze at the other photos inside the desk. I am looking at a shrine.
Poor Susannah. It is so sad to nurse an unrequited love, like this, for your whole life.
Then something else catches my eye – an ancient-looking book is tucked behind the photos – browning at the edges and all curled up. It looks as if it’s been dropped in a bath. I peel it open and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. It is my mother’s handwriting, the same girlish cursive I know from the notebook. Pages of it. Pages and pages. And it isn’t scientific notes.
This book is in far worse condition than the scientific notebook. Many pages are welded together, others have disintegrated entirely; on some the writing is blurred and washed to illegibility. But it’s unmistakably hers.
And, standing barefoot in Susannah’s bedroom, with my heart pulsing, blood swishing in my ears, and the longing for Finn tight in my belly, I begin to read my mother’s words.
Asking S to come was an epic – epic – mistake.
I guess I lost it tonight. We were eating dinner downstairs – some watery stew thing – quite late, both so tired. She pushed and pushed at me, telling me I’m being exploited, saying the balance is all wrong and asking dumb things about payment and finances. Finally I lost it – I guess I let out all the pent-up frustration at her. I yelled something like ‘That’s enough! If you can’t accept my choices then I don’t know how we can carry on being friends.’ She put her fists on the table and said, real mean and nasty, ‘Thing is, your choices, Elle, are just so shitty and misguided.’ So that’s when I blew – I got up and screamed, ‘From the moment I told you I was leaving California you’ve been jealous. Admit it! You’re just fucking jealous, Susannah. It’s pathetic!’
What happened next was kind of unsettling. I saw this rage coming up from inside her – she literally seemed to swell and grow. She got up slowly, her face went very white; her eyes kind of bulged out of her skull. She stood very still for a moment, then leaned across the table and pushed her face right over at me. This big vein was pulsing down her forehead and her jaw was clamped shut. I think I put up my hands because I suddenly had the feeling she was going to lean over and bite a chunk out of my face. There was something vicious and off-kilter about the way she was looking at me. But she didn’t move. After a moment, she pulled back, slowly, turned around and walked out. I heard the front door slam.
I ran straight upstairs – I don’t know why because rationally I knew she’d gone out front – but I just had to go check. All fine. I sat on the floor by the cot. I was shaking and I felt quite sick. It’s taken me a half-hour to calm down – and I still feel unwell. In fact, I realize I have felt off-colour more or less the whole time we’ve been up here. Stress? So much is at stake.
I think what I just saw was all the violence of her childhood balled up into a fist and pointed at me. I kind of always knew it was there – that’s why I tiptoed around her for so long. But I’m glad I’ve seen it now. She gets this monotone when she tells me horrible things about her family, like ‘none of that can bother me any more – I’ve dealt with it’. But of course she can’t possibly have – you don’t grow up in a house like that and come out intact. At least, with my parents I didn’t actually see anything – though I heard it, I think. Maybe. I don’t remember much. I realized the other day that I can hardly remember Momma at all – just snatches: a dress with pink flowers, and that necklace with the piece of amber in it, like candy. I guess Father got rid of all her things because there was nothing there at all when he died. When I think about it, I don’t remember much before my eighth birthday; I shut off all the memories – which I guess was for the best.
But sometimes I think I don’t know what’s going on in Susannah’s head at all. And the truth is she doesn’t know who I am, really, either – we’re just two people who were roommates for a while, and told each other stuff. I should never have asked her to come here. But then, I couldn’t have managed this on my own. And she wanted to come. She almost wasn’t going to take no for an answer anyways.
I have to calm down. I’ll go drink some water.
I should probably have distanced myself from her when I got the chance – but when I think about it, she didn’t let me do that either – writing intense letters, sending gifts, moving up to Victoria, inviting herself to stay.
Drank water. Took a bath. Fixed with Ana to have another picnic lunch for tomorrow. Calmer now. Ana is a very calming presence. Still tired and a little queasy, but not so riled up. I feel bad for her now. I’ve no idea where she’s gone – it’s raining out there, and dark. Must be in the bar.
I have to be more tolerant. She’s been through so much. I need to focus on the good things about her. She can be great company – funny, crazy, thoughtful, thought-provoking. Here’s what I realized in the bath: she’s like Gray. I can’t expect her to really understand why I need to do this. I can’t possibly tell her about the sense of duty that I have. Somewhere out there Bella has a mother and every time I see a female of the right sort of age, I wonder. I do feel it – like a duty. I have a duty to find Bella’s mother, and I will, one day. But if you tell someone you feel a sense of obligation towards a killer whale they’re going to look at you like you’re a crazy person. It’s more than that, though. I couldn’t tell S about the first day on the boat last summer when I looked into the whale’s eye and felt the connection – it was like an electric shock to the heart. You can’t explain these things without sounding like you should be institutionalized. But J gets it, and so do the others, because they feel it too. We’re a tribe of believers – fanatics to the outside world. S doesn’t get this because she feels no connection to the whales. She thinks this is about grant proposals and funding.
Ana told us this morning that in the old days the floathouses up here belonged to loggers. They’d tow a whole community – houses and shops, even schools – wherever the next logging claim was. Now there are still loggers, but also fishermen, and draft dodgers, hippies, and anyone escaping or running or looking for an alternative life. So surely I can find a place here too. Shit – footsteps on stairs. She’s coming back!
&n
bsp; The next few pages are stuck together. I am breathing too fast and my limbs feel shaky. My mouth is very dry. This is incredible. Proof. Though I don’t know what of. I flick to the early part of the diary. It seems to be all about chasing orcas – there are several pages about a ‘matriline’ and exhaustive descriptions of pods – the J pod, K pod, and L pod – and the individual whales, each with its own letter, number and name. My mother loves initials. Researchers – I assume they are researchers – are D and K and C and J. Sometimes MB. She seems obsessed with a ‘catalogue’.
I read a short section where she is talking about ‘the guys’ and ‘the boys’ and I think she’s referring to more researchers, but then I realize the ‘guys’ are whales. They are three brothers and they have distinct personalities – or she thinks they do – the little one is shy, then there’s the joker middle brother and the more aggressive eldest, who occasionally swims right at the boat then ducks under at the last minute. There’s a baby, too – and she’s obviously entranced with him. The way she writes, it’s as if they are people – not friends, but people in whom she has a focused, obsessive interest. Like an anthropologist inserting herself among a kindly and fascinating tribe. Then she describes something obviously whale-like – ‘pec-slapping’ or ‘breaching’ or ‘spyhopping’ – and they’re animals again.
I flick forwards, but a whole bunch of pages are clumped and stuck and I know if I try to pry them apart they’ll tear. I can read fragments of sentences here and there and they mostly seem to be about acoustics: ‘that … burst pulse again – the creaking, wooden sound’ or ‘… and she gave a whistle: “Here I am” … heard them echolocating… ’