by Phoebe Locke
When I asked them what they’d like for breakfast, Amber made polite noises about anything being fine, though she hadn’t quite got used to Billie’s straightforward honesty: ‘Pancakes are Amber’s favourites,’ she told me immediately, although she was looking a little green around the gills herself. She’s often sickening for something, despite her outwardly healthy appearance. It is a constant source of anxiety for me.
Amber, to her credit, blushed, and tried to dissuade me from going to any trouble. I quickly put a stop to that and got on with making the batter. Billie made a swift exit to the bathroom – another bug, I was sure of it then. I was already thinking of the broths and juices I would make for her that afternoon. When Amber and I were alone, I watched her drink her tea. I remember thinking that it must have been absolutely scalding, and being pleased because that’s exactly how I like it too. I told her how nice it had been to meet her mother.
She said a funny thing then: ‘It was nice of you to invite her round. She doesn’t have many friends.’
I tried to make myself sound quietly curious; as if that wasn’t such an unusual thing: ‘Doesn’t she?’ Amber made a face, her attention on her tea. ‘She’s not like other people,’ she told me and it seemed cruel to press her.
Upstairs, the toilet flushed, the tank groaning, and I flicked a drop of batter into the pan to test the heat. It sizzled and blackened instantly.
‘This is such a lovely house,’ Amber said. I remember that very clearly, too.
I thanked her and turned down the heat, ladling the first dollop of batter in. That morning, for the very first time, it did feel like a lovely house.
14
2016
Sadie picked Amber and the car up from Leanna’s shortly after midday. Amber was quiet on the way home – tired, Sadie guessed. Her own head felt tight, the sunlight aggressive in its pursuit of them as they wound their way through the crowded avenues and back on to the main road.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ she asked, thinking of the small sense of comradery she had felt last night, on their way up those same roads. A tiny victory, but then they all counted, surely.
‘Yep.’ Amber shot a sideways glance at her. ‘Did you?’
‘Yeah, it was fun. She’s good company.’ Sadie wondered if it was OK to talk about things being fun or people being good company. She assumed she was still supposed to be in her repentant phase.
She chose not to mention how angry Miles had been when she’d arrived (stumbled) home. How he’d kept thrusting his phone in her face: You didn’t call. You didn’t call. How tears built in his eyes until one slipped out, unguarded, and he had to turn from her to swipe it away, a single, hollow cry of frustration slipping out too. Or how she’d thrown up in the middle of the night, a curdled mess of cheese and wine, her chest damp with sweat against the toilet bowl.
‘I’m going out later,’ Amber said, her thumb flying across her phone screen.
Sadie felt a twinge of dread. ‘I— well, where?’
The lie was smooth and seamless and Sadie (a consummate expert) couldn’t help but be impressed. ‘To Mica’s,’ her daughter said lazily. ‘Her parents are going out so I said I’d help her look after Milo.’ Milo. Mica’s baby brother; Sadie remembered this proudly, like a child who had studied for a test.
‘Well?’ Amber asked, impatient for conflict. ‘Can I go or what?’
‘Maybe.’ Sadie was flustered, warm-cheeked as she tried to construct the correct answer. ‘You’ll have to ask your dad.’
Amber sank back into her seat, smug (this was a small victory of its own, her mother ceding to Miles and thus admitting her own lack of authority). Her phone buzzed in her lap and she picked it up and laughed to herself before composing her reply. Sadie glanced at her, wondering, as she always did, what she was thinking, writing, what the person at the other end of the phone thought of her. Her own perception of Amber had become so skewed that other people’s were endlessly fascinating. What was she to them? Was she kind, considerate, a good friend? Or was that coolness Sadie sometimes saw in her eyes really what lay beneath? It scared her, though she knew that was wrong. She knew she should’ve tried harder with Amber when she’d first arrived, when she’d turned up and disrupted their whole life. She’d planned on – imagined – hugging her tightly, stroking her hair, telling her over and over how sorry she was about all of it. But then they had been staring at each other in the hallway and no amount of looking at Amber online could have prepared Sadie for how like her she was. And how terrifying that felt.
In the silence, she thought of Miles, too – back at home, waiting for them. He was barely speaking to her that morning and she kept switching between defiance and guilt in a way that was even more exhausting than the hangover. She had lived her own life for sixteen years now – who was he to suddenly impose curfews or demands? And then, just as suddenly, the realisation dawned again that she had been gone for sixteen years, almost; that he had managed to bring up their child all by himself and yet she could not be relied on to do such a simple thing as tell him that she would be late home. She could not do such a simple thing when everything between them was so uncertain – that feeling that they were still twenty, still about to tear each other’s clothes off, persisted, and yet every moment was loaded with the memory of her absence; with the fact she had abandoned him. With the fact that he would never understand that she had to, she had done it for them. And now she was only making things worse.
She turned the car on to the drive and Miles was there on the lawn, the mower running. He leaned over to switch it off as Sadie killed the engine, straightening up as they climbed out of the car.
‘Hey, baby girl,’ he said to Amber, holding out an arm to direct her into a hug. ‘Have a good night?’
‘Yep! Billie’s mum made us pizza. And pancakes this morning too.’
Sadie closed her door with the gentlest of clunks but they both turned to look at her. Intruder.
‘That’s nice,’ Miles said to Amber, releasing her with a gentle squeeze to the shoulder. ‘There’s frittata in the kitchen, if you’ve got any room left.’
‘Yum.’ Amber headed for the open front door, her phone unlocked and the focus of her attention once again.
Miles studied Sadie for a second, and she felt another wave of nausea rise and then subside. ‘I don’t like it when we fight,’ he said softly.
‘Me neither,’ she said, feeling something drawing back inside her, something crumbling. ‘I’m sorry.’ She was. She was always sorry.
‘I’m sorry too.’ He pulled her against his chest. His arms folded round her so naturally, so instinctively. Folding the past sixteen years away as only Miles could. ‘I want you to have friends. I overreacted. I was scared.’
Testing herself, she leaned up to kiss him but his lips were dry and cool and the smell of the cut lawn caught in her throat. Something was burning down the street and she felt fear crawl through her, Miles’s shadow stretching across the ground while her own disappeared into it.
‘You’d tell me,’ he said into her hair. ‘If you were . . . If things were . . . If they were here again?’
She tried to swallow, the burnt air snagging in her mouth. She nodded against the waffle fabric of his polo shirt.
‘Good,’ he said, a hand pressed to the back of her head, her forehead tucked under his chin. ‘It’s just the three of us now, isn’t it?’
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:04 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Thanks for the text. That all sounds good, will look at the footage now.
How’s Amber been today?
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:05 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
She’s had a bit of a funny day, actually. She had an interview for a French magazine – the journalist flew over here specially for it – and that seemed to go well. But some guy stopped her when we were out for lunch and told her she was the devil. It was a
wful.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:07 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Did you get it on film?
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:11 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
Tom was filming her at the time, yes. We were filming her on the phone to her agent.
It was horrible. You could see it bothered her even though she acted like it was no big deal.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:13 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
I think you’re being too sensitive. She must be used to it by now – the kid grew up being told she was cursed! She’s literally making a career out of it.
Seriously, don’t feel sorry for her. Think of her fee! She needs to work for it.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:17 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Look, you’re doing a brilliant job over there. Honestly, the stuff we have so far is great. I’m only pushing because I know this can be really special. And that could be huge for you. It could make you. And you deserve it!
What r u doing up so late anyway?
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:18 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
Jet lag. Plus this motel is both thin-walled and creepy.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:19 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Amorous neighbours again?
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:20 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
Not tonight. Small child crying. And I think the place has rats.
Did you see the email from A’s teacher? What do you think, worth exploring?
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:22 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Urgh re rats!!!! You’re kidding??!!!!
Yeah, I think it could be worth having an initial chat with the teacher. We’ve got that stuff from Sadie’s old teacher – what was her name? Berkley? Barclay? – which is pretty creepy. Might sit well next to that.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:24 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
OK I’ll schedule in a Skype call with her and figure out if there’s much material in it. Also, did I send you this article? [link redacted] Very interesting Tall Man case in Germany in 2010. Didn’t get much coverage here because it coincided with Dawn Brancheau being killed at SeaWorld.
Yes re rats! I can hear them running around inside the wall. It’s nothing compared to that place in Texas though, remember? Bleurgh.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:25 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Oh God, honey. That sounds awful. Next trip we go on, we’ll have a better budget, promise.
Thanks for link. You really should get some sleep. I need you to push Amber tomorrow – maybe buy her a drink with lunch, try and loosen her up that way? You could ask her how she felt about that incident today if you really think she was upset by it, might be a good jumping-off point for getting under her skin.
I’m talking to Morris right now and he’s saying they need her to say what happened that night on camera. All of it. They want us to persuade her to be filmed going back to the house. It’d be gold.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:26 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
She said pretty categorically when she signed the contract that she wouldn’t go back there.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:27 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
I know, I was there. I have faith that we can persuade her.
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:28 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Anyway, get some rest – you must be shattered. I’m sorry again that you’re having to field all of this – nightmare. And tell reception about the rats first thing!
That is totally unacceptable.
Thanks for being brilliant. I promise you this is going to be worth it x
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:30 PDT
From: Greta Mueller
To: Federica Sosa
Don’t worry. And to be honest, I don’t mind the rats so much (!), it’s the baby. Poor kid won’t stop crying, I’m starting to wonder if it’s alone in there.
Anyway, I’ll give crappy cable in bed another go. Night x
Friday, 18 May 2018, 03:31 PDT
From: Federica Sosa
To: Greta Mueller
Earplugs, hon. Never travel without them.
Call you tomorrow when I know what’s going on with flights.
15
2016
Miles sat at the table and watched Amber finish a third slice of frittata. Sadie had gone to sleep upstairs, her hangover persisting. Amber had her iPad in front of her as she ate, scrolling through news stories about celebrities he didn’t recognise on a tabloid site he despised. He taught about the dangers of such things on one of his post-graduate modules: the democratisation of celebrity, the tabloids’ pervasive linking of weight loss or gain with status and success. And yet he let his daughter gorge on it. He watched her fingers manipulate the page, zooming in on a reality star’s eye make-up; on another’s cellulite, her face impassive all the while, eyes moving back and forth across the screen.
She looked up and caught him watching. ‘What are you doing today, Daddybear?’ she asked him, as she always did.
‘I’ve got some essays to grade,’ he said, picking up both plates and taking them to the sink. ‘And then I thought I’d treat us all to a takeaway tonight – how does that sound?’
‘I can’t, sorry Dad. Said I’d help Mica with Milo.’
He turned to hide his disapproval. Mica’s mother, Marcie, went out too much, if you asked him, leaving poor Mica holding the baby. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you some money, you guys can get a takeaway there.’
‘Thanks, Dad, that’s really nice of you.’ Amber locked her iPad and then hesitated. ‘Dad . . . Mum’s OK, right?’
He dried his hands, eyes on the garden. ‘I think so, baby girl. We’ll have to keep an eye on her, won’t we?’
She lingered a second longer and then disappeared upstairs with her iPad clutched to her chest, her chair left askew. He stood in the kitchen and listened until the house was silent and he could relax. He remembered the days when Amber was small enough to sleep during the day, when he would put her down in the afternoon and then walk through the rooms of the house, wondering where to begin. Often he would call his mother, who would send round his father, and Miles would lie on his bed and watch the ceiling as John shuffled around the kitchen, tidying and hiding the detritus of the day. Waiting for those first snuffly breaths to echo through the baby monitor, the first indignant mewl. Trying to silence the tide of electric feeling that every thought of Sadie ignited. Trying not to wonder where or what or how things could have been different.
He had never stopped thinking about her. He wondered if she knew that.
He was annoyed with himself for getting angry the previous evening. Yes, it was thoughtless and irresponsible of her not to have let him know that she would be late home – Amber, the actual teenager of the family, would never have done it, would never let him worry like that – but he needed to make allowances. He needed to accept that this was still a period of change, for all of them, and that it would take some time for them to find their way. He knew that he and Sadie were meant to be together; always had – had always known that he was the only person who truly understood her. And he’d known, he had known, even when he had let the doubts crowd in, that one day she would come home. Some things were meant to be. It was his job to look after her, it had been since they met. Sadie, he understood now, was still realising this. She’d been alone for so long that it wa
s hard for her to allow the two of them in, and he needed to be patient.
A door closed gently upstairs, a small set of footsteps slipping across the floorboards above him – their room. He wondered if Amber had gone in to see Sadie and felt pleased. From somewhere far away, he could hear a baby crying. If he closed his eyes, he could almost be back there – just him alone, listening to his infant daughter cry, the pressure of knowing that he was the only one who would answer her almost unbearable.
He went up to his office and closed the door, attempting to shut the memories out. They were not helpful, he knew that. He had to forget now, forget the things they had all done. He glanced at his computer, the screensaver image he had chosen of the three of them. It was only a couple of weeks after Sadie had returned; he remembered herding the two of them together at the restaurant in town, handing the camera to a waitress. There he was in the middle, his smile wide and an arm around each of them. The waitress had caught them just as Amber had moved her head; caught her at an almost identical angle to Sadie. The similarities in their faces were striking. He wondered how hard it would have been if he had been wrong, if Sadie had never come home – if he’d had to watch their daughter grow into a mirror image of the woman who had left them both.
But she had come home. Just as he had known she would.
He moved the mouse and woke the computer, the photo dissolving. He glanced at the essay he had open, one he’d run through TurnItIn while he was making lunch. The results were in: 54 per cent plagiarised. Another student he’d have to call in on Monday. He crossed the screen away, annoyed, and opened his email to issue the summons.