The Finder

by Kate Hendrick

  I liked her. She had a dry sense of humour that suited me. She led us across the road to a strip of takeaway shops, giving a running commentary as we went.

  Talking definitely seemed to run in the family, but I found her less exhausting than Aurora—or even Elias, when he was in his extrovert mood. She was more relaxed, dryly recounting funny anecdotes about the various lunch places as we checked out the options. Pausing to actually allow other people to contribute to the discussion.

  We ended up getting Thai takeaway and carried it back to the office car park, where there were some native garden beds and a wooden picnic table.

  ‘You’re still in school, right, Lindsay?’ Yvonne asked as we got settled.

  She’d known my name from the start. I figured Elias had told her, along with the rest of his life story that he happily told anybody who would listen. But something about her question made me raise my guard a little.

  ‘Kind of,’ was the best answer I could come up with. I couldn’t see why Elias would have told her that about me, but didn’t know how else she would know. I didn’t look like I belonged in school. Unless, of course…

  ‘Your dad has a photo of you on his desk,’ she said.

  ‘Right.’

  It must have been a fairly recent photo for her to recognise me now. I had trouble picturing Dad making the effort to take a family photo into work. Maybe Mum made him do it.

  She held her hands up. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t dob, I promise. I just didn’t realise you’d already be so grown up. I think I thought you were still about twelve.’

  ‘Nope.’ I always got a bit uncomfortable with adults who knew my family. It was like I suddenly had to behave a certain way, like Mum and Dad were peering over my shoulder listening in. ‘How long have you worked with my dad?’

  She thought about it for a moment. Pulled a face. ‘I’m not going to tell you the exact number of years, because then you’ll be able to work out how old I am. Let’s just say I’ve been there a long time. I remember—well, yeah. Long enough.’

  I knew straight away what she remembered. Couldn’t really blame her for thinking of it, but it still made me a little angry. Or sad. Something.

  ‘He’s a good man, your dad,’ she said.

  I pressed my lips together.

  She saw my look. Maybe she interpreted it as standard teen disdain, I don’t know, but she kind of laughed. ‘He is,’ she repeated. ‘He’s the backbone of the place. I don’t know where we’d be without him.’

  You’d be where I am, I nearly muttered, but I held it in.

  On the one hand, it was surreal to have her describe him in that way. Part of me felt we must almost be talking about entirely different people. The Dad I know is not like that. On the other hand, I understood perfectly. He could be the backbone at work, the indispensable, reliable one, because that was the place he put first. Home came last: if he could find an excuse to work longer hours, take on more projects, he would. Anything to avoid our house, the memories it contained. And me.

  I almost asked her about the last few days, whether she’d noticed him behaving differently, but I didn’t in case she asked why. The less people who knew I’d taken off the better.

  ‘Anyway’—she tried to pick up the conversation—‘I was curious after I chatted with Elias the other day. I have wondered from time to time what Sephora’s up to. So I thought I’d come see what you guys had found out, maybe see if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  We did our best to fill her in. Elias started off, but kept jumping ahead of himself and having to go back, and getting the order of events all mixed up. I tried to keep him on track without intervening too much. Yvonne didn’t say much, but she listened. I could tell, too, that she was amused by Elias’ earnestness. Not in a hurtful way, more… affectionate.

  ‘I’m not surprised you’re having so much trouble finding her,’ she said, when Elias finally stopped. ‘She was always a bit of a loose cannon. She had the fake ID, and I was the good girl who did my homework on a Saturday night.’ A shrug. ‘I figure she’s living in some hippy commune somewhere, or she joined a circus as the girl on the flying trapeze. Nothing would surprise me, really.’

  ‘Fake ID?’ I asked, curious. ‘What did she use it for?’ My mind kicked into gear, mentally revisiting the conversation about possible criminal activity.

  Yvonne seemed to realise how it sounded. ‘Oh, nothing serious. Just buying booze, getting into clubs, that sort of thing.’ A pause, with a brief, ironic smile. ‘She actually gave it to me when she turned eighteen. We looked enough alike; she said I should hang on to it, I might find a use for it some day.’

  We talked to her for another half-hour, but nothing especially groundbreaking came up.

  ‘I really like her,’ Elias announced as we headed back to his van.

  ‘You like everybody.’

  ‘Not true. I wouldn’t have liked…I don’t know, Hitler.’

  ‘You’re an artist, so was he. Maybe you would have bonded over art.’

  ‘I don’t think our styles would have exactly meshed.’

  We reached the van and I climbed in on the passenger side. ‘I wonder if she’ll tell my dad she saw me.’ Or if she knew I’d gone AWOL, for that matter. As much as I’d liked Yvonne, her connection to Dad made me uneasy. What if she told him all about what I was up to with Elias? He’d kill me. I thought about it all, about what she’d said.

  ‘What was the point of that?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She didn’t have anything new or useful to tell us. Why make the effort to call us? Then spend nearly an hour of her time talking to us?’

  A shrug as he checked his hair in the rear-view mirror before setting off. ‘She’s interested in finding Sephora. Maybe she wants to get to know me better, too. I’m family.’ ‘You’re, like, her second cousin or something. Not a long-lost brother.’

  ‘Maybe she’s just curious, then. Why do you have a problem with her?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with her.’

  Well, that was completely untrue, because I did have a problem with her. But that was mainly because of the Dad connection. I really liked her as a person, aside from that; I just had a nagging feeling that her motivations weren’t as simple as she’d said.

  ‘So, where to?’

  I didn’t know. It was only early afternoon and I didn’t feel like going back to the house. I wasn’t ready to go home. I just wanted to find somewhere quiet where I didn’t have to do anything. Quiet, but not alone. I was getting sick of being alone.

  ‘Can we just go to a park or something?’

  ‘You know you need to go home eventually, right?’

  I wanted to contradict him, but I couldn’t. Some part inside of me knew he was right. I’d made up my mind without even realising.

  ‘Yeah, just not right now.’

  ‘That’s cool.’

  I thought about it. ‘You’ve never asked me why I left in the first place.’

  ‘I figured it was something to do with your parents… You said your dad was pissed off at you. And with your family history, some teen angst is practically mandatory.’

  I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

  ‘I think I’m a little bit offended.’ I thought about it some more. ‘You make it seem kinda…I don’t know, ordinary. Like I’m just fulfilling a cliché.’

  He ignored that. ‘What’s your biggest fear about going home?’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Clearly not. Sorry, wrong word. Why do you not want to go home?’

  ‘Because they’re probably still pissed off at me.’

  ‘Did you chuck a tanty or something?’

  I bristled. ‘No.’

  He laughed at me. ‘You’re so easy.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  We’d skirted around it but I hadn’t told him the exact details of that last night at home. I relayed it as quickly as I could. He was pulling into a
side street as I finished.

  He didn’t say anything immediately, just pulled over and killed the ignition.

  ‘Yeah, your family is pretty screwed up,’ he said finally.

  ‘You think?’

  A shrug. ‘But most are. I mean, look at my life. Seems pretty ordinary, until you factor in all the adoption stuff, and my biological mother having a secret alter ego. Maybe everyone’s life is screwed up and we just don’t know it.’ He swung his car door open. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was a smallish park in a suburban street, with the usual climbing frame, slide, swings and benches. I followed him, glancing up at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain.’

  ‘We’ll live.’ He led me across the park. There was a paved path that ran alongside a tree-lined stormwater creek. The ground sloped downhill between the path and the creek. Elias dropped onto the grass, stretching out on his back. ‘Sit.’

  I didn’t lie down like him, but I did sit. I studied my shorts and realised they were already looking grotty. They were the cleanest clothes I had. I’d only been away from home for a couple of days but the house was dusty and everything was ending up filthy.

  ‘I look like a homeless person,’ I admitted.

  ‘Yeah, you do. Though your hair’s better today.’

  ‘That shampoo was pretty good, actually.’ Mind you, anything would be an improvement over the stuff Mum buys.

  He grabbed my elbow and tugged me down towards him. It took me a second to realise why: he sniffed my hair. ‘Smells good.’

  ‘Okay, that’s a little creepy.’

  ‘You don’t handle any sort of affection well, do you?’

  ‘We’re not all touchy-feely people.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  I didn’t feel like I should even have to answer that. I glanced around, and saw a couple of raindrops had started to fall. ‘Raining. Told you.’

  He was, as always, unfazed. ‘We’re under the tree.’

  We sat for a few long moments. I didn’t really mind watching the rain. The not-talking was good, too. Then the drops started to get heavier and I drew in a deep breath. Petrichor, I thought. Raindrops hitting surfaces and releasing aerosols that carry scents. That’s why you can always smell the grass so distinctly when it rains.

  ‘I was looking at her artworks again last night,’ Elias mused. ‘You know what I realised? They’re all about identity. About home and belonging. I can really connect with that, you know? It’s like she’s trying to find where she belongs. Think about what Aurora told us about how she used to be, just doing random jobs and whatever…it’s like she had no idea who she was. But maybe she just didn’t belong in the suburbs, maybe she moved out to the country to find herself.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t got anything like that from the artworks, but I wasn’t looking for it. I’d been analysing them from a purely structural perspective, looking at the objects and scanning the details, not stopping to think about the deeper meaning behind them.

  ‘And maybe I’m reading too much into it,’ he went on, ‘but a few of them—the ones she made just after she gave me up—seem darker than the rest of her stuff, like she’s exploring this sense of isolation, or loss…’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said slowly, trying to be empathetic instead of just going with my initial instinct (sarcasm), ‘as an artist, she probably used her art to work through some of that stuff. People do that, right?’

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. Elias was an artist, but other than the eyebrow plucking I hadn’t actually seen any of his art. There had been no sign of anything in his bedroom. I had no idea if he drew or painted or what.

  ‘What art do you do?’ I asked abruptly. ‘Other than—’ I gestured to the eyebrows.

  ‘Ohmigod.’ Elias sat bolt upright. ‘I never showed you my studio? For real?’

  ‘For real.’

  He scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off.

  ‘Come on.’

  28

  His studio was upstairs in his house, two doors down from his bedroom. He flung the door open and gestured with a flourish.

  ‘Voilà.’

  Where the rest of the house—his bedroom included—had been intentionally neutral, like a show home, this room seemed so full of personality I had to brace myself. I stopped to draw a breath in the doorway before stepping in.

  It didn’t look anything like how I would have pictured an actual artist’s studio. No large canvases on the wall; no pots of paintbrushes or artistically strewn tubes of oil paint. There was a desk at one side with two large flat screens forming a double display, and what looked like a lot of expensive equipment—cameras, graphics tablets, a large colour printer—randomly piled up. There was a second table that seemed to have drawing equipment. At first glance I thought he had tacked posters and sketches all over his walls, until I realised everything was either stuck on pinboards or properly framed and resting in picture ledges that ran around the walls.

  It was an eclectic mix. The posters were prints of famous artworks—one I knew was Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, and some others that seemed like stick drawings and had Picasso’s signature in the bottom corner—but also random things, maybe collected in his travels. Close-up photos of textures and patterns. Aboriginal dot paintings and prints of Sailor Jerry tattoos. Whimsical pictures of African animals reclining on couches, next to framed Polynesian lavalavas. Then there were his drawings. Pencil, mainly. Some framed, but most of them pinned onto cork-boards. People, places and things. All done with startling realism.

  I studied them carefully, one by one. Surprisingly, none of them were of him. I didn’t recognise any of the people or the places featured. They could have been made up, I supposed, but they seemed too real, somehow.

  ‘You’re really good,’ I said, wincing at how lame I sounded.

  ‘Wait till you see this.’ He tapped the keyboard and his computer sprang to life. A couple of quick mouse-clicks and he had opened up a folder of files. Pictures. At a glance I would have said they were photos, but they had some quality to them—almost too real, too intense—that set them apart. One of a lioness mid-pounce, with piercing eyes. One of a small child with a soulful, sombre gaze.

  I didn’t know what to say. Nothing I could think of seemed adequate, and I didn’t think it was just because I was coming from a perspective of having zero artistic talent myself. And I really didn’t want to sound like a fan-girl.

  ‘Yeah, they’re all right.’ I gave a half-shrug. ‘I mean, I could totally do that too. If I tried…’ I shot him a sly glance and a quick grin.

  He laughed. ‘My ego’s not going anywhere with you around, is it?’ He patted the chair. ‘Sit down, I’ll show you some of the stuff I’m selling.’

  He was on a bunch of sites, some selling original pieces, others selling his designs printed on a range of stuff, from T-shirts to phone cases to quilt covers. It was a whole world I hadn’t even known existed.

  ‘And people buy them?’

  Perched on the edge of the desk, he shrugged loosely. ‘Yeah, I do okay.’

  I looked over the contents of the desk again. Everything seemed pretty new, pretty expensive. ‘How okay?’

  ‘Enough to fund your rampant chocolate addiction, as a start.’

  I shook my head, turning back to the screen and navigating my way through more of his designs. There were literally hundreds. Some were in photorealistic detail, others more sketch-like, others were cartoons. Then there were photos and abstract pieces and things with random bits of text…It seemed like he was happy to give pretty much anything a try.

  I stopped suddenly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  It was like an old photo that had been attacked with a kaleidoscope. Bright neons overlaid on a grainy black and white image. So far so normal. It was what was in the picture that stopped me in my tracks.

  A little girl, lost among gum trees.

  ‘Oh, that’s an appropriation. You know, Frederick McCubbin’s L
ost Child…’ He trailed off, realising too late. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  It took me a moment to realise that the buzzing I was hearing was the blood rushing in my head. Staring at the little girl, I didn’t see the old-fashioned hat and apron. I saw Frankie. I felt nauseous and numb, and some half-conscious part of me was thankful that I was already sitting down.

  Then I needed to move. I pushed the chair back from the desk and got unsteadily to my feet, fighting the almost overwhelming desire to just physically crumble.

  ‘Why the hell would you think that’s a good idea? Why would anybody?’

  He looked at my face. ‘Shit. I didn’t think.’ He looked stricken. Well, serves him right, I thought, gladly letting anger overtake me, replenish the strength that shock had stolen from me.

  I pointed a finger right in his face. ‘Fuck you, Elias.’

  I regretted it instantly. I watched as he bit down on his bottom lip, and for a brief second I wondered if he was going to get teary.

  For a long moment it was silent between us, just the sound of the two of us breathing and a few feet between us that seemed like a yawning chasm.

  Elias spoke first. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly. And he sounded nothing like the Elias I’d been working alongside. His eyes were dark and serious, meeting mine with an honesty that made me all the more ashamed of what I’d said to him.

  ‘No,’ I muttered. ‘It’s not your fault. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have…’ I trailed off, feeling like I’d stuffed everything up. Embarrassed that such a thing had set me off. ‘I should go home now.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off.’

  ‘No.’ I hated being beholden to him like that. ‘It’s not that far. I can walk.’

  ‘It’s like, ten k’s,’ he protested. ‘I can drive you, really.’

  I knew if I kept discussing it with him I’d cave sooner or later. ‘No.’ I shook my head. I just…I needed to stand my ground on something. ‘I’ll catch a bus.’ I pushed past him, out of the claustrophobic studio. ‘See you later.’

  I’d ridden between the house and Elias’ place enough times that I could work out the way. I knew there were bus stops on the way, but I didn’t want to stop long enough to work out what bus or combination of buses would get me home. I didn’t want to think. So I walked.