Silver Tides (Silver Tides Series) (9 page)

John sat on the wine-colored suede lounge his arms resting across the top. The room was silent except for a clock ticking above the huge television, and the gentle waves lapping at the shore outside. He rose confidently, crossing the room to meet me.

“Finally alone,” John said, putting his hands on my hips and kissing me gently. “How about we move this into your room.”

“Don’t you have to go home?” I asked, taken off guard.

“Tammy said I could stay; her parents are away tonight,” he replied confidently. “I called my guardians, and they’re fine with me crashing at a mate’s place.”

“Okkkayyy,” I replied, uncertain. John’s kisses were experienced, and I began to worry that his experience extended beyond kissing; I wasn’t ready for that.

“Don’t worry, we’ll be safe; I brought something,” John reassured, digging into his bag.

My heart began to pound like a drum. I’d just had my first kiss, and I wasn’t ready to go further then some serious kissing. The mature thing to do would be to speak about it, but would that scare him away?

I grappled with what to say when John pulled a copy of
New Moon
from his backpack. “I’m backing the bloodsucker.”

I laughed. “Fine, I’ll kiss you every time she mentions him.”

The time we spent together felt like it was in fast forward, while time apart dragged like broken slow motion.

A couple of days later John became a permanent fixture at our house.

house guest

Mum invited John to dinner on Sunday night, peppering us with subtle questions to probe the extent of our blossoming romance. As dinner came to an end, John dropped his question on all of us.

“Can I stay tonight? Things are kind of hectic at my house,” John asked, sheepishly.

Mum stopped clearing the plates for a moment and eyed us suspiciously. She was happy with us dating, but she was kinda old fashioned when it came to sex before marriage. Mum was confident that I wasn’t going to become a sex fiend overnight, but John’s question worried her.

“I guess you could sleep on the couch,” Mum said tentatively, “or the guest room…”

“You can stay,” Dad declared seriously, leaning forward so that the chair squeaked. “But you sex my daughter and I will shoot you.”

"Dad!" I complained mortified, looking to Mum for support.

"What? My house, my rules," Dad responded. Mum tried to stifle her laughter as she carried the plates into the kitchen.

“Do you have a gun?” John asked concerned, glancing around the house for where a gun might be hidden. The hutch behind Dad, as well as the piano in the living room, were likely gun-stowing areas.

“I know where to get one, and I know where to shoot you to cause you the most pain,” Dad replied humorlessly, wiping his salt-and-pepper mustache with a white serviette.

“No funny business,” John promised, crossing his heart solemnly.

Dad was content with John’s oath and retreated to the couch to watch the news, while I helped John make up the bed in the guest room.

"What's going on?" I asked when we were alone.

Everything in our house looked dilapidated beside Tammy and Miranda's house. None of the bedding matched, the sheets and pillowcases all hand-me-downs from my parents’ wealthy friends. Dad was a “waste not, want not” man, so we would often inherit friends unwanted furniture. Nothing in our house matched, but it was homely and comfortable, without a hint of pretension, much like my family.

"Tom and Megan just need some time to themselves," John shrugged. I suspected there was more to the story but I was so happy to have him staying over without the pressure of sex---I wasn’t going to push him.

I kissed him impulsively.

"What was that for?" He laughed.

"I just like you." I smiled, all doughy.

"I like you too," he replied, genuinely.

John pulled me close, kissing me gently. I put my arms around his neck and pressed myself against him. My stomach filled with flutters.

“Door open!” Dad announced gruffly, swinging the door open as he made his way to the bathroom.

“Thanks, Dad,” I called after him sarcastically, a tremor in my voice.

Kissing John felt like running a marathon, it made my body shaky and my heartbeat erratically. John and I stepped away from each other despite Dad already having locked himself in the bathroom.

After I returned to my room, I heard Dad’s feet padding up and down the hall sporadically checking on us. John kept his word; there was no sneaking into each other’s rooms.

We spent most of the following day kissing and watching TV. Dad offered John to stay the night again if he wanted. Our adherence to Dad’s rules had earned us some extra credit. John’s silence about his foster parents and his eagerness to stay away from them made me suspicious. While I loved having him so close, I wanted to know what was going on.

"Why don't you want to go home?" I pushed, after my parents had gone to bed the second night. We were sitting on the couch, the television glare turning the room an unearthly blue. I turned my body to look at John, willing him to tell me the truth.

"Everything is fine." He shrugged, but his tone and body language suggested otherwise.

"My parents are far from perfect, but they are always honest with each other," I told him seriously. "I value that. I promise to always tell you the truth." I squeezed his cold hand in mine.

"I promise too," he agreed reluctantly, tracing the lines of our intertwined hands with his forefinger.

John sighed, anxiously looking up at the ceiling. "Megan and Tom don't need space; I do. My biological parents want me back."

reunion

"That's great!" I enthused. Hitting the mute button on the television.

He gave me a look to convey the opposite, as he burrowed into our overstuffed couch. He took the remote turning on the volume and channel surfing, as though the conversation had concluded.

"Did you remember them?" I asked, excited that John had discovered his identity.

"They didn't come and see me." He exhaled heavily, keeping his eyes on the television. "They sent a rat-faced doctor for a paternity test."

"Well, that's thorough," I mumbled, wondering what kind of parents would ignore their son and then send for a paternity test without seeing him.

"I don't want you to put a positive spin on it," He said looking at me. I wriggled down beside him ingratiatingly till he pulled me closer, so that my head was on his shoulder and his arms were around me. "I just want them to go away. I have a life here; I have you. I don't want all that to change."

"It doesn't have to," I assured, instinctively clinging to him, "but they're still your parents; the paternity test was positive, right?"

"Yes," he agreed, his chin bobbing against my hair gently.

"So meet them," I encouraged. "They're probably crazy worried."

"Come with me," he begged, turning my face to look into his eyes.

I nodded. John put his hand on my cheek and drew my lips to his. We held each other till it was much too late, and Mum did a shuffle-by-warning. I struggled to sleep as I imagined what kind of parents would leave their son for months unclaimed.

The next morning John drove along The Esplanade watching the crystal autumn day unfold. Corio Bay glittered with golden sunlight.

In the distance ominous clouds gathered, samples of what winter had to offer. John parked outside the Four Points by Sheraton hotel that overlooked picturesque Corio Bay. I'd been past it hundreds of times without ever imagining a need to enter its auspicious doors. The pristine cement edifice felt like a warning to the financially bereft, "Go no further."

I stopped in front of the glass doors, regretting the decision to wear jeans and a hoodie. I envisioned security guards dragging me from the building for being dressed like a drifter.

"We don't have to go in," John said relieved, as he turned to lead me away from the hotel.

"Yes we do," I insisted, pulling him inside. "I just wish you'd told me which hotel it was. I wouldn't have dressed like such a vagabond."

"You look beautiful." He smiled, kissing me.

We meandered into the lobby, and stopped at the reception desk. The high ceilings and marble floor felt like I’d stepped into a palace.

"Would you like a room?" asked the prim receptionist behind the big marble desk. "The honeymoon suit?"

"We're not married," I clarified.

She beamed at John hopefully. "Not yet," he replied, making the receptionist’s face fall. I ignored the suggestion of marriage, knowing that we were both way too young.

"We're here to visit someone in room 109," John informed.

"The Point Henry Suite," she intoned with reverence. Her face filled with renewed longing, as she gave us directions to the room.

We rode the elevator to the top floor, which seemed abandoned and quiet in an unearthly way. I’d expected a fancy hotel to have red carpets and gold trim, but the carpets were boring blue with a regal diamond pattern. Everything about the hotel was understated elegance; I began to think that the more money people had, the less they flaunted it. Though I really had no point of comparison, so I focused on the task at hand. John stood at the door, a mixture of anxiety and frustration. I held his cold hand till it warmed through.

"I guess the quicker I do this, the quicker I can leave, right?" he said, licking his dry lips and knocking firmly.

A middle-aged woman answered the door with the same golden curls and tan skin as her son. Her turquoise eyes filled with tears as she fiercely hugged him. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Here I am," was John's lackluster reply.

"Stop crowding him," a polished male voice instructed. A handsome grey-haired man, presumably John's father, approached us from the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the bay.

"You know he can't remember us," he chided his wife.

"You," John responded, pointing to his father, "not really, but Mum, you're like déjà vu, but I can't place the details."

"I told you he'd remember," she cried, letting the tears create rivers in her foundation.

John’s father laughed; the sound was deep and resonant, like a duke laughing at a ball. I liked him despite his pomp.

"I guess that'll teach me for working so much," he said, fondly patting John on the back.

"Thank you for bringing him back to us, Mya," his mum said, grabbing me in a hug.

"You're welcome," I replied, awkwardly.

"How rude of us," she said, wiping her eyes. "I'm Sophia, and this is George Esso; we read all about you in the newspapers."

"As in Esso oil?" I asked, my mouth dropping open.

"You've heard of it?" George asked, surprised. "I thought you youngsters spent all your time with your iPods and vulgar music."

"My mum and I picketed the opening of the offshore rig five years ago," I replied, before my brain sifted my words. “We got arrested for good measure; I was twelve.”

"I should have listened." George laughed, unfazed by my admission. "It was a terrible business decision; it's inhabited by two crewman and countless seals now. I lose more gambling in a weekend than I make in a week on that thing."

"I read it makes over fifty-two million a year," I thought out loud again.

"It covers his weekly gambling sessions," Sophia said, glibly.

"I win occasionally." George laughed.

"You gamble away a million a week?" John gasped before I did.

"Boys with quarter million dollar jackets shouldn't act shocked." George laughed at his own quip.

"You own a jacket that cost so much?" I asked, taken aback.

John shrugged. "If he says so."

"We brought some photos," Sophia told us, dragging John to the royal blue lounge, beside which the coffee table was piled with memorabilia. Sophia treated me like I was automatically part of the family, but I still felt awkward. Sophia sat on one side of Daniel, while I sat on the other. George sunk into an armchair across from us, looking ready for a nap rather than reminiscing.

“We’re sorry about sending Dr. Conneely,” Sophia said, embarrassed, “but after you disappeared there were a few hoaxes and we had to be sure it was you this time.” The toll of losing their son for so long was evident on Sophia’s face; she was reveling in every ounce of John.

John nodded, looking a little more relaxed with the information. He was the kind of guy who did best when he knew all the details.

"So, let's start with something simple," John ventured. "What’s my name again?"

Sophia and George laughed. I wondered when they'd been in the same room together. They seemed separated by a sea of grief that only John bridged.

"George Daniel Esso the third," George offered regally, leaning forward in his comfy chair.

"Daniel to those who knew you," Sophia added.

"Daniel, cute,” I approved, giving him a playful poke in the ribs. I rolled the name around my mind; it suited him.

“If you say so,” Daniel laughed.

“This was your last birthday party.” Sophia described a photo of Daniel with a chocolate-haired beauty hanging on his arm. He looked younger, less muscular, but had the same golden blond hairstyle and an unfamiliar conceited look on his face.

“How old am I?” Daniel asked.

“You’ll be nineteen on September 9th,” Sophia said, looking concerned.

“So I’ve finished school?” he asked.

“You would have finished this year.” She swallowed hard. “You repeated a year.”

“So this was my eighteenth birthday party?” Daniel asked unconvinced, indicating to the photo.

“No, your sixteenth,” Sophia breathed, tucking the photo away. Sophia’s tension was palpable, like a spring stretched to breaking point ready to coil. “Let’s look at another one.”

“Why are you acting so weird?” Daniel demanded. There was a sense that the Essos were hiding something; even I could feel it, but Daniel’s tone made my back stiffen.

“You were very sick,” George began.

“It’s too soon.” Sophia glared at George. “We can tell him later. We just got him back.”

They were having a Mexican staring stand off.

“I’d rather know now,” Daniel agreed with George.

Sophia looked pale despite her tan as George started again. “Not long after your sixteenth birthday you became very sick. We consulted all the leading physicians; there was one who had seen your condition before, Dr. Conneely. There was nothing we could do; you were dying. We knew we were going to lose you, so we decided to do one last thing as a family. You loved the yacht, so we went sailing."

"The fresh air and sun were doing you good," Sophia continued, her eyes misty with the memory. "Then you were gone. You fell overboard. The coast guards searched and searched for you, but you were lost."

"I washed up here, and I'm fine," Daniel said, processing the story slowly, "and it took you over two months to find me? You mustn't have been searching that hard."

Sophia and George looked at each other meaningfully.

"What?" Daniel asked. The hairs on my arms rose. Daniel squeezed my hand so tight it was turning white. "What?!"

"That was twenty-seven months ago," Sophia whispered.

The air sucked out of the room. Daniel put his head between his knees, taking long, even breaths to avoid hyperventilating. I rubbed his back, feeling the cold of his body seeping through his clothes. My thoughts raced like salmon teaming up a river, I couldn’t focus on a single thought, so I applied myself to comforting Daniel.

"Where have I been?" Daniel asked no one in particular.

"That's the million-dollar question," George replied quietly, rising from the armchair and moving to sit beside me. He leaned over me to weakly pat Daniel’s knee.

"It doesn't matter." Sophia glossed over the subject, with forced cheer. "One thing at a time; we have you back. We can take you home, and things can return to normal."

"This is my home," Daniel said resolutely. "I'm not leaving."

Both George and Sophia tensed at the declaration. I wished I could tell Daniel to be more diplomatic in how he approached his parents, but I was a bystander and he had to navigate his family relations on his own.

"Our home, family, and friends are all in Sydney," Sophia said quietly, trying to reason with Daniel. “Being there may help you remember what happened; in the very least it will help with reclaiming your past.”

"Not to mention work is there," George added, as though he were taking about another family member.

"I'm not leaving," Daniel said, staring out the window. "I need to be near the sea."

Sophia began to cry, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, or was it something in Daniel’s declaration? "We'll stay here with you, as long as you're here," she said, wrapping her arms around him.

I moved out of the way so George could hug his son. I perched on the edge of the sturdy coffee table, avoiding the photos.

"I'll call the real estate agent today," George assured.

It was moving to see them together, but there was something unnerving about the scene. I was endlessly grateful for Daniel staying with me, but I was equally confused about his parents’ willingness to uproot their lives for Daniel's sake. Maybe money made it easier to uproot a family and grow elsewhere. Perhaps it was the joy of finding a son they'd lost for over two years. Whatever their reasons for moving, it made me uneasy. Foreboding began to hang over me like a cloud; something didn’t feel right.