Swimming at Night: A Novel (9 page)

The second question Mia had circled was more complicated. Even as a child she had sensed how different she and Katie were. Teachers praised Katie’s positive work ethic and her popularity amongst classmates, but complained about Mia’s disruptive behavior and the lack of care applied to her studies. Katie became the benchmark against which Mia was measured, never the other way around.

The comparisons other people made, however, were nothing against those Mia and Katie drew between themselves. Mia had sometimes wondered if their differences were more pronounced since, oddly, their birthdays fell on the same day—June 11—but with three years between them. The year Mia turned twelve and Katie fifteen, Mia asked to celebrate with a beach barbeque, and Katie, who was nearing the end of senior school, wanted a party. Their mother offered a solution: they would have a party at the beach.

Katie invited a dozen school friends; the boys headed straight for the water and the girls basked in the early-evening sun. Mia left to explore the next bay along with Finn, who was the only person she’d thought to invite. They spent their time digging for lugworms or chasing each other, swinging thick ropes of seaweed above their heads. They rejoined the party only when they could smell the burgers cooking, and then took their loaded plates to the rocks where they sat together eating and throwing the occasional scraps to the cocky gulls that gathered nearby.

Mia watched Katie moving seamlessly from friend to friend, checking that they had enough food, that their drinks were full, and that they were enjoying themselves. She noticed how the girls brightened as soon as Katie joined them, and the boys’ gazes would linger on her. One of the party, a diminutive girl who’d earlier been caught unawares by a wave that soaked the bottoms of her jeans, sat alone, deflated after the incident, her paper plate sagging on her knees. Noticing her, Katie slipped apart from the group she was with and sat beside the girl. She touched the damp line of the girl’s jeans, and then whispered something that made her laugh hard enough to forget the cool denim at her shins. When Katie stood and reached out her hand, the girl took it and then followed Katie as they moved to rejoin the larger crowd.

Mia was impressed. At fifteen, when most teenagers were awkward and temperamental, Katie had an intuitive ability to put people at their ease. From her vantage point on the rocks, she saw Katie join their mother beside the barbeque as she heaped the last of the blackened sausages onto a spare plate. As they stood close, their blonde heads leaning towards one another, their gazes leveled at the sea, it suddenly struck Mia how similar her mother and sister were. It was more than their physical likeness, it was a likeness etched into their personalities. They shared a gregarious manner and a gift for understanding people, both able to read gestures and expressions in a way that was entirely alien to Mia.

The realization of their similarities unsettled Mia, but it wasn’t until years later, when her mother’s cancer was moving into its final stages, that she understood precisely why. Mia was visiting home and had swung into the drive—three hours late according to the schedule Katie had e-mailed her. A headache thumped at her temples and alcohol fumes emanated from her pores.

When she let herself in, Katie was coming down the stairs holding a leather weekend bag at her side. “Mum’s sleeping.”

“Right.”

Katie reached the bottom step and stopped. Up close, Mia could see her eyelids were pink and swollen. “You’re three hours late,” Katie said.

Mia shrugged.

“An apology would be nice.”

“For what?”

Katie’s eyes widened. “You’ve delayed me by
three hours
. I had plans.”

“I’m sure your boyfriend will understand,” Mia said with an arched eyebrow.

“Don’t make this about us, Mia. It’s about Mum.” Katie lowered her voice. “She’s dying. I don’t want you to look back and regret anything.”

“What, like the way I regret having you as a sister?” It was a childish, dirty remark, which Mia didn’t feel proud of.

As Katie moved past her, she said to Mia, “I have no idea who you are.”

In that comment she had hit upon the very thing that had always troubled Mia: if she didn’t take after her mother the way Katie did, then it could only lead Mia in one direction—Mick. And since all she knew of him was that he had abandoned his family, the second question she had circled in her journal was:
“Who am I?
”

Glancing up, she saw that the shadows of palm trees had clawed their way across the beach. She stood, dusting the sand from the backs of her thighs, knowing it was time to answer those questions.

As she moved along the beach, her gaze was caught again by
the lone surfer paddling for a wave. He rode the liquid mountain as gracefully as a dancer, arching his body and turning his hips to catch the right motion. Mia watched him, rapt, and still didn’t move off as he paddled back in to shore, letting a small ridge of white water carry him almost to the beach. Then he slipped from his board and stood, hooking it beneath his arm as he waded in.

The man, who looked to be just a few years older than her, had a closely shaven head and a dark tattoo that stretched across the underside of his forearm. He squeezed a thumb and forefinger against the corners of his eyes, flicking away the salt water and blinking. He set his board down, removed his ankle leash, and then turned back to the ocean where a final blaze of red sky fringed the horizon. He stood with his arms loosely folded over his chest, his chin raised. The posture was stoic, resolute, yet somehow contemplative, too. Mia was intrigued by the way he watched intensely as if he were in communion with the ocean.

Minutes passed and the red sky faded to a warm orange glow, and still he did not move. Mia knew she should go, but, as she stepped forwards, the man turned sharply.

He looked directly at her and his expression was one of affront, as if she had intruded on a moment intended for him alone. There was no hint of his mouth softening into a smile, or his eyebrows rising in acknowledgement. Thick lashes shadowed dark eyes and the intensity of his gaze bore into her. His eyes held her fixed and she felt heat rising in her cheeks. For a moment, she thought he was about to say something, but then he dipped his head and turned back to the horizon.

She moved on, leaving the beach in his watch. She followed a narrow footpath, which eventually brought her out in front of a row of beachfront properties. Sprinkler systems kept trimmed lawns fresh and green, and large cars with tinted windows were parked
on tarmac driveways. Mick’s house, number eleven, was two stories with a terra-cotta roof, stonewashed walls, and blue shutters framing the windows. Bright tropical plants grew in curved flower beds that bordered the path to the front door, and she caught the sweet smell of frangipani in the air.

She hovered awkwardly at the edge of the driveway. Her heart was beginning to pound and she shoved her hands in her pockets to stop the trembling of her fingers. For every minute she waited, her anxiety doubled. The visit wasn’t simply an exercise in curiosity; it was far more crucial to her than that. Mia had always felt like an outsider in her family, and had taken a strange comfort in the idea that somewhere in the world was her father, a man she was
just like.
She had come to Maui to hold up a mirror to him, wondering if she would see herself in its reflection.

She drew in a long, steady breath, and then placed one foot in front of the other. When she reached the front door she steeled herself and pressed the bell.

(California/Maui, April)

K
atie glanced up at the floodlit sign for San Francisco International. A rush of passengers with luggage trolleys wove around her, and a busy procession of taxis, minibuses, and coaches ducked in and out of drop-off bays. A car horn hooted twice. Headlights were flashed. A door slammed. Then overhead, the roar of a plane taking off filled the sky.

She slipped her phone from her pocket, dialed, and walked into the airport.

Ed answered. She could hear a tap running in the background and imagined him standing in a towel, smoothing shaving foam over his face.

“It’s me.” She hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days and the weakness in her voice startled her. She cleared her throat. “I’m at the airport.”

“Where?”

“San Francisco.” She hesitated. “I’m flying home.”

She heard him turn off the tap. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”

When she had set out on this journey, she knew Ed had questioned the wisdom of her decision. It was one thing for Mia to travel to far-flung corners of the world, but Katie was cut from a different cloth and he’d doubted she’d be able to cope so soon after losing her sister. “I can’t do this,” she admitted.

“Katie–”

“I really wanted to. I can’t bear to think that . . . ” She broke off as tears slipped onto her cheeks.

“It’s okay, darling.”

She swiped at the tears with the back of her hand. It wasn’t okay. She had only been in America for twelve days. Leaving England she’d felt certain that retracing Mia’s route would bring her closer to understanding what happened, yet the farther she traveled, the more distance she felt from Mia. She hadn’t danced till dawn in San Francisco’s downtown, or swum in her underwear in the Pacific; she hadn’t the energy to hike into Yosemite to look down from the tops of waterfalls, or gaze up at age-old redwoods; neither did she have the courage to stay in the colorful hostels Mia and Finn had visited, or put up a tent beneath a sky of stars. She could no more travel like her sister than she could understand her.

Instead, she had found herself drifting from hotel to hotel, ordering fast food or room service to avoid eating out, and watching films long into the night simply to put off sleeping. She spent her days driving along empty coast roads, then parking up and sitting on the hood of the car with a blanket around her shoulders, listening to foam-crested waves smashing against rock.

Memories of Mia lined Katie’s days. Some she invited in to provide comfort, as if she wouldn’t feel the cold space of Mia’s absence if she could wrap herself in enough of them. Other
memories arrived unannounced, carried on the smell of the breeze, or freed by a song playing on the radio, or emanating from a stranger’s gesture.

Ed, gently and without reproach, said, “It was too soon.”

He was right—had been right all along.

“Have you bought your ticket yet?” he asked.

“No.”

“I want you to put yourself on the next flight home. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take care of it. I just want you back here, safely.”

“Thank you.”

“God, I’ve missed you. Why don’t I arrange to take some time off? We can lock down in my apartment for a few days. I’ll cook for you. We’ll watch old DVDs. We can go for long walks—it’s feeling more like spring now.”

“Is it?” she said distractedly.

“Your friends will be pleased. Everyone’s been worrying about you. My inbox has never been so full! Once you’re home, you will start to feel better. I promise.”

Returning to England, to his apartment, to his arms, was what she needed. She should be in a place where her friends were only a Tube stop away, where she could find a supermarket without the need of a map, where she knew the movie and gym schedules so that every free hour could be filled. This new world that she had stepped into was too big, too remote from what she knew.

“Call me as soon as you’ve booked. I’ll pick you up.” He paused. “Katie, I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too,” she said, but even as she ended the call, an uneasy disappointment settled in her chest.

She hoisted on Mia’s backpack, familiar now with the technique of throwing it over her shoulders, and found the line for the ticket
desk. It snaked around a maze of barriers and she joined behind a family whose toddler lay asleep on top of a stack of black cases on their trolley.

The line shuffled forwards and Katie moved with them. When it paused, she unzipped the side pocket of the backpack and pulled Mia’s journal free. She trailed a finger over its scuffed corners and down the bent and worn spine. The cream leaves had thickened and browned from the spilled beer and she thumbed through the wrinkled pages.

Finding the journal had been a gift so precious that Katie had wanted to treasure every word of it. She had been reading an entry a day, but now that she was leaving Mia’s path there was no reason not to read on. She turned to the page she’d left off at—Mia and Finn driving through the furnace of Death Valley—and began to read.

She learned about the man-made beauty of the Hoover Dam and a little roadside stall that sold the best beef tacos Mia had ever tried. She read that Mia and Finn shared a warm beer as they watched a turkey vulture circle above the Grand Canyon. She discovered that they’d hiked in Joshua Tree National Park, scaling huge red boulders to secure the best views.

Mia, you seemed so happy: what changed? You were experiencing all these incredible things with Finn, yet ended up in Bali alone. Why were you on that cliff top in the dead of night? Were you thinking about what I’d said? Did you do it, Mia? Did you jump? God, Mia, what happened to you?

Her gaze burnt into the journal as she snapped through page after page. It was like cracking open Mia’s chest, pulling back the bones and flesh, and looking straight into her heart. Everything Mia had felt or experienced was laid bare. Katie ignored the weight of the backpack pressing down on her shoulders and rushed through
sentence after sentence, swallowing entries whole in her impatience to understand. Then she came across a name in the journal so astonishing that she placed a hand to her mouth to contain her gasp.

Mick.

Mia wrote that she planned to visit their father, whom neither of them had seen in more than twenty years. Mick’s name was weighted so heavily with disappointment for their mother that Mia and Katie had never felt any desire to contact him. Until now. She flicked on, hoping Mia’s idea of visiting had been concocted on a whim.

But more details followed. Mia had stuck a scrap of lined paper in the center of a double page with what must be his address written on it. Surrounding it was a splattering of words, facts, musings. She noticed that two questions had been circled in black pen:
“Who is Mick?”
and
“Who am I?”
The questions pricked at her thoughts and a memory burst into her mind.