The Missing One (11 page)

‘What about a treat?' I suggest. I know it's desperate. He pauses mid-sob, and looks at me with big, tear-filled eyes. ‘A lovely treat! What about chocolate?' He hiccups. I wipe the snot from his face with my sleeve. ‘Chocolate would be nice, wouldn't it, love?' He gives a weak nod. ‘That's right. Chocolate will cheer us up.' This, I realize, is exactly what the baby books tell you not to do.

I take him to the counter, and buy the smallest chocolate bar I can find, which, this being North America, is not very small at all. I rip off the wrapper and hand a chunk to him. He hiccups again, then stuffs it into his mouth with both hands, palms flat against his face. I glance at the woman behind the counter.

She is still staring, judgementally. She probably heard me shout at him in the loos. I want to explain to her that I am not quite as bad as I look; that I make him eat fruit and vegetables; that I breastfed him for eight months, through three excruciating bouts of mastitis – that he is the love of my life, this little boy. But instead I buy a horrible hazelnut-flavoured coffee and stand by the newspapers while Finn covers me, and himself, with melting Hershey's.

I want to go back out with him into the freezing rain
and gun the engine and get away from this place, too, but I know I can't. I have to wait until my limbs stop shaking before I get back into the car and drive my child along a fast-moving freeway in this weather.

Rain dribbles down the windows. The woman's peroxide hair glows in the striplight. I can feel her hostility swelling across the counter packed with sweets and gum, filling the air between us.

I clear my throat, and ask her how far it is to the turn-off I need.

‘'Bout thirty kilometres north.'

‘North?'

I have overshot the Ida May Assisted Living Facility by twenty miles.

Then, abruptly, I feel tears welling. I turn away and take Finn back into the bathroom. I am going to have to claw back some sense of control. I can't fall apart like this. Finn stands by my leg, slightly wobbly on his feet, mouthing the last of the chocolate, while I lean both hands on the basin. For a moment I feel as if I've unplugged myself from life and am swinging at its borders, completely lost. This would be OK if I didn't have Finn. I have to get control. I can't lose it.

I stare down at my hands on the filthy basin. I splash water on my face. The enamel is stained and the plughole is clogged with a bird's nest of dark hair. I look up at myself. The silver hoops glint in the harsh light. On the wall above the mirror someone has scratched:
Smile! Today could be your last day!

She let herself into the condo and put her bags down. There was a smell of sizzling butter; someone was moving around in the kitchen. She should go say hello. She could see the archway to the kitchen, just across the living room. She'd met the guys, but not the third roommate, Susannah. Maybe she could just slip into her room, without being noticed.

‘Hello?' A summons.

She forced herself to walk across the living room.

The kitchen was a mass of greenery, with plants cascading from tall shelves. The woman standing at the cooker was barefoot, in faded jeans. She was tall, but not willowy. Blonde hair rippled down her back. She turned her head, and the first impression was of extraordinary pale-blue eyes with pinpoint pupils.

‘Hey.' There was a studied lack of interest in the flat tone, but it didn't quite go with the intensity of the eyes.

‘Hi – I'm Elena. I'm your new roommate – I'm just moving the last of my things in.'

‘Uh-huh?' The woman looked at her for a moment, then turned back to her eggs.

It didn't matter. Elena had no desire to be part of some pseudo family – she didn't want new friends or roommates. All she wanted to do was finish her research. Having to move off campus was bad enough at this point – she'd been fine there, with her routines all worked out and the recordings and notes piled high around the tiny space, a complex system that worked. Now she'd been forced to unpick all that, and everything was in boxes. It would take for ever to sort it back into a system. That alone had set her back weeks. Being here was bad enough without some prickly blonde roommate to contend with.

The move had made her realize just how set in her routines she had become over the past few years – since meeting Graham, really. The time they spent together had settled into an orderly and manageable pattern and she really didn't need anyone else. Graham planned breaks in their work schedules where they'd eat together, or see a movie. They sometimes crammed into a single bed for a night – his or hers – but not always. They didn't crowd each other. Theirs was a gently sustaining relationship: they were rooted and shaped differently, but had become quietly linked and harmonious, two plants sharing an ecosystem. The dolphin research took up the rest of her time and energy.

‘So, I probably won't be here much,' she said, quite loudly, to the back of Susannah's head. ‘I'm mainly just going to sleep here, my research is – I'm trying to finish—'

‘You're a marine biologist, right?'

‘Yeah, that's right.' She was surprised that Susannah should know this. ‘What about you?'

‘Oh.' Susannah turned, and this time she smiled. She was striking, with high cheekbones, long hair middle-parted and those unnatural eyes. Under her white cheesecloth tunic she was braless. Elena could see the shadows of her nipples. She shifted her gaze to the plants behind Susannah. ‘Well, I guess I'm at the other end of the spectrum,' Susannah was saying. ‘I'm on a teaching sabbatical in the art department. Ceramics.' She turned away and reached behind a ficus to get two plates. She divided scrambled eggs onto both, then put a hunk of sourdough on each. Elena glanced around, in case there was someone else in the kitchen whom she hadn't noticed.

‘Here.' Susannah held a plate out, across the breakfast bar. ‘You look half starved.'

Elena hesitated and then perched on a stool. Susannah poured two coffees from the espresso pot on the stove, sat down opposite and, without speaking, began to eat. She ate with her head down, putting food rapidly into her mouth, chewing fast, and washing mouthfuls down with coffee. She ate like someone from a big family, Elena thought, someone near the bottom of the food chain. Every time she leaned forwards for another mouthful, the Indian necklaces around her neck clanked between her loose breasts. Elena bit into the sourdough. Susannah was right: she was starving.

Susannah swallowed her last mouthful, wiped around the edge of the plate with one thumb and sucked the eggy
mixture off it. There was a thick silver ring on the thumb, and a line of clay under the nail.

‘So,' she said. ‘I'm kinda with Greg – the good-looking one – you met him, I think, when you came round before? But he was quite taken with you, so he's all yours if … '

‘No, God. No.' Elena swallowed. ‘Seriously? No. I mean … I'm really not … I'm with someone already, and the last thing I want right now is—'

‘Huh?' Susannah pushed her hair back off her shoulders and then leaned forward again. ‘He wears odd socks on purpose. He thinks people notice other people's socks. He told me odd socks make a guy seem intriguing. Odd socks and Birkenstocks.'

Their eyes met and she caught something in Susannah's – a hint of wildness, or of not caring. This weird, disjointed talk felt like a challenge.

‘I had a boyfriend once,' Elena said, chewing her mouthful of sourdough, ‘who folded up wedges of paper and wore them in the heels of his shoes to make him look taller.'

There was silence for a second then Susannah lifted her chin. Her laugh was loud, quite startling – almost a howl – and it filled the small kitchen, bouncing off the wood-panelled walls, the plants, and out into the small patio, making birds flutter out of the tree, and sweep up into the sky.

*

By the time she carried her bags to her room, Elena had agreed to go swimming with Susannah, who knew the very best place, just down from the condo and round into
a deserted cove where you weren't supposed to swim. The tides were dangerous, but it was fine if you knew what you were doing.

The friendship, from the start, seemed to be out of Elena's hands.

Harry Halmstrom has obviously done well in life. The Ida May Assisted Living Facility is shiny, newly built, with limestone steps. The sign outside says: ‘Bringing Joy and Purpose to the Lives of Seniors'.

The interior is done out in shades of yellow, even down to the bouquet of roses and baby's breath on the circular table beneath the hall window. There is an artificial lemony smell. I have no idea what I am doing here.

I have Finn in the backpack and I'm glad, because I can't imagine chasing him down these corridors, crashing into zimmers and trays of cranberry juice. But I wonder what I'm going to do with him in the old man's room. I feel like a fraud. Worse than a fraud. Like an unstable loon.

The receptionist calls Harry Halmstrom's care worker, Jenny. As I stand waiting for her in the overheated vestibule, my phone rings. I pull it out. Doug. I can't just ignore him. It's unfair. He'll be worried. So I pick up.

‘Jesus Christ, Kal! What the fuck are you playing at? Where are you?'

‘I'm in Vancouver.'

‘I know you're in bloody Vancouver, but why? What are you doing there? Is Finn with you? Is Finn OK?'

‘Of course he is, Doug.'

‘OK, but for fuck's sake, love – look, I'm sorry, but – what are you thinking? You can't just leave like this. I came home yesterday so we could talk and you weren't here. This is completely bizarre behaviour. I know you're in shock but … didn't you get my texts and emails? I've been calling and calling you.'

‘I couldn't think straight.'

‘OK. You're having a crisis. I don't blame you, I really don't.' I can hear him trying to get his tone under control, trying to be sympathetic. ‘Your mother just died. This is horrible for you. You saw the message on my phone. It's – she's—'

‘Doug!' I bark. ‘Just stop!'

‘Can't you JUST—'

The receptionist is staring at me with a mixture of disapproval and wariness.

‘Doug,' I hiss. ‘I can't do this right now. I'm standing in the lobby of an old people's home.'

‘You WHAT?'

‘I am visiting a relative of my mother's.'

‘What? What relative?'

‘Listen. Finn is fine. He is fine. He is perfectly safe and happy. You don't need to worry about him. And I haven't
gone mad. I feel perfectly sane and perfectly fine, but I just need to be left alone. I can't talk to you about this right now. I just want to be left alone – please –
please
 – can you just do that?'

‘Kal – OK – look. I'm going to come. OK?'

‘Oh my God. Didn't you hear what I just said?'

‘But—'

‘Doug!' I snap. ‘The woman I'm meeting is here now – I have to go. I will call you later.' I hang up. Then I turn my phone off.

A woman in late middle age, short and plump, with a grey bob, wide slacks, sensible shoes and a floral blouse is clip-clopping towards me, beaming as if I am her long-lost daughter. The receptionist starts typing again.

‘You must be Kali?' She fusses over Finn ‘Oh – what a cutie!' She leads us down the main corridor, asking questions about my journey, where I'm staying. We pass signs to a gym and a pool and a ‘physical therapy' centre. There is no soft broccoli smell, just the pervasive scent of artificial lemons. There are no communal TVs and no old people. In fact, it all feels more like a pleasant four-star hotel than a care home.

Finn kicks his legs against the backpack. Jenny beams up at him.

‘He's just such a cutey,' she says, again. ‘How old is he?'

‘Eighteen months.'

She lifts a hand to him and I hear him giggle flirtatiously. ‘Hey cutie,' she says. She glances at me. ‘You must be excited to meet Mr Halmstrom.'

‘Well,' I say. ‘Kind of.' I can't begin to explain to her that
this was an impulse, born of distress, and that this man almost certainly has nothing to do with me; that if it wasn't so socially unacceptable, I'd be turning and running right now.

‘So, Mr Halmstrom can be a little … ' she hesitates. ‘He may not fully understand who you are. Just keep an eye on the baby, OK?'

I slow down. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Mr Halmstrom gets confused,' she says, brightly. ‘He's very elderly.'

‘I hope this isn't a bad idea,' I say. ‘I probably should have established whether we really are related or not … '

‘Oh no!' she says. ‘Honey. It's wonderful that you came. I've been here three years and he hasn't had a single visitor. Isn't that sad? You can live your whole life and end up with nobody.'

I nod.

‘But you know what?' she says. ‘Halmstrom's not a common name and you do have family out here, don't you? So I'm sure you
are
related.'

I run a hand through my cropped hair. Finn is heavy and with the parka on too, I am becoming horribly hot. A drop of sweat trickles between my breasts. Finn pats the back of my head with flat hands. A nurse passes us, pushing an empty steel trolley. She smiles and says hello, beams up at Finn. Her shoes squeak on the polished floors.

I feel as if the lining of my nose has been sprayed with ersatz fruit and flowers. A pocket of nausea gathers in my belly. Finn will be boiling in his new red suit, too, and when
he's hot, he gets grumpy. But I can't stop and take him down and start undressing him in the corridor.

Jenny stops at a door. ‘So, this unit has a lovely view of the park – there's a little patio, though, of course, at this time of year you can't sit outside … '