The Missing One (38 page)

Maybe they could find a conventional house in one of the larger logging communities further north. At least she'd be close to the orcas. But she could not imagine washing diapers while the others followed up sightings and collected data. Going back to California – or even Seattle – was out
of the question. Her life was here – up there – out there – skimming across this distinctly un-baby-friendly ocean.

Maybe she could find help, but even if that were possible, they didn't have the money to pay anyone. She thought, for a desperate moment, about Susannah. It wasn't clear why Susannah had taken the job in Victoria – it was a whole pay grade down and she said herself that the art department was poor.

Susannah knew about babies; she had raised her own twin brothers. Elena remembered her saying that when the twins started school they believed that she was their mother; they'd forgotten there had ever been anyone else. She was sixteen years old at the time. Elena had the feeling that if she asked Susannah to quit the art department and move onto the boat to help with the baby, she might actually say yes. But of course that was completely out of the question. They'd kill each other on a cramped boat.

She'd been a poor friend. Susannah was dedicated to keeping in touch, but Elena hadn't even written to thank her for the care packages – hand-knitted socks and chocolate bars and Babygros. The journey from the university was long, uncomfortable and lonely, but Susannah had done it twice already, for short, tense visits.

No. Susannah could never be the answer.

But if she couldn't come up with an answer then the research would fall apart. The grant proposal was in, and someone Dean knew at the Canadian Department of Fisheries had indicated that it was likely to succeed. Three years' funding for a study into the acoustic and behavioural
correlations of killer whales. She had to be out, gathering data.

Lately, she had missed the orcas so intensely that her stomach actually ached with longing when she thought about them. It was already clear to her that the vocal repertoire of killer whales in the wild was rich and complex – there were the echolocation clicks for foraging and to locate one another, and a whole range of pulsed sounds that could travel for miles through the ocean. She'd already identified a particular whistle – she heard it again and again – that seemed to say ‘I'm over here.' But there were so many other sounds to identify and decipher. It was possible that some of the vocalizations were unconnected to any behaviours – and this was where the real story lay.

It was wrong to think of the sounds as ‘words' – but it was possible that there were vocalizations to convey emotions or social bonds – or maybe something alien to human experience. And how did these whales learn language? Did they learn it from their mothers? If so – at what age did they start to ‘speak'? There were just so many unanswered questions. No – she could not possibly stop this now.

She slid a finger into the tiny mouth on her breast, and readjusted the suck so that it didn't pinch her nipple. She was so tired – it wasn't just sleep deprivation or the relentless feeding, it was her inability to stop gnawing away at their impossible future. One arm was going dead. She shifted her body, stuck another pillow beneath her elbow and settled back again.

She needed to be further north where the whales gathered
in the summertime in great numbers and where it was remote and quiet – far away from shipping sounds. But was it even possible to raise a child safely in such a remote part of the world? She'd seen a few children clambering up rocks or splashing in tide pools as they passed along the coastline and through the islands much further north. There were communities up there, made up of floating houses, with smoke trailing from their chimneys. Some even had little yards with flowers or vegetable patches.

She thought about the floating houses; they were real family homes, not narrow, stinky borrowed boats that leaked and belched oil and smoke. Though small, they had proper rooms and were part of real – if microscopic – communities. She suddenly remembered one of the orca guys saying, once, that a few of the islands further north shared a school boat. It went around picking up children each morning, then depositing them back at the end of the day.

If she could find a small community, like that, somewhere without noise pollution, with plenty of orcas, where there were other families and access to a school – then maybe there was a future that could work for everyone.

She sank back against the wood panels. The floathouse was the germ of a plan. She had to have faith that this would grow into something feasible. She closed her eyes and as her baby suckled on, Elena fell asleep. She slept deeply, propped up by pillows, in the narrow cabin bed, but her arms stayed tight around her baby because, even as she slept, a part of her was always alert now. And she would never let go.

Back at the house, I offer to help her put away the groceries. She stopped at a general store on the way home, but instructed me to stay in the car with Finn. She came out after only a few minutes, carrying two paper bags of food, which she threw into the trunk. We drove back in silence. It was clear that she did not want to talk, though I wasn't sure whether she was cross or just tired of company. Now she is at the kitchen sink, scrubbing at her hands, with her back to me.

It's only just ten o'clock. This is what happens when you get up at dawn. Like everything else in this place, the day feels extravagantly oversized. I peer into the paper bags. There is a surprising amount of canned food and also a packet of Animal Crackers that she must have picked out for Finn, even though we're about to go.

‘Leave that,' she says. ‘I'll do it later.' I jump, looking up at her, feeling like a guilty child, but she will not meet my eye.

There is another bag on the floor by the cooker and I turn
to see Finn staggering under a glass jar of pickles the size of his torso. I swoop over and seize it from him before he drops it on the tiles.

‘You two go sit.' She stands, bare feet apart. Her gaze is fixed on something just to the side of my head. It is disconcerting. I notice a packet of Cheerios in the open bag. She doesn't seem like a Cheerios person – more the homemade granola type. She is smiling now, slightly oddly, still not looking quite at me.

‘I bought English breakfast tea,' she says. ‘I'm going to make some for us both.'

‘Would you like me to make it?'

‘No,' she snaps. ‘Just sit down with the child. I'll get him some milk.'

I wonder if she saw the pregnancy test box in my bag. Maybe that's what this is about. I have the feeling that she knows. But the last thing I want to do is tell her. She might think that her crazy aura thing was right.

I take Finn to the round table. There is a magazine open on the table top –
Ceramic Review
. I pull him onto my knee and we look at pictures of pots – one is in the shape of a frog.

‘Dat.' He glances up at me, pointing at it.

‘Frog.' I make a ‘
ribbit
' noise.

He belly-laughs. ‘Again!'

Susannah comes over with tea. It's proper strong tea with milk. I thank her and hand Finn the sippy cup she has filled with warm milk.

‘No.' He pushes it away. ‘Nuther cup.'

‘But this is a nice cup. This is your cup.'

His brows lower. ‘No. Nuther cup.'

I think about arguing, but I know this look, so I get up, putting him on the seat, and find the new duck cup in my bag. I then pour the milk from one to the other while he watches, eagerly jiggling his legs. Susannah is leaning her back on the range, her cup of tea in both hands.

‘Phthalates,' she says, abruptly.

‘I'm sorry. What?'

‘In the plastic.'

‘You mean the cup?'

She nods. ‘Toxins. Carcinogens, in fact.'

I look at Finn, sucking on the duck's beak. He is sitting on the dining chair, pigeon-toed, his legs barely reaching the end of the seat.

‘You should at least wash it with warm soapy water first,' she says. ‘But personally, I wouldn't put a plastic cup like that anywhere near a child's mouth.' Then she looks at me – this time right at me – and there is that smile again. ‘But you're trying your best, huh?'

I want to throw the tea at her, but instead, I close my eyes and sip it. It tastes sweet.

‘Did you put sugar in it?' I try to sound as if the sweetness is a lovely surprise. I don't want to seem ungrateful or fussy.

‘Dash of maple syrup.' She smiles again, showing white teeth. ‘A Canadian touch. Good for cold weather and fighting the damp.'

I'm not keen on the sweet taste, but it does feel fortifying. And I suppose I need all the fortification I can get. This pregnancy changes everything, again. It's like being on
the switch-back ride at the fair, flying in one direction, then jerking round to head the other way.

‘You look kind of out of it, Kali.' She sips her tea. ‘Drink up. It isn't good to get chilled up here.' I wonder what has changed, why she keeps smiling now, with glassy eyes. Maybe it's because I'm leaving. She probably feels guilty for accusing me of being a crappy mother. She's trying to be pleasant and make amends. She must be so relieved that we're leaving.

‘OK. So, I should probably have a shower and pack.' I push back my chair.

‘Go ahead.' She smiles again, and the skin round her mouth ripples like water. I lift Finn down from his chair and hold his hand, then pick up my half-drunk tea, wondering if I can pour it down the sink without offending her.

‘No, no. He'll stay with me.' She sounds so definite, as if she gets to decide where Finn goes, not me. She holds out one large hand for his. Her silver thumb ring glints.

My grip tightens around Finn's small hand. ‘No, it's OK,' I say, evenly. ‘He can come with me.'

She gives a weird, low chuckle, then shrugs, and turns back to the groceries.

*

Back in the bedroom, I open the case and find Finn's bag of cars. As I hand it to him, I realize that my mother made the bag. It is blue gingham, with an ‘F' embroidered on it and an appliquéd red truck. She made it when he was just born and brought it to us in the hospital with a little blue sweater inside and I remember being so surprised: I never knew that
she could do handicrafts. Finn seizes the bag from my hands. ‘Cars!' He tips them onto the rug. ‘Cars! Cars! Cars!' Doug was right. Whatever it was that made my mother so distant – and so unable to engage with Finn – it wasn't lack of interest.

‘Look at all those cars,' I say. ‘Just look at those cars.'

He squats, grinning, and picks up an ambulance. I perch on the edge of the bed and put my hands low down on my belly, across the undone top button.

False positives happen. But every cell in my body is singing – just a tiny song, but persistent – and when I listen I know the tune. I need to phone Doug and tell him.

It occurs to me that maybe this situation with Doug is all about instinct and trust – like the whirling smoke starlings sucking into the West Pier, if you allow yourself to doubt, then you crash. But it's so hard to separate instinct from fear. Doug lying or having an affair doesn't feel right – it goes against the grain. But – like cows in the city or a killer whale that isn't a killer – maybe it is true anyway. Doug is a good man, but good men hurt people too.

And it is all so feasible. It makes perfect sense that she should track him down again, after all these years; that, pushing forty, childless in a sea of procreating friends, she should do what many lonely people would – remember her first love and want another chance. It must have been flattering for him at first. Who wouldn't be flattered by the attention of such a beautiful and intelligent woman? And I certainly can't blame her for wanting Doug.

I go and switch on the shower. ‘Finn, do you want to come in the shower with me?'

‘No.'

‘You can play with your cars in the shower.'

‘NO.'

He makes car noises, chugging one up the side of the bed. ‘I'll be right in here, then, OK?'

I peel off my clothes, and, leaving the door open, I step in. For a moment, I let the hot water take over. I feel as if I've been chilled for days and days now. I shut my eyes and my head spins gently; I feel the heat spread under my skin, down into the parts of me that have not been warm since it all happened. After a while, I open my eyes and – for the first time in ages – I look down at my body.

I can see now that my breasts have swollen; my nipples are darker; they seem to have melted and spread. And a faint brownish line has appeared, like a child's crayon mark, linking my navel with the top of my pubic hair. My belly is definitely rounder than before. My body must have been signalling up at me, frantically, for weeks.

I need to work out the dates, but I can't remember my last period and my brain feels very slow, as if it has changed pace and is edging towards sleep. I force myself to think back about six or eight weeks – before Christmas. Doug was away for a bit in Madrid. I saw friends in London – there was a dinner in Hammersmith – the night on Sarah's sofa bed when Finn didn't sleep at all. Was I already pregnant that weekend?

I look at the fragile blue veins beneath the skin on my breasts. These are new too. They look like intricate blue pencil lines. I touch them and my hands seem to be moving
too slowly, almost floating. I try to I count forwards: a summer baby? Just for a second, I allow myself to go there: I feel tiny plump fingers curled around mine, a baby's weight in my arms; the fresh, sweet smell of a newborn's head, the pinch and suck of a small, hungry mouth.

I close my eyes – the water seems to be falling so slowly and peacefully on my head. I rest both arms against the wall and then I remember a conversation Doug and I had in the Cricketers Arms the night he got back from Madrid. His mother had come, and for the first time in months, we actually went out. He said we should try for another baby and I agreed, even though I thought there was no chance. Who were we kidding? I was almost thirty-nine and last time it took four years. We held hands over the table and agreed to try harder to connect with each other. We said we needed to make more time for each other, and talk more.