Kitabı oku: «Not My Daughter», sayfa 2

Lorna

Liberty’s still not home and I’m starting to panic, pacing back around the kitchen.

The griddle sizzles as Nick lays large, flat mushrooms on hot oil. He watches the pan intensely, glancing between the smoking mushroom and a little black kitchen timer.

‘Great job, Nick,’ I say, trying not to sound as distracted as I feel. ‘Smells delicious. Liberty is going to love this. A plant-based feast.’

‘Yeah, it looks good, doesn’t it?’ says Nick, voice cheerful. ‘I’m going to try Darcy on one of these mushrooms tonight. It would be great if she ate a vegetable. This yellow food phase is just going on and on.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a phrase,’ I say. ‘I think it’s just how Darcy is. You told the nursery that Bella’s mother is taking her home tonight, right?’

Nick snorts, still watching the mushroom, spatula poised. ‘I was a parent before you came along, Lorna Miller. Don’t worry. I told them.’

‘I’m giving Liberty one last call,’ I decide, taking out my cell phone. Mobile phone, Lorna, mobile, not a cell phone. You’ve lived in this country for seventeen years …

‘Lorna.’ Nick shakes his head. ‘She won’t answer. How many times have you called today?’

My flip-flops shuffle on the slate floor. ‘Three?’

This is a lie.

‘Hold up.’ Nick points at the window. ‘I think this is her.’

Skywalker is going mad, jumping around at the gate.

‘Oh, thank God.’ I watch our front gate swing open on its pivot, and my tall, slender daughter appears, army backpack hanging from one shoulder. Her skin is lightly tanned from the sun. Different to my pale skin. I’ve always been pale. The palest kid in California.

Liberty’s wearing a messed-up version of her school uniform, her tie the skinny way around, skirt rolled up and something else: an oversized denim jacket with band patches sewn on it. I’ve never seen the jacket before, and … what happened to her hair?

I feel Nick’s arm around my shoulder. ‘Whoa. Very rock and roll. It suits her.’

‘What has she done to herself?’ My voice is shaking.

Liberty’s long, chestnut brown hair has been cut to her chin, flicked over in a deep side parting and streaked an uneven blonde, some parts bright white, others orangey.

I put my hand to my own hair. It was short like that once too.

When Liberty comes through the front door, I accost her in the hall beside Nick’s ‘Steps, Achieve, Goal’ pinboard.

‘Liberty, what happened to your hair?’

Skywalker barks and barks.

Liberty raises a hand to Skywalker. He sits instantly, tail still and obedient. ‘I cut it. And bleached it.’

‘Where?’

‘At school.’

I watch as Liberty hangs her army backpack and the unidentified denim jacket.

‘Where did you get that jacket?’

‘A friend.’ Liberty clicks her fingers and Skywalker trots to her side.

‘Who? Male or female?’

‘Does it matter? Gender is fluid these days. Get with the times, Mama.’

‘What happened to your duffel coat—’

‘Abi has it. We swapped.’

‘For a jacket covered in music badges?’

‘What’s the problem with a couple of band badges? You’ve got tattoos all over your arms.’

‘Liberty, honey. Your hair. Your beautiful hair.’

‘It’s my hair. It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Hey Libs.’ Nick pops his head out the front door. ‘Your mother just worries about you, that’s all. We want you to be safe.’

‘You don’t have to worry about me, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘Because you are not my legal guardian.’

‘I’m responsible for you, just like your mother is,’ says Nick.

‘Not legally,’ says Liberty. ‘You and my mother aren’t married yet. Remember?’ Then she mutters under her breath. ‘Steroids cause memory loss.’

Unfortunately, Nick hears. He’s mild-mannered about absolutely everything. Except steroid accusations.

‘I do not take steroids,’ he snaps. ‘These muscles are born of hard graft.’

‘There are helplines you can call.’ Liberty tries to dart upstairs, shoulders shaking with laughter.

I grab her arm. ‘Hold it right there. Number one, apologize to Nick. Number two, we have to figure out how to fix your hair.’

‘Fix it?’ Liberty gawps at me. ‘There’s nothing to fix. And I was just teasing, Nick. That’s all.’

Nick goes back into the kitchen and starts cutting tofu, head bent over.

‘Apologize to Nick. He’s trying his best. He drove to Long Bridge for your vegan stuff today.’

‘You’re always on his side.’

‘I’m on both your sides.’

Liberty flips around her new short hair and kneels to stroke Skywalker’s long, salt and pepper body. ‘Thank you, Nick,’ she says in a tired voice. ‘Sorry, Nick.’

‘I’m trying my best, Libs,’ says Nick. ‘All I want to do is be a good … sort-of dad.’

‘Tell us about the mock exams,’ I say. ‘How’d you do?’

Liberty ignores me and pours vegetarian dog biscuits into Skywalker’s bowl. Skywalker sits obediently, as Liberty has trained him to do. Only when she gives him the command does he start eating.

Nick stumbles into the awkward silence. ‘Hey, you’ve done a great job with that dog, Libs. Look at how well trained he is. Just brilliant.’

‘What else do I have to do?’ says Liberty. ‘Mum never lets me out.’

‘Yeah, we were talking about that,’ says Nick. ‘I think it’s time your mother let you out more.’

Liberty looks up then, managing a smile. ‘Really? You told her that? Did she punch you?’

Nick laughs. ‘Just a couple of broken fingers.’

‘So tell us about your exams,’ I say. ‘Don’t keep us hanging on.’

‘I’ll tell you at dinner time,’ says Liberty. ‘Where’s my little buddy? Up in her room reading her number chart?’

‘Darcy’s still at nursery,’ I say. ‘One of the other parents is bringing her home.’

‘I brought her some patterns from Maths class,’ says Liberty, going to her school bag and pulling out sheaves of paper. ‘I’ll put them in her special drawer.’

When Liberty opens Darcy’s personal kitchen drawer – the one with all Darcy’s ‘important’ items in it – she bursts out laughing. ‘I love that little girl. She’s so funny.’ Liberty pulls out a handful of Chinese takeout menus. ‘Of course she loves these menus. Every dish is numbered.’

‘I’ll say one thing about this blended family,’ says Nick. ‘At least the kids get along.’

‘Who wouldn’t get along with Darcy?’ says Liberty.

‘Her birth mother, for a start,’ says Nick. ‘Not everyone understands someone so particular.’

‘Well, I think Darcy’s hilarious. I love how straightforward she is. And clever. Worth putting up with you for, Nick.’

Nick laughs uncertainly.

‘Liberty, please stop being so hard on Nick,’ I say. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’

‘Well yeah, he definitely has his uses,’ says Liberty. ‘But why not just download a diet and fitness app? That way I don’t have to find his hair in the shower.’

‘There’s a fine line between funny and mean, and you’re in danger of crossing it.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Liberty mutters. ‘Sorry, Nick. Sorry, sorry, sorry.’

‘Let’s get all this food cooked,’ I announce. ‘Okay? What’s this? Jackfruit? What is it, some kind of vegetable?’

‘I’ll give you a clue,’ says Liberty. ‘You won’t find it in one of your disgusting hot dog cans.’

‘Don’t mock the afflicted. I can’t help my taste in food. I don’t know how you got so sophisticated.’

‘Maybe I got my sophisticated tastes from my real dad.’

The room falls silent. And then I hear myself say:

‘Liberty. Go to your room.’

Once upon a time …

After my sister left me at the Crimson gig, I followed a tide of fanatical, oddball hangers-on. They swept me out of the stadium and towards the east car park, where the band’s tour bus waited on gleaming tarmac.

The girls were obvious groupies, shivering in knee-high boots, Wonderbras and short skirts. The boys were boggle-eyed and acne-ridden under shaggy, Michael Reyji Ray haircuts. They were a fun and sweet crowd, all glossy-eyed and talking about the gig.

I talked music too, but I was there for something more. Something deeper. Love. Wholesome, honest, authentic love. Michael and his music had cured me of cancer. His lyrics spoke to my heart and soul while I was in hospital. The words were written just for me. And I loved him.

It was dark and freezing that night, but excitement kept us warm as we huddled outside the east car-park stadium doors.

I said silent prayers, shivering in my oversized denim jacket – the one I’d decorated with band patches and sharpie silhouettes. Please, God, please. Let Michael grace us with his holiness.

Just after midnight, it happened. The black-painted fire doors flew open and out came Michael Reyji Ray, Paul Graves, Alex Sawalha and a dozen crew members dressed in black ‘Crimson’ T-shirts.

We all screamed and cried.

Michael walked a little ahead of the other band members, looking thoughtful, hands in greying jeans pockets and walking on bare feet. The way the band and crew had arranged themselves around Michael – he was a king with his subjects.

Michael walked past all the half-dressed girls in short skirts and knee-high boots, his face still apparently deep in concentration.

And then a miracle happened.

Michal noticed the illustrations on my jacket and stopped walking. His eyes followed the long, hard sharpie pen lines and crosshair shading. ‘So what do we have here then?’ he asked, voice scratchy and deep. ‘A little artist. Is this me?’

‘I … yes,’ I stammered, grinning like an idiot. ‘This is you. And this is Sid Vicious. And David Roger Johansen.’

‘The New York Dolls?’ Michael asked. ‘You like them, do you?’

I nodded and nodded. ‘I love them. I love punk music.’

‘A little American punk princess.’ Michael pushed his sunglasses into his hair and took my face in his hands. When his eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been hit with something. He had unwavering, kaleidoscope eyes that saw everything – hopes and dreams, pain and fear. They were the most amazing eyes I’d ever seen and they were looking right at me.

Then Michael put one square, flat palm high on my chest, right over my beating heart. He held his hand there for a moment, then spoke to me again in his gravelly voice.

‘Do you know what?’ Then he sang. ‘I fee-eel a soul connection.’

The girls beside me swooned on my behalf.

‘You’d better come with me.’ Michael grabbed my hand, and I felt his calloused guitar-player fingers against my palm.

‘Where?’

‘To the tour bus.’ Michael pulled me across the car park and I stumbled behind him, grinning like an idiot.

‘Wait,’ I said, looking back at my new-found friends. ‘Just me?’

Michael held my hand tighter. ‘Just you, Cinderella. I’m taking you to the ball.’

Together, we walked over freezing tarmac to the tour bus.

The ground seemed to lay down under Michael’s bare feet. To glow with every step he took.

I kept glancing at Michael and giggling like an idiot. Yes, he was definitely the most handsome man I’d ever seen. A little bit careworn up close. Smaller than he looked on stage. And a lot older than me. But so, so handsome. I was in the company of music royalty. Music royalty was holding my hand.

Lorna

Darcy frowns at her dinner plate. She sits on a yellow booster seat in a cute yellow sundress, yellow sandals dangling. But little-girl embellishments aside, Darcy is the most grown-up, serious four-year-old you could ever meet. Her idea of playtime is numbering all the toys in the room and then doing it again – fifty times.

‘It’s okay, Darcy,’ says Liberty. ‘You’ve had all this food before, right? Except that one. It’s called a mushroom. Remember what to do if you’re not sure? Just count the pieces.’

Darcy’s black hair is tied in a messy ponytail. Liberty did it this morning, and hasn’t done a bad job considering Darcy will only tolerate hairstyling for around ten seconds.

She won’t let Nick or me touch her head at all in the morning – only her ‘big sister Bibbity’. Hair washing must happen after 6 p.m. and only if we’re quick. Sometimes, we cut her hair while she’s sleeping.

Liberty and I watch across the dinner table, faces tense. Nick looks hopeful, but holds his knife and fork in tight fists. He’s taken a risk tonight by putting a mushroom on Darcy’s plate. She analyses it with the concentration of a surgeon: the operation is macaroni and vegan cheese with crunched-up tortilla chips on top and a sliced mushroom on the side. Everything yellow, except for the mushroom – slightly yellowed by frying, but still a grey, white colour.

This procedure is touch and go. Things could go either way.

Darcy’s meals have to look and feel similar every time, which means yellow and crunchy. Oven-ready is the go-to safe option.

If Darcy approves the meal, it could be a good evening. If she doesn’t, she’ll scream the house down and it’ll take an hour to make her calm again.

‘This is more toe-curling than your YouTube fitness videos, Nick,’ says Liberty.

Nick, to his credit, manages an amiable laugh.

Darcy says nothing. She is still concentrating.

Then we get the signal – a full, beautiful smile like the sun coming out. Darcy picks up her fork and carefully loads food.

‘One,’ she counts.

We all relax.

‘Okay.’ I pour drinks: Coke for me, Diet Coke for Nick, San Pellegrino sparkling water for Liberty (in a sophisticated stem glass, of course) and Sunny Delight for Darcy.

‘So, Liberty, good day?’ Nick asks. ‘How about those mock-exam results? How’d you do?’

Liberty cuts a mushroom into neat pieces. ‘I failed.’

I laugh.

‘I’m not joking,’ says Liberty, taking a delicate bite of food.

The room goes very still.

I decide to play along. ‘You failed drama? The girl who’s picked as the lead in every play?’

‘Failed it. Maths. English. Science. Fail, fail, fail. U grades. Unclassified.’

‘Very funny, Libs.’ I cut up food. ‘You’re the most intellectual teenager I’ve ever met. You can do a Suduko puzzle while the kettle boils. You’re an unbeaten chess champion. You read Dickens and Shakespeare for fun.’

‘It’s easy to fail when you don’t turn up to the exams,’ says Liberty.

‘You … what?’

‘I didn’t sit any exams,’ says Liberty, sipping sparkling water. ‘Except for Music. They predicted me an A-star for that.’

Silence.

Some parents worry about their children getting tattoos or leaving home to join a motorcycle gang. I worry my daughter will be a musician.

Nick looks between Liberty and me, brown eyes startled and unsure. Then he clears his throat. ‘Um … at my school sometimes the clever kids pretended to be thick so they wouldn’t get picked on. Maybe Libs doesn’t want to look too clever.’

‘Liberty,’ I say. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m protesting.’

I swallow. ‘Against … against what?’

‘I’m not taking my any more exams. Not until you let me meet him.’

I stiffen.

Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

‘I want to meet my real father.’ Liberty looks me dead in the eye.

There they are. Laid right out on the bamboo table top, making a nasty stain. The words I’ve been dreading since Liberty could talk.

Under the table, Skywalker makes a sort of snorting, whinny noise. It’s like he knows the gates of hell have been opened and Liberty is walking towards them.

‘I’m not taking any exams until you let me meet my real father,’ says Liberty.

‘Why would you want to meet him?’ I demand. ‘He’s a monster. That’s not a road we’re going down.’

‘Well, it’s a road I’m going down,’ says Liberty.

‘No, Liberty. Absolutely not.’

We glare at each other.

‘Liberty, your mother has her reasons, okay?’ says Nick.

Liberty stands and jabs her fork at Nick and me in turn.

‘See?’ she shouts. ‘I get totally ganged up on. I’m sixteen years old. It’s time I met my real dad. You should let me decide for myself what he’s like. Just because he was bad to you doesn’t mean he’ll be bad to me.’

Darcy doesn’t pay any attention, continuing to count her forkfuls.

‘You’re young and naive, just like I was,’ I say. ‘You just have to trust me.’

Suddenly, Darcy stops counting, frowning at a melted piece of cheese stuck on her place.

Liberty goes to helps Darcy cut it free. ‘I want to meet him, Mum.’

‘You can’t meet your father,’ I say, voice rising. ‘No way. Never. Do you understand me. You can NEVER meet him. Your real father will ruin everything.’

Lorna

I want to meet my father.

For a good few minutes after the ‘F’ bomb, only Darcy speaks.

‘Fork. Food. Eighteen. Fork. Food. Nineteen. Whoops! Start again. Fork. Food. One.’

Liberty is still behind her, helping her free stuck cheese from the plate when necessary.

Skywalker slinks into the kitchen and sits in his basket.

I stare at my plate, not wanting to eat.

When I look up, Nick has worried eyes and Liberty is glaring.

‘Okay, listen,’ I say. ‘The word “father”. It has a kind of status, doesn’t it? An authority? Like a king. Wise, kind. Fathers are kind men, right? But Liberty, your dad isn’t like that. How many times do I have to tell you? We all need to stay away. I’ve told you over and over again, he is not a good guy.’

‘Aunty Dee told me to take your stories with a pinch of salt.’

‘Aunty Dee thinks she’s protecting you,’ I say. ‘She used to do that when I was growing up too – tone things down, make them sound nicer. Always the mother figure. She was a great big sister. The best. But sometimes people need to know the truth.’

Liberty snorts. ‘And what would you know about the truth?’

‘Listen.’ My voice hardens. ‘Dee was there. She knows all about your dad. She knows full well.’ I push my plate of food away.

‘Tell me more about him at least,’ says Liberty, taking a seat. ‘He’s half of who I am.’

‘I … no,’ I say. ‘That’s not a good idea.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, Libs,’ says Nick, ‘I don’t know anything about your dad either. Your mother keeps me in the dark too.’

‘He’s just a bad guy who I left a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Can we leave it at that? And I don’t want you meeting him, Liberty, because I don’t want you getting hurt like I did.’

‘Maybe I’m not as weak and pathetic as you were.’ Liberty watches me, her eyes flat. ‘And I’m sick of listening to all the “Dad is a bad person” stuff without a shred of proof. If you won’t let me meet him, I won’t retake my exams.’

I cross my arms. ‘Fine. If that’s what it takes.’

Liberty glares at me. ‘I’ll ruin my future. You won’t let me do that.’

‘What kind of future will you have if your father gets a hold of you?’

For the rest of dinner, Liberty is sullen and silent, throwing me the occasional angry glance.

I try to strike up some small talk: ‘Do you think robot vacuum cleaners actually work?’

Liberty replies, ‘They probably don’t really clear up the mess at all. Just move it around. Hide it under the carpet.’ And eyes me meaningfully.

When we’ve all finished eating, we all clear and tidy, moving dinner things to the kitchen and loading the dishwasher.

After Darcy meticulously scrapes her plate and loads it, Liberty takes her hand, leads her into the lounge and finds her a YouTube video about a jelly bean factory. She sits with Darcy for a while, explaining the factory mechanisms and jelly bean flavouring process. Then she announces she’s heading up to her room.

‘I’m going to write a song about controlling parents,’ she says.

I sigh. ‘Listen, Libs. With your father … some problems can’t be solved. Right?’

‘Don’t be frigging ridiculous,’ says Liberty. ‘Every problem can be solved. It’s just whether you make it a priority or not.’

Frigging is an Americanism she got from me. I have no one else to blame. Ditto when she says crap and Jesus H Christ. And ditto.

‘Even kids Darcy’s age know hiding from problems isn’t healthy,’ Liberty adds.

‘Okay,’ I admit. ‘Fine. Usually we face our problems. But when it comes to your father it doesn’t work like that. He turns it all around, spins it, makes you look like the crazy one. So can we just drop it?’

‘Hey Libs,’ says Nick, holding out a chessboard with an eager look on his face. ‘Why don’t we take our mind off things with a game of chess. Fancy a quick match?’

Liberty offers an eyebrow raise. ‘No offence, Nick, but I’ll beat you in three minutes.’

‘I’ve been practising,’ says Nick. ‘I downloaded Chess Tactics Pro.’

‘Fine.’

Nick sets up the chessboard, turning the white pieces to face Liberty. ‘Here. Ladies first.’

‘I like black, remember?’ says Liberty, turning the board again. ‘The dark, avenging army.’

Nick looks uncertain. ‘Um … okay. Right. Okay. I’ll go first then.’ He looks at the pieces, eyes darting everywhere, then finally moves a pawn.

Liberty checkmates Nick within three minutes, as promised.

‘Good job, Libs.’ Nick offers his hand to shake. ‘I’ll keep practising.’

‘You’re persistent, Nick,’ says Liberty. ‘I have to give you that.’

‘Giving up is not in my vocabulary.’

‘Thank goodness,’ I say. ‘Or you’d have given up on us a long time ago.’

Nick grins at me. ‘Never.’

‘Okay.’ Liberty stands. ‘I’m going upstairs to work on my music before I vomit all over the pair of you.’ She disappears up the second staircase – the one that leads to her mezzanine landing, bedroom and ensuite. The mezzanine is a yoga space that Liberty and I both used to use, but these days she’s more into indoor climbing at my local gym. Chaperoned, of course.

When Liberty disappears, I burst into tears.

‘Hey.’ Nick jumps to his feet and puts his arms around me. ‘Hey, it’s all right. It’s fine. She’ll take her exams. She’s just testing you.’

‘It’s not her exams I’m worried about.’

‘So what are you worried about? That she’ll go running off to see her dad?’

I nod.

‘It’s normal that she’d want to, isn’t it? I get that you and he didn’t get along, but maybe there’s a way—’

‘No. There’s no way she can see him.’ I look away from Nick’s penetrating stare. ‘He can’t be part of our life in any way.’

‘But clearly Liberty wants to see him. Lorna—’

‘It’s fine, Nick.’ I start doing clap press-ups against the breakfast bar. ‘We’ve been through all this when Liberty was younger. The “I want to see my real dad” phase. It’ll pass like it did back then.’

Nick scratches his head in thought. He’s the only person I know who literally scratches his head when he’s thinking. ‘So … you’re just going to basically ignore what she wants?’

‘Not ignore. Just not give any fuel to it. And like I said, wait until it passes.’

‘You never talk about Liberty’s father.’

‘There’s nothing I want to talk about. Liberty’s never met him and that’s how it’s going to stay. Everything is near-perfect here. You have no idea how perfect. Liberty’s father would ruin everything.’

We hear the beautiful ebb and flow of acoustic guitar drift over our open-plan living area, floating past the panoramic windows and out into woodland, joining the birds fluttering from tree to tree.

Liberty is musically talented. No doubt about that. I wish she weren’t. There would be fewer questions.

I look at the staircase. ‘I’ll go talk to her. Make sure she’s okay.’

‘Have a good honest talk with her, Lorna. Get everything out in the open.’

A shiver runs through me.

If I were totally honest with Liberty, I’d lose her forever. I’d lose Nick too. He really has no idea.

‘Lorna?’ Nick’s watching me, and I realize my fists are balled.

‘I’m okay. Honestly. It’s just … Liberty and I have been through a lot. I’ll talk to her and smooth things over.’

Nick pulls me into another big, strong hug. ‘Just remember, she’s a kid who’s dealing with a lot. Sixteen is a tough age. I wouldn’t want some weird guy moving into my house, sharing my mum’s bedroom.’

‘Don’t forget your hair in the bathroom.’

We both manage something like a laugh.

‘Listen,’ says Nick. ‘Maybe you’ve got good reasons for keeping her away from her dad. But let the girl go out with her friends of an evening, at least. If she had more freedom, I think it would help a lot. With everything.’

‘You don’t understand teenagers,’ I say. ‘Freedom is the last thing she needs.’