Deviant

by Helen FitzGerald

  Abigail closed the door and looked at her father. “Thanks …” she started. Oh Jesus, she had to call him something.

  “I’d like it if you called me Dad. If you want to, that is.”

  He’d read her thoughts. He was a mind-reading lizard alien. Not like in The Shining, though; she certainly couldn’t read his.

  She bit her lip and nodded across the car at him, knowing she should repeat the word. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, after all. Repeat the word. Just do it.

  “Thanks, Dad.” She couldn’t get out of the garage fast enough.

  The place was built with spotless blond stone, bay windows, and Greek style columns. Two stories high and at least four rooms wide, it lorded over the immaculate garden like a Glasgow mansion on steroids.

  Becky hooked Abigail’s arm again as they walked from the garage to the main entrance. A young woman was waiting for them.

  “That’s the Stepford Wife,” Becky whispered.

  “Abigail, this is Melanie,” Grahame introduced. “Melanie, this is Abigail.”

  Melanie smiled and gave Abigail a short hug. It wasn’t hard to reciprocate, as Abigail felt nothing toward this woman. She wasn’t a relative. She was a random factor in this bizarre equation, but not at all threatening. She certainly seemed uncomplicated; her smile was warm, and her clothes were almost old-fashioned: fifties-style, pastel, pretty. She was a lot younger than Grahame—about thirty—with hazel eyes and perfect shoulder-length blonde hair.

  “You are so pretty!” Melanie withdrew from the embrace, holding Abigail’s shoulders to study her. “Look at you! Just like your father. Your eyes! Can you see it, Grahame? She’s you! Come in, Abigail; come inside your new home!”

  They’re staring at me. I must look like a freak.

  In the last two days, Abigail had negotiated a non-stop barrage of the alien and unknown: hospital, crematorium, airport, soft-top car, impossibly large salad … nothing out of the ordinary for most people; everything out of the ordinary for a Glasgow street punk. Now, sitting in this vast living room as this stunning woman poured tea for the four of them, she realized she was shaking. The cup rattled against the saucer. She’d never had tea made in a pot before. She’d never drunk tea out of a cup before. Mugs, always mugs. Stained ones. The cup and saucer shared a blue floral pattern. The china was almost see-through. It must have cost a fortune. Grahame and Becky sipped from their armchairs, unable to mask their concern.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Melanie asked.

  She quickly set the cup on the glass table. She clasped her hands together to steady herself. “I’m fine. I’m just a little …”

  “Jet-lagged?” Melanie finished for her. “Don’t apologize! Crossing nine time zones wreaks havoc on the system! It’ll be a few days before your sleep cycle gets back to normal.”

  Abigail smiled. Melanie might as well have spoken in Romanian. Fortunately, perky new Stepmom went back to talking about the renovations she’d just completed. This room used to have dark brown carpet! Dark brown! Getting the chimney sorted was a nightmare! Abigail tried to nod politely, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet the curious gazes. Her eyes wandered toward the adjoining library. Through the door, she could see the polished wooden shelves reaching to the ceiling with gorgeous leather-bound books. In the corner was an old fashioned gramophone. The bookcase behind it was stuffed with paper-covered records.

  “Oh, the library renovation was your dad’s project,” Melanie said.

  “I take it someone’s into vinyl?” Abigail asked.

  “I collect seventy-eights,” Grahame explained. “My hobby.”

  Abigail didn’t know what seventy-eights were. If she asked, she had a sense her father might talk about it for hours. She changed the subject to something more important. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, what about school?”

  “Becky went to boarding school in England,” Grahame said. “Rodean.”

  Abigail’s heart sank. She’d heard of Rodean. Poshest girls’ school in the kingdom. In bloody England! Anyone who went there, no matter where they came from, ended up speaking like the Queen. Feck, they were going to send her back to the UK. She’d end up in a dormitory with a bunch of Sloane’s who buy pre-wrapped gifts at Harrods with daddy’s credit card.

  “I was expelled,” Becky said.

  Grahame almost choked on some tea. “It wasn’t right for Becky.”

  Abigail couldn’t help but smile. Score one for her new sister.

  “No, it wasn’t for me,” Becky said, smiling back conspiratorially.

  “So, I phoned Frank Henderson at Marlborough yesterday,” Grahame concluded. “It’s the best girls’ school in LA. Obviously it’s the summer break now, so you have three weeks to get yourself organized.”

  Thank God. Abigail’s hands finally stopped trembling. She wasn’t going back to the UK. She was staying right here in sunny California. No more need for phony passports or scary customs. And to top it all off, she’d be well educated. She would go to university.

  “It’s only a five-minute drive for you,” Grahame added.

  “Oh! But I can’t drive.”

  “We can sort that out. Melanie, can you arrange things?”

  “Of course,” Melanie said. “You can start Driver’s Ed and take a car service in the meantime. You’ll have your license by Thanksgiving.”

  “You could get a van like mine!” Becky sounded excited. If Abigail had the choice she’d go for something very different, something with no roof perhaps.

  “Or you could go for a soft top like mine?” Her father was still reading her thoughts. “Get some sun on that Scottish skin. What sort of car would you like?”

  What sort of car would I like? She almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. “I don’t know. You don’t have to get me one, you know.”

  “What about something pink?” Melanie suggested. Everyone in her new family seemed to have very firm ideas about cars.

  “Think about it.” Grahame put his tea cup down and slapped his hands on his knees. “I feel terrible about this, but I have to go to work. I’ll be home for dinner though. Will you be all right?”

  Abigail nodded. “Sure.”

  He stood and leaned down toward her. She wasn’t sure why at first, but as he got closer she realized he was coming in for a hug. “Welcome home.”

  It wasn’t easy hugging a standing man. She got it all wrong: put her arms under his, so hers landed around his waist, which felt ickily intimate. Plus, because she was sitting, her face was in his chest. She could barely get the words out—“Thanks, Dad”—before patting his back like boys do in order to stop the hug, to stop it right now.

  He kissed Melanie then rubbed the top of Becky’s head. “Your sister’ll look after you. You wouldn’t believe how excited she’s been since she found out.”

  Becky shrugged. She caught Abigail’s eyes. Her smile grew strained. She removed her father’s hand and straightened her ruffled hair.

  “Bye, my three lovely girls,” he said, as if he’d said it all his life.

  MELANIE SPENT THE NEXT half hour talking about the welcome-home event she was planning in Abigail’s honor. The party of the season! The talk of the town! So much to do!

  Abigail’s stomach twisted. The party felt wrong, and not just because she was embarrassed at all the fuss. If her mother’s letter was to be trusted, Grahame hadn’t even known she’d existed until a few days ago. And now her new stepmom was planning a homecoming? On the other hand, her dead-stranger-mother had written that her alive-stranger-father would be kind to her. Clearly his kindness extended to the alive-stranger-father’s new wife. A party was certainly kind, if it was anything.

  You look like a size six! I know just the shop!

  She liked Melanie, but she was talking too much.

  What do the Scotch eat?

  Scots! The Scots!

  All the men should wear kilts—

  “I’m going to show Abigail her room,” Becky interrupted.r />
  “Thanks for the tea, Melanie,” Abigail called as her sister dragged her out into the hall. “Thanks for everything!”

  “HERE, HAVE SOME OF this, it’ll loosen us up.”

  Abigail didn’t smoke dope. Didn’t like the feel of smoking, for a start, but most of all, she hated losing control. She never did that, ever. Now was definitely not the time to experiment.

  When that blue Toyota drove her to a place called “care,” everything was taken away except the clarity of her thoughts. She’d clung to that clarity like a life raft ever since.

  Besides, of all the newness to take in, the hardest was this ghost girl sitting cross-legged on the desk across from her. Even the pot smelled different, grown in the Californian sun and not under Scottish lamps, perhaps; or maybe it was the tobacco mixed in. Becky smoked like an old-fashioned movie star, unaware or unashamed. She could hold a joint, inhale and exhale while doing a host of other things, talking and sipping water, whatever the moment called for.

  “No ta, it doesn’t agree with me,” Abigail said.

  Becky studied her face. “It calms me down. I don’t do anything else, but I love this stuff. We don’t look alike, do we?” She blew the smoke out the open window. “You look like him. Your eyes. But you must have some of her. You’re much better-looking than he is. Mind you, he was cute when he was young.” She took another drag. “He was so different when he was young.”

  Abigail had been sitting with her legs crossed, too, but it was getting uncomfortable. She dangled her legs over the side of the desk and leaned back on her arms.

  “You don’t talk much.” Becky’s smile widened.

  An answer wasn’t required, so Abigail didn’t offer one. She looked around the room. It was a mess, papers and clothes all over the floor. There was another desk with two computers on it. The floor was covered in files, paints, cardboard, and other art materials.

  “Are you a happy person?” Becky asked.

  Oh please, not stoner talk, Abigail groaned to herself. “How would I know?”

  Becky laughed and took a sip of her bottled sparkling water. “You’re happy then.”

  Abigail raised her eyebrows.

  “You don’t notice being happy,” Becky offered. “You notice being unhappy.” She giggled. “I’m sorry. I say a lot of dumb stuff that I think sounds profound.”

  Abigail laughed in spite of herself. “So what do you do with yourself, other than smoke?”

  Becky rested the joint on a posh china saucer and took another sip of water. “Hmm. Well, Dad wanted me to study law. That was an argument!” She picked up the joint again, inhaled, exhaled, and then stared into Abigail’s eyes. “I don’t want to be stuck-up, play the game.” Becky’s face was too close to hers now, getting more and more intense. “See, I believe in freedom of expression. I believe that most old, rich folk should be shot. Especially if they tell young, poor kids that it’s their fault they’re poor. I believe in having fire in your belly.” She pounded her flat stomach. “No one should be allowed to extinguish that, no one.”

  Abigail sighed. The rant took her back to the commune on Sunday evenings, when Nieve and her friends would take turns to address the community from a large wooden box on the loch side. Such passion seemed just a wee bit misplaced here with this privileged girl, in her posh room in her posh house, smoking a joint and drinking bottled water that probably cost more than a pint at the Solid Bar. But maybe a lot of Nieve’s friends had come from privilege, too. She’d never stopped to think about it.

  Becky stubbed out the joint and gestured to the art materials scattered around the room. “I’m an artist.” She blushed. “Oh, jeez—that sounded so pretentious, didn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  Bollocks. This is the conversation her sister wanted want to have? Now Abigail was pissed. Becky had no idea about poverty. She hadn’t lived in a hostel filled with heroin addicts and prostitutes. This was all naïve and clichéd.

  “You’re kinda scary!” Becky exclaimed loudly.

  Abigail sighed again, more loudly than she meant. Not only was this naïve and clichéd, it was irritatingly familiar. In No Life Hostel, the girls would smoke dope in the bathroom and get all weirded out by each other.

  “Tell me what you believe in,” Becky asked again.

  Abigail bit her lip.

  Becky laughed uncomfortably. “You’re freaking me out. Say something!”

  “It’s just the dope.”

  “It’s not. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re so guarded. Anything, anything. Quick, before I explode.”

  The ghost is stoned. Now was not the time to share her questions about their dead mother. Nor about why their dead mother might want to keep their living father in the dark about the letter. Nor was it the time to talk about the letter itself, or about the £25,000 she had for Becky.

  So Abigail said this instead: “I believe in survival. Is my room the one opposite this?”

  BECKY DIDN’T FOLLOW HER, thankfully.

  Abigail closed the door and leaned against it, shutting her eyes for a moment. When she glanced around, she saw a huge king-sized bed with way too many pillows. She also saw her very own bathroom. And a double window with sumptuous floral curtains overlooking the back garden, complete with a kidney-shaped swimming pool like the ones she’d seen through the windows of travel agencies. Well, of course there was a pool: it was so hot, at least thirty degrees Celsius. She’d never experienced temperatures above twenty-five. She took her leather jacket off and gazed at the pool. She was dying to cool down in it.

  She guessed it was Melanie who had put an awful lot of effort into the room. Melanie was a willing servant of Grahame. And that was fine. The bedside table was stacked with lotions and potions. Melanie had placed a soft pink dressing gown on the bed and hung three prints of Scottish landscapes on the walls, probably to make her new stepdaughter feel at home.

  Before she even knew what she was doing, Abigail took the prints down and slipped them under the bed. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of that dump.

  She ran her fingers over the soft covers and looked at herself in the mirror of the oak dresser. A pale, haggard girl stared back. But the girl was giddy, too. Forget the smiling reflection; what about that pristine glass? It was polished to an unreal shine. Abigail stifled a squeal. So what if her mother had secrets she didn’t want her father to know about? People with money were strange, her mother included, clearly. She’d learn to adjust.

  Wrapping herself in the thick feather duvet on the bed, she laughed and drifted off.

  Knock knock.

  What was that?

  Knock knock.

  Where was she?

  “I’m coming in!” a voice said. Abigail rubbed her eyes and looked around. Fluffy duvet. Pillows. Private bathroom. Floral curtains, still open. Dark outside. That’s right, she remembered. I’m on a different planet now. She smiled groggily.

  “Dinner time.” The voice was Becky’s, who was in the bathroom turning on the shower. “Jump in, get dressed. Do you need some clothes?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The shower (like everything else) was the Priciest Mother-Shower brought down from Priciest Planet-Shower to hurt fair-skinned Scots who’d only ever experienced a feeble dribbling. Blimey, Americans did things properly.

  “Clothes on the bed!” Becky yelled. “See ya down there!”

  When Abigail had dried herself with the impossibly fluffy towels, she put on the high-waisted denim shorts Becky had left for her, and then braved another glance in the mirror. She’d never worn shorts before. Her legs were blindingly white. The T-shirt was black, with a painting on the front of a bunch of faceless teenagers who looked like zombies. At the bottom of the painting was the letter “G.” The initial of the brand, or artist, she supposed. Whatever.

  The formal dining room was adjacent to the large dining kitchen at the back of the house. Her new family sat waiting for her, sipp
ing red wine from round glasses so large that each could take a full bottle. Melanie and Grahame had changed into suave evening outfits. Becky had swapped her crop top for the same T-shirt Abigail now wore. Somehow, it looked much better on Becky. A wave of embarrassment overwhelmed her as she walked toward them with wet hair, bare legs and no shoes. “Sorry, I fell asleep and I only have these big boots.”

  “Don’t apologize.” Grahame opened his linen napkin and flattened it on his lap. “Jet lag’s a killer.”

  Melanie had made chicken tikka masala “to make you feel at home!”

  “Isn’t that Indian?” Becky gasped. The chili caught in her throat.

  “It is, but it’s the most popular dish in the country. Big Indian/Pakistani community.” Abigail stifled a cough as she shoved the food in her mouth. Melanie must have put at least a dozen of the burny beasts in the curry. She took a breath, wiped the sweat from her forehead and swallowed a large piece of leathery chicken. “That was right thoughtful, thanks Melanie.”

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  Abigail blinked nervously. Had she said something wrong? “I said that was right thoughtful of you, the curry and all.”

  Melanie patted her hand against her chest and laughed. “It’s your accent! God willing it’ll soften after a while. I’ll catch every lovely little thing you say.”

  Abigail made a mental note to practice an American accent. The quicker she got rid of her rough brogue, the better. After the ordeal of the main course came burnt caramel shortbread which Melanie had baked “to make you feel at home!” Conversation was polite, and all about the party. Melanie had spent the day making arrangements. It would be tomorrow night. Everything would be Scotch.

  Scottish!

  “I’ll get you a dress for the party and some other clothes in the morning.” Melanie shot a hard glare at Abigail’s T-shirt. “I see Becky gave you one of those. Do we know if it even means anything yet?”

  “Pardon?” Abigail asked, lost.

  Grahame took it upon himself to explain. “I’m sure you don’t know anything about this, Abigail, coming from a more civilized continent.” (She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.) “For the past month, there’s been a graffiti campaign here in LA. The images are the same as those on your T-shirts. Rumor has it there’s one letter to go. It’s become a kind of cult. Sad to say, the more susceptible teens of LA, like Becky here, have subscribed to it.” He cast a sidelong glance at his daughter. “The press has called it ‘The Graffiti Tease.’ To me, it looks like an advertising campaign—probably building up to launch some kid’s amateur homemade zombie movie or something. In my honest opinion, though, it’s just vandalism, pure and simple.”