Deviant

by Helen FitzGerald

  Melanie shook her head with an unreadable expression. Then she flashed an apologetic smile at Abigail. “Come and eat, girls. Your brunch will go cold.”

  IT WAS AN EFFORT to force down the sickly eggs and hollandaise sauce. Abigail didn’t just feel ill; she felt babyish. The little adopted baby who might ruin everything with her lies and misbehavior. After Melanie finally left, Abigail followed her sister’s lead clearing the table.

  “Thanks, for before,” she muttered, her face hot. “I’ll cover the allowance.”

  Becky shook her head. “Don’t mention it. And no need for that.”

  Was their father prone to wild outbursts about his record collection? That would be handy information to have. But Becky seemed particularly distant. Maybe she was pissed off. Or maybe she was stoned again. The two weren’t mutually exclusive, Abigail supposed. Eventually, she gathered the courage to break the heavy silence: “What did you make of that letter then?”

  Becky paused over the sink before answering. “I was wondering if we could just forget about it, for today. I want us to have some fun. Is that okay?”

  It wasn’t really okay, but Abigail nodded anyway. Fun wasn’t her greatest skill at the most relaxed of times. Right now she was tenser than she’d ever been since Nieve had died. Her brain ticked over with information, trying to work out who was who, who liked whom, who hated whom, whom should she trust the least. But after Becky’s rescue operation with the seventy-eight record, she was starting to think she might trust her new sister. As for everyone else, she had no idea.

  Fun, though: what was that again?

  “C’mon,” Becky said, “let’s go for a swim.”

  “I HAVE A CONFESSION,” Abigail said, hovering at the edge of the pool.

  “You’re not really my sister?” Becky said, already submerged to her neck. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Sorry, bad joke.”

  “I’m not a very good swimmer.”

  “Don’t worry. The pool is shallower than it looks. Jump in,” Becky urged. “The water feels great.”

  If this was a dare, fine. Abigail flung herself into the air, hit the water and sank down, down, down. Panic flashed through her. Her feet finally touched the bottom and she sprung upward, breaking the surface with a sputter.

  “You liar!” she gasped. All at once her arms were flailing about.

  Becky was at her side in an instant, hauling her to pool’s edge. “Shit, sorry, I thought you were joking. You really can’t swim?”

  “I really can’t!” Abigail coughed water out and lifted herself out of the pool.

  Becky stifled a guilty laugh. “I’m so sorry. How can you not swim?”

  “How can you not be an idjit?” Abigail reached down and pinched her sister on her flawless bicep, quite hard.

  “Ow! God, that’ll bruise.” Becky rubbed the red spot. But she was smiling again. Her glistening eyes met Abigail’s. “Is this our first fight of the day?”

  Abigail snorted. “If it is, you’re getting off easy.”

  Eventually her breathing evened. Becky shoved a lilo across the water toward her, and she flopped into it, basking in the hard-hitting Californian sun. Becky’s navel ring glittered: a flash of what looked like two very tiny silver birds, one on top of the other. Abigail wondered about her own belly. She was certain her skin would burn a lobster red, but she’d worry about that later.

  “For the record, I wasn’t trying to kill you or anything,” Becky said slyly. “Not yet.”

  “I’m glad. If you had, you would’ve …” Abigail stopped mid-sentence. She was talking without thinking. She was about to reference Sophie. You would’ve lost your sister, too.

  But Becky saw where she was going, anyway. “What was it like, seeing her dead?” she asked, climbing onto her own lilo and drifting beside her.

  Abigail chewed her lip. “Well I can’t compare it to seeing her alive. The worst thing is I didn’t feel very much at all.”

  “Were you angry at her?”

  “Yeah. I mean, my life was great till I was nine but, yeah, yeah, I was. Am.”

  “Me, too,” Becky said with a sigh. “But I bet she had her reasons.”

  Abigail sat up. “What reasons could there be to abandon us and split us up? Did she ever try to look for you? Or me? I think she was just crazy, like your dad—our dad—said.”

  Becky closed her eyes and didn’t answer. As far as Abigail was concerned, Sophie Thom was a mad selfish cow. End of story. Was there a different way of looking at things? Perhaps it was a bad idea to talk about it, for now anyway. She decided to change the subject.

  “How come Stick’s all street-kid one moment and all Hollywood-millionaire the next? I don’t get him, or Joe. Or what you do. Any of it.”

  “Stick’s like me,” Becky said in a soft voice. “His father’s a right-wing idiot. Mother’s dead. His father made him major in Business Studies, so that’s what he does during the week: study. He plays the role, like I do.” She fumbled for her stylish bugeye sunglasses, pulling them over her face. “We met Joe about six months ago when we were out painting. He used to do his stuff alone, but we got friendly and love his art. We think the same way. So he joined Stick and me. He didn’t make it down the ladder in time a month back. We had to leave him. Now he’s locked up. But that doesn’t mean we don’t give a shit. We’ll get him out soon enough.”

  “So you three are the Graffiti Tease?”

  Becky yanked off her shades and squinted at Abigail. “You catch on quick, sis. So has the press, just like Stick said they would.” Her voice hardened. “Only they don’t know who we are. You’re the only other person who knows.”

  “I won’t tell,” Abigail blurted out.

  She blushed, feeling childish, the way she did back on the commune when Nieve used to tell her to make up lies (namely, that she was Nieve’s biological daughter) whenever the police came by, asking questions. But also privileged. Part of the conspiracy. Part of something bigger than her own meager existence. Part of the …

  “Fun, remember?” Becky stated, unintentionally finishing Abigail’s thought. “Today’s about fun. I don’t want to get all heavy right now. We’ve got all the time in the world for that. You and I have some serious catching up to do. Today is our fast-forward bonding day.”

  Abigail drew in a deep breath and smiled. “Deal.” Here she was, on a lilo, in a swimming pool, with the most confusing but undeniably coolest person she’d met in a long time. Maybe ever. In spite of her curiosity, she found herself agreeing. What was the rush? “Heavy shit can take the low road.” She kicked Becky’s lilo, causing her to fall in with a splash.

  “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE MOVIE of all time? I mean, if you had to pick one?”

  By mid-afternoon it was practically thirty-five degrees, so Becky had hustled them inside, cranked the air conditioning, and made popcorn. She’d convinced Abigail to look through the huge collection of DVDs in the living room, promising that their father wouldn’t get upset if any of them were misplaced. He had no interest in movies. Just old records. And his job, of course.

  Abigail raised her index finger like a puppet and spoke in a squeaky voice, as if her finger were talking to her: an imitation of the telepathic little boy, Danny, from The Shining.

  Squeaky-Voiced Finger: “She wants to know my favorite film.”

  Abigail: “Don’t tell her.”

  Squeaky-Voiced Finger: “But she wants to know.”

  Abigail: “Doesn’t matter, don’t tell her.”

  “Shut up!” Becky spun around, eyes wide. “The Shining is totally in my top five favorite movies of all time. I’m serious! Dad knew that I wanted to see it, and after I complained a bunch, he let me, but watched it with me. He called it a horror movie. But it’s so much more, y’know?”

  Abigail paused for a moment before allowing her Squeaky-Voiced Finger to respond. “Abigail, I told you never to tell anyone about our special film.”

  Becky grabbed her iPhone and aimed it at Abigail. “Sh
h. Do that again. Let’s make our own version. The Shining: Johnstone Sisters remake.”

  Abigail (smiling now): “Worst. Idea. Ever. And now she’s filming me.”

  Squeaky-Voiced Finger: “Well stop her.”

  Becky giggled, squinting into the screen. “Stop distracting me. You’re ruining the shot.”

  Abigail lunged for the iPhone. Becky ducked out of the way before donning a terrifying expression and lunging back with a: “HEEEERE’S BECKY!” Popcorn spilled all over the sofa. Abigail blinked at the mess. She laughed. She couldn’t help it.

  The Squeaky-Voiced Finger whispered: “So this is what your sister is really like.”

  “OKAY, SO WE WON’T be Oscar-winning filmmakers,” Becky muttered, attempting to watch the dizzy jumble after downloading it to her laptop. She grabbed her car keys from her desk and dangled them in front of Abigail. “Next on the fast-forward bonding list: you’re going to drive.”

  “I don’t have my license.”

  “Well, Dad was able to save you from deportation, what makes you think he won’t be able to save you from the traffic cops?” Becky pushed the keys to the van into Abigail’s hand. “Don’t worry, we won’t drive on the street. Just out front.”

  Abigail sat quickly on Becky’s bed. “Can’t we just stay here?”

  “Only if you get stoned.” Becky flashed a wicked smile over her shoulder. “Kidding!” She snatched up the photo and letter Abigail had given her the night before. “Stash these back in your room. I made copies for myself.” Before Abigail could protest, Becky was pushing her into the hall, shutting her door, and racing down the stairs, screaming: “Abi is a law breaker!”

  Abi.

  At first, Abigail tensed. But she felt nothing. No fight. No anger. No outrage. Nothing but the desire to run after her sister. She shoved the photo and letter in the backpack and followed her out to the van. Maybe Becky would always call her Abi. Becky and nobody else. Not their dad, whose temper frightened her. Not Melanie, who had no personality beyond trying to please everyone. If she allowed Becky to call her Abi, she might really have a sister.

  THE WHEEL FELT OVERSIZED as Abigail gripped it, squirming in the cushion. She licked her lips. The heat was dry and suffocating. Becky shoved the key in the ignition for her and cranked the AC, talking Abigail through the controls slowly and carefully and showing her how to check the seat position, mirrors, and even the seatbelt.

  Strange: Billy was the last person to have taught her something forbidden. “What ya frettin’ aboot, hen? Just light under the foil and breathe in through the tube. It’s a lie one hit gets you hooked.” She’d abandoned that lesson before it had even begun by slapping him in the face. Glasgow had never seemed further away. It was nighttime there, and probably raining.

  “Breathe in for three while you’re pressing down, out for three while you’re releasing it,” Becky coached. Within a half-hours’ time, Abigail almost managed to relax. She stalled only once during her first circuit of the driveway. It wasn’t that hard. It wasn’t that much different from a video game.

  “You’re a natural, kid!” Becky exclaimed. “And look, you can press all these cool computer screens.” She jabbed at a glowing button: SAT-NAV. “This is the most important. It shows your last destination, in case you ever get lost. But better let me take over now.”

  Abigail traded seats, and off they went. Becky turned off the AC and opened the windows, blasting some pop radio station. Soon they were tooling around Hollywood. The air felt cooler, the sun less oppressive than when Abigail had been driven from the airport. Hadn’t Bren mentioned to her that nobody walks in Los Angeles? The streets were packed with tanned people in sunglasses, people who were beautiful, and people who tried their best to be beautiful. Even the shop windows seemed brighter and cleaner than she’d remembered on her drive in. “You want to see where the plastics live or where the real people live?” Becky asked.

  Abigail was dying to see where the plastics lived, but was too self-conscious to admit it. “You choose.”

  Minutes later, Becky was parking at the ramshackle house where Stick/Matthew/Whoever had ended up the other night.

  “What are we doing here?” Abigail gasped. “Stick’s not a ‘real’ person?”

  “Sometimes he is. Can you keep another secret?”

  “Aye.”

  “We rented this place last month to stash all our stuff. I think Dad started suspecting I was up to something. Plus we needed room for the campaign, to make T-shirts and everything. But you can’t ever tell anyone. Come in, take a look.”

  The house was even grubbier inside. There were no beds in the two bedrooms. Dirty coffee mugs littered the stained kitchen sink. The living room was an office-cum-studio-cum-storage space, full of stencils and paints, metal folding chairs, and a scuffed desk with a laptop, covered in papers. There were boxes of T-shirts on the floor and a badge-making machine.

  “We usually come here at night,” Becky said. “Will you help me with something?”

  Back at the van, Abigail took a handle of the large rectangular box, covered by a thick blanket. Becky unlocked a small cupboard under the stairs in the hall and slid the chest inside. Abigail took a deep breath and dusted off her hands as Becky raced back to the van. When she returned, she had the file she’d brought from back home. She flipped on the laptop in the living room. “I want to show you something.”

  Abigail pulled up a folding chair and sat beside her.

  Becky opened the file she’d brought in from the van. Inside was the photocopied photograph of her mother, the letter, and the money. She placed the photo beside the keyboard. Computer now fired up, Becky opened an attachment in her email and clicked onto a computerized image of Sophie at the protest march. “I scanned it and found some software to clarify. Look closely.” She zoomed in on Sophie’s face. It was much clearer than in the actual photograph. Becky had worked magic.

  “God, she is beautiful,” Abigail murmured.

  “Yeah, but … not her. The guy, standing behind her, to her left.”

  “Oh, my God,” Abigail whispered.

  She remembered a scene at the very end of The Shining, where the director zooms in on a photo from the 1920s. It takes a while to recognize the main character, played by Jack Nicholson, because he’s at least twenty years younger—fresh, happy, and dressed in completely different clothes. He’s in an unfamiliar environment. It takes a while, but eventually you realize this is the same crazy middle-aged guy you’ve been watching all this time. Looking at this image gave Abigail the exact same creepy tingles. The man to the left of Sophie Thom was about nineteen years old and dressed in ripped jeans and a Ramones T-shirt. He had curly, shoulder-length brown hair. He was holding a NO NUKES placard. His mouth was open, yelling in protest. He was Grahame, her father.

  “They were both in the Socialist Workers Party when they studied at Glasgow University,” Becky said. “Just for a few months. But still. The freaking Socialist Workers Party. Ha! Can you believe it? I can’t imagine the Navy would be too happy about that.”

  Abigail couldn’t, either. She shook her head. Her father had been a radical? And a naval officer? Was that even possible? Something didn’t quite add up. But that wasn’t even the weirdest part, not for her at least. No, it was that he and her mother were both students at the university she’d walked past so often, filled with anger and envy—the place she’d so desperately wanted to be part of and never could be. She was a legacy there.

  “He was there on some sort of program with the armed forces,” Becky added. “He came back here after graduating and joined up with the Navy full-time for a few years.”

  “That must be when she sent him that record, ‘Stormy Weather,’ ” Abigail said, unable to tear her eyes from the computer screen. “She wrote on the sleeve that she missed him.”

  “I found these in the attic too …” Becky opened a box under her desk. Inside were tapes and CDs. “He made her a mixed tape every year from nineteen eighty-nine, when the
y met, onwards.”

  Abigail picked up the first tape. To my darling Sophie, nineteen eighty-nine, was written on the front. The tracks were listed neatly on the case. All of them love songs. There were tapes for 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993, 1994. All titles of a weak-kneed, smitten romantic. She recognized some of them: “Nothing Compares To You,” “How Am I Supposed To Live Without You,” “Opposites Attract,” “From A Distance” … “I Will Always Love You.” Some, she’d never heard of before: “Price of Love,” “I’ll Be There,” “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down On Me,” “Have I Told You Lately,” “Stay.”

  “So they were really in love,” Abigail said, half to herself.

  “Looks like it. But I don’t think they could make the longdistance thing work. Anyway, when he came back he must have changed. I know he got even closer to Dennis Howard.”

  She smirked. “Guess he traded in the Ramones for his seventy-eights and Marx for Fox News.”

  Abigail blinked. Becky had lost her. “But they still got back together? Mum and Dad?”

  “Yeah, he went back to Scotland, to serve at some submarine base. They were together there from nineteen ninety-two to nineteen ninety-six, till I was born and she started losing it, so the story goes. But, Abi, you’re missing the point. Check out the mixes. He didn’t stop.”

  Abigail leaned over and flipped through the jewel cases in the box. There were more CDs: one a year, right up to 2012. Cheesy mush like “My Heart Will Go On” and “You’re Beautiful” and “Angel.”

  “My God, he loved her all that time.”

  “I think he still does,” Becky said.

  “But she was mad. Wasn’t she? I don’t get it.” For a moment, Abigail almost felt sorry for Melanie. The poor woman probably had no clue.

  Becky zoomed in again so the two faces took up the screen. “Funny how two people start off the same then wind up being completely different,” she said.

  “Kind of like us,” Abigail said. She immediately regretted the words. She wasn’t even sure why she’d said them. But she wasn’t thinking of Becky. She was thinking of that woman in the photo, wondering how any mother could possibly hold two infants in her arms—two in a row—and then abandon them both.