by Lucy Clarke
Noticing a pair of mud-flecked running shoes, she remembered the evening Mia announced she was going traveling. Katie had been in the kitchen preparing a risotto, slicing onions with deft, clean strokes. She tossed them into a pan as Mia wandered in, a pair of white earphones dangling over the neckline of her T-shirt, to fill her water bottle at the tap.
“Going running?” Katie had asked, blotting her streaming eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan.
“Yeah.”
“How’s the hangover?” When she’d gone to shower before work, Katie had found Mia asleep on the bathroom floor wearing a dress of hers borrowed without asking.
“Fine,” she replied, keeping her back to Katie. She turned off the tap and wiped her wet hands on her T-shirt, leaving silver beads of moisture.
“What happened to your ankle?”
Mia glanced down at the angry red cut that stretched an inch above her sock line. “Smashed a glass at work.”
“Do you need a Band-Aid? I’ve got some in my room.”
“It’s fine.”
Katie nodded, tossing the onions with a wooden spoon, watching their sharp whiteness soften and become translucent. She turned up the heat.
Mia lingered by the sink for a moment. Eventually she said, “I spoke to Finn earlier.”
Katie glanced up; his name was so rarely spoken between them.
“We’ve decided to go traveling.”
The onions started to sizzle, but Katie was no longer stirring. “You’re going traveling?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?”
Mia shrugged. “A while. A year, maybe.”
“A year!”
“Our tickets are open.”
“You’ve already booked?”
Mia nodded.
“When did you decide this?”
“Today.”
“Today?” Katie repeated, incredulous. “You haven’t thought it through!”
Mia raised an eyebrow: “Haven’t I?”
“I didn’t think you had any money.”
“I’ll manage.”
The oil began to crackle and spit. “And what, Finn’s just taking a sabbatical? I’m sure the radio station will be thrilled.”
“He’s handed in his notice.”
“But he loved that job … ”
“Is that right?” Mia said, looking directly at her. The air in the kitchen seemed to contract.
Then Mia picked up her water bottle, pushed her earphones in, and left. The pan started to smoke, so Katie snapped off the stove. She felt a hot flash of anger and took three strides across the kitchen to follow, but then, as she heard the tread of Mia’s shoes along the hallway, the turning of the latch, and finally the slam of the door, Katie realized that what she felt most acutely was not anger or even hurt, it was relief. Mia was no longer her responsibility: she was Finn’s.
*
It was mid-afternoon when the phone rang. Ed glanced up from his laptop; Katie shook her head. She had refused to speak to anyone, allowing her voicemail to record friends’ messages of condolence that were punctuated with awkward apologies and strained pauses.
The machine clicked on. “Hello. It’s Mr. Spire here from the Foreign Office in London.”
A nerve in her eyelid flickered. It was Ed who reached for the phone just before the message ended. “This is Katie’s fiancé.” He looked across to her and said, “Yes, she’s with me now.” He nodded at her to take the phone.
She held it at arm’s length, as if it were a gun she was being asked to put to her head. Mr. Spire had called twice since Mia’s death, first to request permission for an autopsy to go ahead, and later to discuss the repatriation of Mia’s body. After a moment, Katie pressed her lips together and cleared her throat. Bringing the phone towards her mouth, she said slowly, “This is Katie.”
“I hope this is a convenient time to talk?”
“Yes, fine.” The dry, musty warmth of the central heating caught at the back of her throat.
“The British Consulate in Bali have been in touch. They have some further news concerning Mia’s death.”
She closed her eyes. “Go on.”
“In cases such as Mia’s, a toxicology report is sometimes requested as part of the autopsy procedure. I have a copy of it in front of me, which I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Right.”
“The results indicate that at the time of death, Mia was intoxicated. Her blood alcohol content was 0.13, which means she may have had impaired reflexes and reaction times.” He paused. “And there’s something else.”
She moved into the living room doorway and gripped the wooden frame, anchoring herself.
“The Balinese police have interviewed two witnesses who claim to have seen Mia on the evening of her death.” He hesitated and she sensed he was struggling with something. “Katie, I’m very sorry, but in their statement, they have said that Mia jumped.”
The ground pitched, her stomach dropped away. She hinged forward from the waist. Footsteps crossed the living room and she felt Ed’s hand on her back. She pushed him away, straightening. “You think she … ” Her voice was strained like elastic set to snap. “You think it was suicide?”
“I am afraid that based on witness statements and the autopsy, the cause of death has been established as suicide.”
Katie reached a hand to her forehead.
“I understand this must be incredibly hard—”
“The witnesses, who are they?”
“I have copies of their statements.” She heard the creak of a chair and pictured him leaning across a wide desk to reach them. “Yes, here. The witnesses are a 30-year-old couple who were honeymooning in Bali. In their statement, they say that they had taken an evening walk along the lower cliff path in Umanuk and paused at a lookout point—this was close to midnight. A young woman, matching Mia’s description, ran past them looking extremely anxious. The male witness asked if she needed help and Mia is said to have responded, ‘No.’ She then disappeared along what used to be the upper cliff path, which has apparently been disused for several years. Between five and eight minutes later, the witnesses looked up and saw Mia standing very near the cliff’s edge. The report says that they were concerned for her safety, but before they were able to act, she jumped.”
“My God.” Katie began to tremble.
Mr. Spire waited a moment before continuing. “The autopsy suggested that, from the injuries sustained, it is likely that Mia went over the cliff edge facing forwards, which collaborates with the witnesses’ reports.” He continued to expand on further details, but Katie was no longer listening. Her mind had already drifted to the cliff top.
He’s wrong, Mia, isn’t he? You didn’t jump. I won’t believe it. What I said when you called—oh, God, please don’t let what I said …
“Katie,” he was saying, “the arrangements are in place to have Mia’s body repatriated to the UK a week on Wednesday.” He required details of the funeral parlor she had selected, and then the call ended.
She felt shooting pains behind her eyes and pressed the arched bones beneath her eyebrows with her thumb and index finger. In the apartment below the baby was wailing.
Ed turned her slowly to face him.
“They are saying it was suicide,” she said in a small, strained voice. “But it wasn’t.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You will get through this, Katie.”
But how could he know? She hadn’t told him about the terrible argument she’d had with Mia. She hadn’t told him of the hateful, shameful things she’d said. She hadn’t told him about the anger and hurt that had been festering between them for months. She hadn’t told Ed any of this because there are some currents in a relationship between sisters that are so dark and run so deep, it’s better for the people swimming on the surface never to know what’s beneath.
She turned from Ed and stole to her room, where she lay on the bed with her eyes closed, trying to fix on something good between
her and Mia. Her thoughts led her back to the last time she had seen her, as they hugged good-bye at the airport. She recalled the willowy feel of Mia’s body, the muscular ridges of her forearms, and the press of her collarbone.
Katie would have held on for longer, treasured every detail, had she known it would be the last time she’d feel her sister in her arms.
2
Mia
(London, October Last Year)
Mia felt the soft cushion of her sister’s cheek pressed against hers as they held each other. She absorbed the curve of her chest, the slightness of her shoulders, the way Katie had to stand on the balls of her feet to reach.
Mia and Katie rarely hugged. There had been a time, as children, when they were entirely uninhibited with each other’s bodies—squeezing onto the same armchair with their hips pressed tight, plaiting thin sections of each other’s hair and securing bright beads at the ends, practicing flying angels on the sun-warmed sand with their fingers interlaced. She couldn’t say at what point that physical closeness was lost to her. Katie remained warmly tactile; she welcomed people with a hug or kiss, and had an inclusive way of reaching out mid-story to place her hand on someone’s arm.
The last time they had embraced like this must have been on the morning of their mother’s funeral, a year ago. Dressed in black, they had exchanged forthright words on the narrow landing of their childhood home. Eventually it was Katie who had extended her arms when, in truth, the gesture should have been Mia’s. They had clasped each other and, in whispers broken with relief, a truce was made. But not maintained.
Now, as they held one another in the checkin area at Heathrow, Mia felt a tightening in her throat and the prick of tears beginning beneath her eyelids. She stiffened and let go. She wouldn’t look at Katie as she picked up her backpack and hoisted it over her shoulders, tugging her hair free from beneath it.
“So this is it,” Katie said.
“I suppose so.”
“Got everything?”
“Yes.”
“Passport? Tickets? Currency?”
“Everything.”
“And Finn’s meeting you shortly?”
“Yes.” Mia had arranged it so his and Katie’s paths wouldn’t have to cross. “Thanks for bringing me,” she added, touched that Katie had taken the day off work to do so. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to say good-bye properly.” Katie was dressed in a well-cut gray dress beneath a light caramel jacket. She slipped her hands into the wide pockets. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you recently.”
Her gaze slid to the floor; she’d been finding reasons to stay away.
“Mia,” she said, taking a small step forward. “I know it’s probably seemed like I’m not happy for you—about you traveling. It’s just hard. You leaving. That’s all.”
“I know.”
Katie reached out and took her hands. Her sister’s fingers were warm and dry from her pockets and her own felt clammy within them. “I’m sorry if London hasn’t been right for you. I feel like I pushed you into it.” Katie twisted Mia’s silver thumb ring between her fingers as she said, “I just thought, after Mum, it would be good for us to stay together. I know you’ve been having a tough time lately—and I’m sorry if you haven’t felt like you could come to me.”
An oily slick of guilt slid down the back of Mia’s throat: How could I come to you?
She thought back to the day she’d booked this trip. She had woken on their bathroom floor, her cheek pressed into the cool, tiled floor, which smelled of bleach. Her dress—a jade one of Katie’s—had twisted around her waist and her shoes had been abandoned, one beneath the sink, the other caught on the pedal of the bin.
Katie, wrapped in a soft blue towel, had been standing in the doorway. “Oh, Mia … ”
Mia’s head had throbbed and the sour taste of spirits furred the back of her throat. She had pushed herself upright and a bolt of pain clenched at her temples. Snapshots of her evening flashed in her mind: the low-lit red booth, the empty whisky glasses, the grungy beat of an R&B track, the musky tang of sweat in the air, another round, a cheer of male voices, a familiar face, the irrepressible desire for risk. She remembered slinging her bag over her shoulder, tipping the final whisky down her throat, and then weaving along a darkened corridor. The memory of what happened next was so fresh and laced with so much shame, that she knew she had to leave. Leave London. Leave her sister.
A passenger announcement boomed over the loudspeaker, bringing her back to the present.
Katie said, “I worry about you.”
Mia withdrew her hand, pretending to adjust her backpack straps. “I’ll be fine.”
They both turned as a middle-aged couple hurtled past, the man muttering, “Christ!” as he pushed a luggage trolley behind his wife, who was struggling to run in heels, her painted fingernails gripping a bundle of documents. The man glanced across at Katie. Even when rushing for planes, even when their wives were at their sides, men couldn’t help but look. They were drawn to her like bees to a honey pot, or like flies to shit as Mia had once said in anger. It wasn’t just Katie’s petite figure or honey-blonde hair, it was a warm confidence that breathed through her pores, saying I know who I am.
Katie didn’t notice the admiring glance as her attention had been caught by someone else. Finn came loping towards them wearing his daily uniform of T-shirt, jeans, and Converse sneakers. A tattered army-green backpack hung easily off one shoulder.
Katie took a slight step backwards, aligning herself with Mia, and fed her hands deep into her pockets.
Finn’s gaze moved slowly over them both. Then the corners of his mouth turned up in an easy, wide smile. “The Greene sisters!” If there was any awkwardness on his part, he didn’t show it. “Coming with us, Katie?”
“I’ll be living the trip vicariously from all the e-mails Mia will be sending.”
Mia smiled. “Hint duly noted.”
An airport vehicle towing a row of luggage trolleys beeped as it rolled towards them, causing the three of them to bunch together.
“So how are things?” Finn asked Katie. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has. Everything is fine, thank you. Work’s busy. But good. And you? How are you?”
“Feeling pretty pleased about having a year off.”
“You both must be. It’s California first?”
“Yes, for a few weeks of coast-side cruising, and then on to Australia.”
“Sounds wonderful. I’m incredibly jealous.”
Is she? Mia wondered. Would she want this: wearing her life on her back and moving from place to place with no plans?
“Right,” Katie said, taking the car keys from her handbag. “I best get going.” She glanced at Finn, her face turning serious. “You will look after her, won’t you?”
“You know that’s like asking a goldfish to babysit a piranha.”
Her features softened a little. “Just bring her back safely.”
“I promise.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “Take care.”
She nodded quickly, pressing her lips together. “You’ll call?” she said to Mia. “You’ve got your cell?”
“I’m not taking it.” Then, seeing Katie’s expression, she added, “It’s too expensive abroad.” But cost wasn’t the real reason: Mia didn’t want to be contactable.
“I’ve got mine if you need us,” Finn said. “You’ve got my number still?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
There was a brief silence between them all. Mia wondered what Katie would do with the rest of her day. Catch up with a friend over coffee? Go to the gym? Meet Ed for lunch? She realized she had no idea how her sister spent her time.
“Can you let me know when you’ve arrived?”
“Sure,” Mia replied, with a shrug she hadn’t intended. She wanted to tell Katie that she loved her, or say how much she’d miss her, but somehow she couldn’t find the words. It had always been that way for her. Instead
, she lifted a hand in wave, then turned and left with Finn.
*
Pressing her nose against the window, she watched London disappearing beneath the white wings of the plane. They rose through a layer of cloud and suddenly the view was swallowed. She sank back in her seat, her heart rate gradually slowing. She had left.
On her lap rested her travel journal. She’d bought it at Camden Market from a stall that sold weather vanes, maps, and antique pocket watches. She’d been drawn to the sea-blue fabric that bound the cover and the thick cream pages that smelled like promises.
She opened it, clicked her pen against her collarbone, and wrote her first two lines.
People go traveling for two reasons: because they are searching for something, or because they are running from something. For me, it’s both.
She tucked the journal into the seat pocket alongside the laminated flight-safety procedures, and then closed her eyes.
*
As the plane descended over the Sierra Nevada range, Mia gazed at the clouds drifting below. They looked soft and inviting, and she imagined diving into them, being caught in their fleecy hold, and floating with the air currents.
“Not as comfy as they look,” Finn said, as if reading her mind.
Finn Adam Tyler was her best friend and had been since they’d met, age eleven, on the school bus. Four weeks ago she’d called him at work to tell him she was going traveling. She was sitting on the kitchen worktop, her heels dangling against the fridge door. When he answered, she said only, “I’ve got a plan.”
“What do I need?” he’d replied, a throwback to their teenage years when a plan, if conceived by one of them, had to be adhered to by the other.
She grinned. “Your passport, a resignation letter, a backpack, and a typhoid jab.”
There was a pause. Then, “Mia, what have you done?”
“Reserved two round-the-world tickets: America, Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, Samoa, Vietnam, and Cambodia. The flights leave in four weeks. You coming?”
There was silence. It had hung between them long enough for her to wonder whether her impulsiveness had been a mistake, whether he’d say of course he couldn’t just up and leave his job.
