by Lucy Clarke
If someone had watched Katie and Mia, she wondered whether they’d have guessed they were sisters. Katie’s fair features were distinct from Mia’s strikingly dark looks, but someone paying attention might have noticed that their lips shared an equal fullness, or that their eyebrows followed the exact same arch. If they had listened closely they would catch crisply articulated word endings from years of good schooling, but might have noticed that they still mispronounced the word “irritable,” both placing the emphasis on the second syllable, not the first.
Vivid memories of Mia flew into her thoughts, details from their childhood she hadn’t thought of in years: lying together in the sun-warmed rock pools that smelled like cooked seaweed; doing handstands in the sea with saltwater filling their noses; their first bike, cherry red, which Katie would pedal while Mia perched on the white handlebars; fighting like pirates on winter-emptied beaches with seagull feathers tucked behind their ears.
Katie had loved being an older sister, wearing the role like a badge of honor. At what point, she wondered, did our closeness begin to fade? Was it triggered when Mum was dying? Or maybe it had begun long before. Perhaps it wasn’t one incident, rather a series of smaller incidents, an unraveling, like a favorite dress that over time becomes worn: first a thinning at the neckline, then a loss of shape around the waist, and finally a loose thread opens into a tear.
“Ma’am?” A porter in a navy uniform, with dreadlocks tucked beneath his cap, stood beside her. “You’ve been here since I came on shift.”
She glanced at the time displayed on the bottom of the arrivals board. Two hours had slipped away from her.
“Somethin’ I can help you with?”
She stood suddenly, her knees stiff from holding the same position. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“You hopin’ to find someone?”
She glanced to where two young women were embracing. The taller one stepped back and took the other’s hand, raising it to her lips and kissing it.
“Yes,” she answered. “My sister.”
*
Later that day she heaved the backpack onto the bed and looked around the motel room, hands on hips. The walls, glossed beige, were decorated by two framed prints of tulips, and the windows wouldn’t open, so the warm fug of other people hung in the air. She noted the television remote bolted to the Formica desk, and the Bible and phone directory stacked on the bedside table. It wasn’t the sort of room that encouraged a lengthy visit, but this was where Mia had stayed, so Katie would stay here, too.
Her first impulse was to unpack, but she was a backpacker now following Mia’s route, moving on again tomorrow, and the next night, and the night after that. As a compromise she fetched out her toiletries bag and placed it in the windowless bathroom next to the thin bar of soap provided by the motel. Exhausted from traveling, she wanted to lie down and rest, but it was only five o’clock in the evening. If she allowed herself to sleep now, she would wake in the night, battling to keep the dark memories at bay. Deciding she would get something to eat instead, she splashed cool water over her face, reapplied her mascara, and changed into a fresh top. She grabbed her handbag and Mia’s journal, and left.
The receptionist gave her directions to the Thai restaurant where, according to the journal, Mia and Finn had their first meal. Katie wound her way through San Francisco’s wharf area as the sun went down, stopping only to call Ed to let him know she’d arrived safely.
Evening fog hung like smoke over the water and she pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders, wishing she’d worn another layer. In the journal, Mia had noted that San Francisco was a “melting pot of artists, musicians, bankers, and free spirits,” and that she had loved “the electric pulse of the downtown.” In another time, Katie might have agreed and found herself smitten with the quirky architecture, the winding streets, and the eclectic shop fronts—but tonight she hurried on.
She arrived at the restaurant, a lively place where circular tables were packed with people talking, laughing, eating, and drinking. A waiter led her towards a window seat; a group of men looked up appreciatively as she passed, conversation only resuming when she was well beyond them.
She straightened her jacket on the chair back while the waiter removed the second place setting. Jazz played through sleek speakers in the corners of ocher walls and above the music she tuned into a wash of American accents. The smell of warm spices and fragrant rice reached her and it struck Katie how hungry she was, having not managed to eat anything on the plane. She ordered a glass of dry white wine and by the time the waiter returned with it, she had chosen Penang king prawns.
Without the prop of a menu there was nothing to occupy her attention and she felt faintly conspicuous dining alone. It would be one of many small hurdles she’d need to face each and every day of this trip and suddenly the scale of the undertaking daunted her. She locked her legs at her ankles and tucked them beneath her chair, then flattened her hands on her thighs, consciously trying to relax. She congratulated herself: she had boarded a plane for the first time in years, and was now sitting alone in a restaurant, in a country she’d never visited. I’m doing just fine. Reaching for her wine, she drained half of it, then set Mia’s journal in front of her.
On the plane she’d only read the first entry, enough to learn where Mia and Finn stayed and ate. She had promised herself that she would savor each sentence, breathing life into the entries by experiencing them in the places Mia had been. Opening the journal, she felt oddly reassured by the company of Mia’s words, as if it were her sister sitting in front of her. She smiled as she read, “Even Finn blushed when the waiter swapped his chopsticks for a spoon. Not even a fork—a spoon!” She pictured the remnants of Finn’s dinner spread across the starched white tablecloth, Mia laughing the infectious giggle Katie had always loved.
She thought of the times she’d heard Finn and Mia’s explosions of laughter through her bedroom wall, great whooping sounds that would go on for minutes, each of them spurring on the other. If she went next door, she might find Finn with a pair of pants belted at his ribs, imitating one of their teachers with uncanny accuracy, or see that they’d drawn handlebar moustaches and wire spectacles on each other’s faces in black felt-tip. She wished she could step into the room and laugh with them but often she found herself frozen in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest.
It wasn’t that Katie resented their friendship—she had a tight group of friends herself who she could call on in any crisis. What she did resent, and it took her some years to pin down the essence of this, was the way Mia responded to Finn. She laughed harder and more frequently in his company; they talked for hours covering all sorts of topics, when Mia was often a silent presence at home. He had a knack for diffusing her dark moods, which Katie seemed only able to ignite.
“Excuse me? Is this chair free?”
Startled, she glanced up from the journal. A man in a pastel-yellow polo shirt indicated the chair opposite her.
“Yes.” Imagining he intended to remove the chair, she was taken aback to find him lowering himself onto it, placing a tall glass of beer at her table, and stretching a hand towards her. “Mark.”
His fingers were short and clammy. She didn’t return her name.
“I’m here with my squash buddies,” he said, nodding to the table of men she’d passed on her way into the restaurant. “But having lost, again, I couldn’t sit through the point-by-point debrief. You don’t mind me joining you, I hope?”
She did mind. Enormously. In other circumstances, Katie would have explained that she was unavailable, softening the blow with a flattering remark, and then the man could have been on his way, dignity intact. However, with the weariness of the day leaning on her shoulders, her usual social graces eluded her entirely.
“So,” Mark said, taking her silence as encouragement, “where are you from?”
She placed her left hand, engagement ring facing towards him, on the stem of her wineglass. “London.”
&nbs
p; “Big Ben. Madame Tussauds. Covent Garden.” He laughed. “I visited a couple of years back. Damn cold. Pretty, though. Very pretty.”
She picked up her wine and took a drink.
The man’s gaze moved to the journal. “Notebook?”
“Journal.”
“You’re a writer?”
“This isn’t mine.”
He angled his head to see it more clearly. She noticed his eyes were positioned unusually close together; it made him look reptilian. “Whose is it?”
“My sister’s.”
“Getting the dirt on her, are you?” She smelled alcohol on his breath and realized from the glassy sheen in his eyes that he was drunk. She glanced around, hoping the waiter might be nearby with her dinner.
“So tell me … ” He made a waving motion with his hand.
“Katie.”
“So tell me, Katie. What are you doing with your sister’s journal?”
She flinched at this stranger’s casual reference to Mia’s journal. She wanted to snap it shut and be rid of this overconfident, drunken clown. “It’s private.”
“Bet that’s what she thought when she was writing it!” He laughed, then picked up his beer and took a gulp; she could see his inner lip squashed against the rim of the glass.
“I’m sorry. I think you should leave.”
He looked affronted as if he’d thought the conversation had been moving along successfully. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously.”
His knee bashed the table as he stood, causing it to rock. Katie’s wineglass teetered, but she caught it by the stem just before it fell. She wasn’t quick enough to save the beer. Golden liquid, light with bubbles, spilled over the open journal. Horrified, she grabbed her napkin and blotted it, but the beer was already seeping into the pages, turning the smooth cream sheets dark and ridged. She watched with dismay as the precise, neat writing on the page began to blur.
“You idiot!”
Two women at the next table turned to look.
The man raised his hands in the air. “Easy, lady. I just came over to be nice.” He pushed back his chair with force. “Guess the game’s up,” he said maliciously, motioning to the soiled journal.
“Fuck you.” The swearword felt sharp and delicious on her tongue.
The man strode back to his friends, shaking his head.
She bit down on her lip, desperate to maintain control, but tears were already threatening. Clutching the damaged journal, she scooped up her handbag and coat.
By the time the waiter had set down a dinner for one, Katie was already at the door. She had left behind her home, her job, her fiancé, and her friends because of a desperate need to understand what happened to Mia. But as she burst onto the pavement, damp air closing in on her like cold breath, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. I’m sorry, Mia. I don’t think I can do this.
6
Mia
(Maui, October Last Year)
Finn laced up his hiking boots in the dark, with a foot on the wheel of the rental car. He’d set his alarm for 4 a.m. and driven Mia along winding roads and hairpin bends to the highest point in Maui, atop the Haleakalā volcano, to watch the sunrise. At an elevation of ten thousand feet it was bitterly cold, although they had been warned that by midday it would become scorching with almost no shade for hikers to rest.
“How much water have you got?” Mia asked, her voice still husky from her doze in the car.
“Enough for us both.” He zipped up his coat, locked the car, and tightened the straps of his pack.
They struck out by the light from their headlamps. He led, wanting to pick out a route with firm footing. Night hiking could be dangerous as changes in the terrain were difficult to judge, but the path proved smooth and descended steadily into the crater basin. Neither of them spoke, the only sound being the loose cinder ash crunching underfoot like snow.
It was still before dawn and the air was dry and chilled; Finn’s cheeks felt as if they’d been stretched taut. He glanced back to check that Mia was close behind and the beam of his light illuminated her face. She’d fastened her hair into a loose knot and wore a black fleece zipped to the chin. Her expression was set and determined.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
They continued on as the sky bled from black to a deep violet and silhouettes of looming volcanoes and cinder cones began to emerge. Fit and strong, Mia kept a good pace; she’d once told Finn she loved hiking for the simplicity of traveling from one point to another under an open sky. Since arriving on Maui, she had spent many hours walking the beaches alone, and Finn guessed that she used the time to think about her father. They had been on the island a week, but she hadn’t visited him and Finn hadn’t asked why. Mia would go when the time was right.
Over the years he’d become good at deciphering how Mia felt from the small clues she gave him. For instance, if they were in conversation and she looked up at him from the corners of her eyes, chewing slightly on her bottom lip, it was often an indication that she wanted to talk about something important, and he’d need to slow and soften his voice to give her space to do so. He’d become attuned to such signals after thirteen years of friendship—longer than many marriages—yet the signs he couldn’t confidently translate were what she felt for him.
He stopped. “Let’s watch from there,” he said, pointing to a raised area just off the trail where they could view the sunrise. The sky had lightened to a soft indigo and he removed his headlamp, threw down his pack, and leaned against it. Mia sat beside him, drawing her knees towards her chest. She yawned and he saw the slight arch of her back.
From her pack she pulled a thin blanket borrowed from the hostel and draped it around them both. He could smell her shampoo: peach and avocado. Heat spread through his body. He swallowed, closing his eyes. It was dangerous to be feeling like this.
“Finn,” she said, her lips close to his ear.
“Yes?”
“Thank you—for coming to Maui.”
“It would’ve been a different story if your dad lived in Kazakhstan,” he quipped, forcing a smile.
“I mean it.” She was studying him closely. Too closely. “I really appreciate you being here.” She leaned into him, lifted her chin, and placed a kiss on his cheek.
He was sixteen again and standing in the crowded concert hall, sweat trickling down his lower back, the taste of Mia’s lips fresh on his.
He saw the truth of it now as he had back then: he was in love with Mia.
In the Hawaiian language, “Haleakalā” meant “House of the Sun.” The first light broke on the horizon, sending pink slithers into the sky and painting the underbellies of clouds silver.
“My God!” Mia said, sitting forward.
A brilliant red sun began to appear from behind the crater, a majestic god in all its awesome glory. As it rose, light flooded the lunar landscape, turning everything a deep earthy red. Now he could make out the towering cinder cones and crater basin, which emitted an ethereal quality that he could only compare to pictures of the moon. Within minutes, the full sun bloomed from behind the volcano like a smile, and they felt the first blush of warmth on their faces.
It was an otherworldly sight; one of many incredible things they would experience together on this trip. He looked ahead to the weeks and months to come—spending hour after hour in Mia’s company—and glimpsed a type of exquisite torture unfolding. He would be able to lie beside Mia, listening to her breath slowing into sleep, but wouldn’t be able to hold her. He would eat dinner with her as the sun went down, but would never reach across to touch her hand. He would listen to all the things that busied her mind, but would not share the one thing on his.
Traveling together for months in such intimate proximity would be impossible, deceitful even. He felt he was being driven towards making a decision with only one choice: Tell her.
*
Mia kicked off her hiking boots and then peeled away the damp socks, revealing p
ink and swollen feet. Dust caked her shins, stopping at the exact line at which her socks had begun. She’d caught the sun on her shoulders, nose, and cheekbones, and stepped gratefully into a cool shower, feeling the water slide over her skin.
They were staying in the Pineapple Hostel on Maui’s north shore. Mia liked the rainbow colors of the dorms and the vegetable patch in the garden and, on another evening, she might have taken advantage of the hammocks, or sat in the shade of a palm tree to read. Right now, however, her mind was elsewhere because on the hike she had decided that tonight she would visit Mick.
She rolled deodorant along the hollows of her armpits and then combed her wet hair into a single smooth rope that glistened like liquorice. She pulled a fresh T-shirt from her backpack and slipped it on with a pair of shorts, then grabbed her bag.
Finn was in the communal kitchen cooking pasta and chatting with a group of windsurfers who’d just arrived at the hostel.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, placing a hand lightly on his arm. “I’m going to see Mick.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me a second,” she heard Finn say. He followed her out of the kitchen. “Wait, Mia. Are you sure? I could go with you.”
“I’d like to do this on my own.”
He nodded. “You know where you’re going?”
“The hostel owner said it’s a ten-minute walk.”
“It’s getting dark.”
“I’ll take a taxi back.”
Finn rubbed a knuckle beneath his chin. “Well, I hope it goes all right.”
She left at once, so she didn’t have time to change her mind. She walked through the small town of Paia, an offbeat place dotted with health-food stores, vegetarian cafés, surf shops, and beachwear boutiques. Sugarcane fields backed on to the town, lending a sweet smell to the air, and everywhere looked lush and green, as if she’d stepped outside after a burst of heavy rain.
