A Corner of White

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘I know! But now I’m doing better! Because that was my brilliant rhetorical swoop. Listen, Madeleine, children on skateboards aren’t being selfish, they’re being children. You were young and a little crazy. That was your thing. I was probably getting my hair and nails done. Or having another meeting where we figured out how to get richer. If you’d flown into that traffic and been killed, I can guarantee nobody would have said: “What a self-centered little girl!” They would have said: “Where were her parents?”’

  Madeleine bit at a fingernail. ‘Well, one parent was there. Dad was there. By the side of the road.’

  Holly stopped. She studied Madeleine’s face then looked away. She was making a decision.

  She made it.

  ‘I think I should tell you something,’ she said. ‘About your dad. About the night you ran away.’

  Their eyes met, and the expression on Holly’s face was fierce and complicated. Madeleine realised she was trying to send her a warning: preparing her for what she was about to hear.

  ‘The night you ran away,’ Holly began, ‘we were in the penthouse suite and I was about to get in the shower when we got word that you were at the station buying a ticket for London. Well, I was annoyed, of course. Of course I was. Your dad was already dressed. He was at the mirror. I remember he was brushing his cufflinks or putting on his hair—that was the wrong way around but whatever. Anyway, so I said, “We’d better go get her ourselves,” I said, “What is this, fifteen times she’s run away now?”’

  ‘Seventeen and a half,’ Madeleine put in.

  ‘Thanks. Anyway, I said, “I don’t think we should send somebody else to get her. I think we should skip tonight’s party, spend the night with her, and figure out why she keeps doing this.” I’ll never forget the expression on your dad’s face when I said that. I saw it in the mirror. It was like he was right on the verge of a tantrum but caught himself just in time. Something crumpled in his forehead and around his mouth, then he set his chin firmly, and he said, “Let her go,” and he said in a voice that was almost a whine but that tried to sound perfectly reasonable—he said . . . do you know what he said?’

  Madeleine shook her head slowly.

  ‘He said, “They’re serving 1990 Château Latour Pauillac tonight.”’

  The room was still.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ Holly repeated.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I got it.’ Madeleine picked at her teeth irritably with a thumbnail. ‘That’s a good wine, right? So then what?’

  ‘He meant it, Madeleine. Our thirteen-year-old daughter was running away and he didn’t want to rescue her because they were having nice wine at a party.’

  ‘So?’ Madeleine shrugged. ‘He likes wine. He knew I’d be okay on the Eurostar. He thought it’d teach me a lesson.’

  ‘You were thirteen. You don’t let thirteen year olds skip off to London to teach them a lesson! You don’t risk your child’s life because you like wine, and if you do, it means you have a problem.’

  Now the thumbnail caught at Madeleine’s gum and she grimaced.

  ‘You’re making him sound like an alcoholic,’ she said. ‘He did not have a problem! He never even got hangovers! He was running a corporation so how could he have been a drunk? He was right to let me go that night. You were the one who was wrong to follow me. And now it’s my fault that you’re here instead of still with him! I broke up your marriage!’

  She was crying again but her mother spoke low and fast. ‘Just because somebody’s not passed out in a gutter, doesn’t mean they’re not an alcoholic. Sure, he was running the show but you can get away with a lot of mistakes in a corporation that size. Especially surrounded by people who are often just as trashed as you are.’ Holly took a breath, and spoke even faster: ‘It wasn’t just wine, you know, it was dope and pills and cocaine, and he never got hangovers because he never stopped for long enough to get one.’

  Abruptly, Madeleine’s eyes were dry. ‘This is stupid,’ she snapped. ‘If it was that serious—if you really thought he had a problem—you should have done something about it, not just run away! Which proves that you know there was no problem.’

  Now Holly’s face softened and there was so much sympathy in her eyes and the set of her mouth that Madeleine felt strangely panicked.

  ‘I tried a million times to make him slow down or cut back,’ Holly murmured. ‘I shouted, cried and talked, talked, talked. I wrote him letters, I even wrote him a poem once. I left books about substance abuse all over the house. But he could always point to someone else we knew and say, “You think I’ve got a problem? Look at him, he was rushed to emergency for alcohol withdrawal last week!” Or he would pretend to agree to slow down, but then a moment later there’d be that glug-glug-glug of wine pouring into a glass. There was always one more nightclub, one more jazz bar. He was so quick to get angry but it was more than that—he had this restlessness, this need to move, and it was like he was lost deep inside himself. I think, if you let yourself, Madeleine, you’ll realise that a part of you knew that.’

  Madeleine was shaking her head. ‘No chance, because you’re wrong.’

  ‘It’s not your fault that we’re here,’ Holly said, ignoring her. ‘It’s my fault that we weren’t here sooner. We escaped, Madeleine.’ Holly separated her words, handing them over one at a time. ‘We’re not trapped here, we were trapped there. Sure, we sparkled and glittered and flew through the world but it was only an illusion of flight. We were trapped in the orbit of a man who was no longer truly there.’

  ‘But—’ Madeleine waved her arms around at the sloping walls, the cracked floorboards. ‘But look where we are now!’ Her eyes were blurring with tears again, and her mother reached for her hands and pulled her up.

  ‘Look, there’s a you-shaped print on the couch. Any other mother would have made you change out of those wet clothes before we talked. You need to have a bath or you’ll end up with pneumonia and die, which would be an unexpected plot twist in our lives. Or the couch might get pneumonia. Even more unexpected.’

  She went into the bathroom and emerged again, talking over the sound of blasting tap water.

  ‘This is too much for you. Don’t think about any of it for a while. Instead, let’s make this like one of those children’s stories where you get cold, wet and bedraggled, but then you have a bath. And you wash away all the terrible thoughts about yourself, and all confusing thoughts about your father, and you just be you. Then we drink hot chocolate, and get on with our brand-new lives.’

  Madeleine shrugged.

  ‘There you go shrugging again. Listen, England is a perfect place for our new lives, and here’s why. It’s summer but it’s so grey and rainy that the whole bath-and-hot-chocolate thing works. Which is not a feature many countries offer.’

  The bath tub was pink enamel with a crack along its side like a wayward kite string. A rust stain on the tiles outlined the place where a soap tray had once been attached. The cabinet door was swollen and always stood partly open, releasing a pale damp smell into the room.

  Lying in the bath, Madeleine looked around at this, and smiled slightly. Her mother was wrong about her father. To say he had a problem with alcohol and drugs was ridiculous. He just knew how to have a good time. He was not ‘lost somewhere deep inside himself’. He was busy. He would come for them eventually, and so would all the colours, then the three of them would fly away together. Specifically, they’d fly to the luxury spa bathrooms of five-star hotels.

  On the floor was the towel that she’d had around her shoulders while she talked to her mother. Beside that, lying in a shallow puddle, was the letter that she’d written to her father. The ink on the RETURN TO SENDER stamp was smudged.

  She stared at it a while, trying to remember what she’d said to him.

  She reached out of the bath now, picked it up, opened it and read.

  Dear Dad,

  Okay, first off, DO NOT RIP THIS LETTER TO SHREDS. Or just, you know, read it before you do that. Thanks.

/>   Now, take a deep Zen breath, and we will visualise ourselves speaking very calmly to each other.

  I realise you are feeling angry with me. The word ‘angry’ doesn’t even come close, right? You’re furious, outraged, incensed, LIVID (that’s a word I’ve never used which might help to calm you down a bit, seeing as you’re keen on my vocabulary extension). You’re as angry as a demon out of hell!

  (Although maybe demons out of hell are not angry? Cause they’re happy to be out of there?)

  Anyway, seriously, I am so, so, so sorry for running away again, especially as this time I accidentally brought Mum with me.

  I have totally learned my lesson, and I will NEVER run away again. I’m done with it. I promise.

  I guess you’re probably angry with Mum too, for running out on you, but listen, the only reason Mum is here is that she followed me. Which you can’t blame her for, seeing as she’s, you know, my mother. She just wanted to protect me. So it’s TOTALLY unfair for her to get the blame for my wrongdoing.

  Therefore, I am just going to ask you really politely, can you, kind of like, forgive us? Or anyway, temporarily forgive us while you come here and get us? The address is on the envelope. And you can have a totally touristique time while you’re here cause there are historic buildings and flowers and stuff in Cambridge.

  It’s crazy to let our family fall apart because of my mistake! Mum’s not all that well at the moment, and she’s probably scared of how mad you’ll be, so she’s not going to call you, and this could just go on forever, totally unnecessarily. So can you please be the grown-up here?

  You know, I have this strange feeling that you’re not really hearing me, even if you HAVE set aside how angry you are. And I want you to hear me, because it’s the most important thing in the world for you to come here and get us.

  I’ll try to explain what I mean. This is the difficult bit of the letter so please don’t get mad all over again when you read it. The thing is, I’ve had this feeling lately that you can’t quite hear. Not that you’re technically deaf, it’s more like the real you is hidden somewhere inside you. Like you’re wrapped up in layers, or underneath a pastry lid or something. I mean, don’t take offence, but sometimes it’s like your delays have gone wrong, or like you’re a scratched CD and you’re skipping important bits of the song.

  This isn’t making sense and I don’t even know what I mean. Just, maybe you’re working too hard? Or maybe going out a bit too much? I shouldn’t tell you this but I did a lot of partying, drinking, drugs and stuff when I turned thirteen and it’s true it makes you feel great, but I kind of realised it wasn’t real. And it wasn’t really ME any more. Anyway, I think it’s probably the stress of work making you not yourself, and maybe you should have a change of direction?

  Like, come here and get us, and Mum could start her own fashion design business, instead of just mending other people’s clothes, and you could do the promotional work for her, and it would all be fun and colourful but also way more Zen.

  I know for a fact that the real you, if you can just get a hold of him again, will jump on the first flight to Cambridge.

  Can’t wait to see you.

  Love,

  Madeleine

  P.S. And can you come soon? What I said about Mum being a bit unwell—I really think she might need a doctor. So can you hurry and come here and get her to go see one? Thanks.

  Madeleine held the letter in her hands and felt a coldness fan right across her body.

  She reached over and turned on the hot tap. Right away it squealed in that high-pitched way it had, as if it was in a blind panic about having to produce hot water.

  She turned it off.

  She stepped out of the bath, reached for a towel, and leaned around the door. Her mother was sitting at the sewing machine.

  ‘I need a favour,’ Madeleine said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll see a doctor.’

  Holly blinked, startled.

  ‘Sometimes, like today, you seem just like yourself and everything you say makes sense. Sort of. But other times—well, not so much. And the headaches. And the fainting. And . . . forgetting things. You have to see a doctor.’

  But her mother was already nodding, distracted. ‘All right. But only if you go and get me some chocolate when you’re finished in the bath. ’

  ‘Make an appointment right now and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

  Her mother picked up the phone.

  Dear Madeleine

  Some time back, you gave away your name in a letter. It was a joke you made about when you broke your ankle, I think, and someone saying to you: ‘Oh, Madeleine . . .’.

  It’s pretty, Madeleine, I like it.

  I kept on using M.T. out of respect, though, cause I thought that’s what you wanted.

  Ah, that’s not true. I was using M.T. to make fun of you, I guess.

  Because it kind of sounds like ‘empty’.

  That was wrong of me. Just like it was wrong of me to say ‘suit yourself’ when you said you were going to a place to wait for me.

  You might have taken that to mean I’d be there, and I hope you didn’t.

  I was mad at you, Madeleine, and I guess I should explain why.

  There’s something I never told you about me. It’s school vacation at the moment, so I guess I’ve got some time and I can tell you.

  Almost a year and a half ago, my father went missing, and so did a high-school teacher.

  The night they disappeared, I found my Uncle Jon dead by the side of the road.

  The thing about my dad being gone.

  I never knew what it might be like to have somebody missing. Before it happened, I remember thinking that’d be tough—but turns out, the distance between how you think something might feel and how it actually feels, well, the Kingdoms and Empires combined couldn’t measure that.

  One time, years ago, I was playing in a junior deftball game. This was when my cousin Corrie-Lynn was just a baby. Uncle Jon and Auntie Alanna were there with Corrie-Lynn on the sidelines, watching. And a ball went astray.

  It was flying—speeding—fast and hard through the air, and everyone could see it was heading for Corrie-Lynn in her baby carriage.

  Jon and Alanna were a little way away from her, chatting with my parents. Corrie-Lynn was sitting straight and solemn in that way she’s always had, and the ball was shooting right for her face.

  I was on the other side of the field.

  I could see it flying. I could see exactly where it was going to hit. And there wasn’t a thing I could do.

  In the end, my mother caught it. She turned just in time and threw herself into the air, grabbing the ball and landing on her stomach in the dirt. The palm of her hand was bruised from the catch, so I don’t want to think what might have happened to little Corrie-Lynn if it had hit.

  The point is, that feeling you get in your stomach and your throat—in your whole body—as you watch a ball spin towards a baby. The terror of that, the suspense—well, that’s how it feels to have my father missing.

  The difference is, in real life, someone either catches the ball or it hits and you deal with the consequences.

  When someone’s missing, the ball is always flying.

  Even on my best days, days when I’m distracted by friends, having fun, even then it’s like I’ve left something baking in an oven somewhere. A part of my mind can sense burning every moment of the day.

  It’s exhausting too, because I can shift facts and possibilities around in my mind forever. A third-level Purple killed Jon and we thought it must’ve taken my dad and Mischka Tegan too. But their bodies never showed up. So maybe the Purple had taken them to its cavern and was keeping them alive?

  Or maybe my dad had run away with Mischka? Run off on my mother and me as if we never existed. Maybe Dad had killed Jon before he left? Or asked him to drive the truck home?

  I’ve spent the last year wanting to believe a Purple had my dad in its cavern, because
it sort of fit the facts, and it meant I could go out there and rescue him.

  But there were other facts too—like my dad and Mischka drinking together; my dad’s reputation—and they kept leaking in.

  It was like, inside my mind, I’d built myself a pyramid of pumpkins but every time I turned my back, its balance would shift—crates start tipping, dirt spilling, rain seeping in between the cracks. So I’d clean up, reconstruct—and turn my back again.

  Anyhow, with all this going on, I’m also getting letters from you that say I don’t exist, and that family who disappear don’t want to be found, and if they do disappear, it’s most likely because of me. At the same time as going on and on, like a combine harvester, about Colours.

  It’s not your fault, but you sure can say the wrong thing.

  Anyhow, lately, that pyramid in my mind has come crashing down, and this time I’m not going to rebuild.

  I cheated on my girlfriend—on Kala—the day she left town, you know, and right away it came to me: if I can do that, maybe my dad did cheat on us. Maybe he and I are the same.

  I already knew he had his magnifying glass; then it turns out she’d taken her teddy bear, and they had a bracelet to make them a pile of cash.

  My dad ran away with that teacher; he’s not in a Purple Cavern at all.

  I looked into the sun I guess, like you told me, and it hurts but at least it’s the truth.

  Or, to put it another way, the ball hit, but at least it’s not that high-pitched suspense any more.

  And he’s not dead—it’s not like they found his body torn to pieces like my uncle Jon’s, which would be a different kind of hit, more savage and brutal, its own kind of hell—but simpler somehow and more honourable. Not so ugly, complicated and personal.

  And one of these days I can track him down, give him hell and walk out on him.

  Ah, even sitting here on my front porch, looking out over the fields, there’s a part of me aches to see him walking. To conjure him out of the sunlight in the distance. The shape of my dad, I can almost see it, crossing the field towards me. Come to put his arm around me, reach out an arm to my mother as well, and I’d close my eyes and just breathe.