by Galaxy Craze
“What about you, darling?” my father asked me.
“I became friends with a girl name Sati.” I thought just by saying her name he would see her; he would know all about her.
Our mother walked into the kitchen. She looked around at the things inside, as though seeing them for the first time. In place of the wooden table that Porridge had used as a scratching post was a modern table with stainless steel legs.
“You took down the painting of the people at the beach,” she said.
“It’s at the framer’s,” our father said to her.
She touched the tabletop and then walked to the garden doors, where she stood looking out through the square glass panes. Then she turned and walked back to the table. She pulled out a chair and sat down quietly, as though she were a visitor.
“Tea?” our father said.
“Yes, please,” Mum said, rubbing her eyes.
He poured her a cup and carried it over, placing it on the table before her. She watched the steam rise into the air, then lifted the cup to her lips.
“I haven’t had a decent cup since we left. The Americans cannot make a cup of tea to save their lives.”
He laughed, slightly, but there was something else settling into his face. He turned to the stove, taking down the large frying pan from the rack, cutting a piece of butter.
“Lucy,” he said, “I went to India on business, and when I came back all of you were gone and there was a note on the table for me.”
My mother put both hands around her cup of tea.
“I don’t understand why you left. I really don’t. You knew I’d be back in a week or two. It’s not fair anymore.”
“We wanted to get away too,” she said, but she did not look at him. “I never expected to stay this long, it just happened.”
“It just happened? Do you ever think about anybody else?”
She looked at him angrily.
“How do you think I felt, coming home again to this empty house?” He touched the handle of the frying pan, watching the butter melt, waiting for an answer.
“We spoke about this on the telephone,” she said.
“Lucy, I hardly recognized your voice when you phoned from California. You sounded like someone else.”
“It was probably the connection,” she said. She held the tea steady in her hands, the expression on her face blank and aloof.
“Are you enlightened now? Or happy, finally?” Our father did not raise his voice, but it was as though small stones were spitting from his mouth.
The tea spilled over the sides of our mother’s cup as she lowered it to the saucer. She sat looking at her hands on the table. On her left hand she still wore her rose-gold wedding band.
He had broken the eggs in the blue-and-white bowl, added milk, salt, and pepper. He fried the toast in the pan and cut the tomato and mushrooms in half.
In the morning light, her eyes looked tired and her skin dry like paper. “Breakfast won’t be ready for at least fifteen minutes, why don’t you two take your cases up to your rooms,” our father said. His back was turned to us.
I was afraid to leave the kitchen. In the past, when they had been apart and came back together, my father would stare at my mother as if she were the only person in the room, the only window with a view. Since we arrived this morning, they had hardly looked at each other.
Eden ran ahead of me, up the stairs to his room. He opened the door but stopped inside, looking around.
“What is it?” I said.
“My model airplanes and army tanks,” he said.
They were not on the top of the chest of drawers where he had left them. There was a glass of water and an ashtray. The bedsheets had been pulled up messily, and in the corner were a guitar, men’s jeans, and a pair of shoes. I recognized the guitar as belonging to a friend of our father’s named Clovis, who spent most of the year in India and stayed at his friends’ houses when he came back to town.
Eden turned in a circle in the small room. He opened the cupboard door and found his models in a box, piled together. He sat down on the bed, taking out one at a time, making sure they were not broken.
My bedroom seemed the same as I had left it. I walked over to the painted chest of drawers with the wooden hairbrush and bowl of odd hair clips and elastic bands. I opened one of the drawers and took out a pale green shirt that had been one of my favorites. It smelled faintly of washing soap.
I sat down on the bottom bunk, looking at the porthole window. I was back in my bedroom. I thought of the bridge I had imagined the first day in California, a bridge that connected us through the sky. From the window I could see the tops of the houses across the street: windows and chimneys.
I opened the doors of my wardrobe, looking at the clothes on the hangers. I still had the navy dress my grandmother from America bought me when she came to visit and took me to the ballet. I held it against me; I had the feeling I should dress up for the day. I put it on and pulled the zipper up the back. When I looked in the mirror it looked as though my arms were too long, hanging down from the satin cuffs of the dress. It was too tight across my chest.
There used to be an old lady down the road who dressed like a young girl. She wore plaits with ribbons in her hair and red rouge painted in circles on her cheeks. I reminded myself of her. I brushed my hair, stepping closer to the mirror, just looking. Then I unzipped the dress and put it back on the hanger.
As I was closing the wardrobe door, I saw a cloth bag made of floral pattern fabric. The women in Sloane Square who wore capri trousers and ballerina flats carried these bags. They looked as though they were for toiletries, but they used them as handbags and overnight cases.
Inside the bag were clothes. I pulled out what I thought was a blouse, but when I held it up I could see that it was a dress for a little girl, a white eyelet dress for a three- or four-year-old. I looked at it, wondering if it had belonged to me when I was young, but I knew that it hadn’t.
From the bedroom window I could see the city street below, the tops of cars, and the people walking quickly as though they were gliding on ice. A pigeon landed on a windowsill, then flew away. I thought, If I stand here long enough, I’ll see the children coming home from school, the people coming home from work, the lights going on in the houses, and the lights going off again.
I wondered what Sati was doing now and the other girls on the ashram: dressing for darshan, running across the grass in the night, working in the stables with Valerie. I hoped Sati missed me, the way I missed her. I said a prayer that she did. I wanted to take a photograph of myself, of my bedroom, of the front of our house, and send it to her. I wanted her to know where I lived.
I imagined the things Sati and Valerie would do together. I wondered if Sati would invite her to sleep over, in the loft bed, and spell words with her finger on her back. Would she write the words I love you? I shook my head. “No,” I said, alone in my room. No, she would not write I love you on her back. That was something Sati would only say to me.
I had taken the clothes she had lent me to wear to kids’ night with Parvati and never returned them. They were in my suitcase, the blouse and the dark tight jeans. I thought I would put them on, brush my hair, and walk down the street in them. I would walk to my old school and stand outside the gates, waiting for the girls in my form to notice me. But as I unzipped the suitcase, I imagined Samantha Fenton and Sheba Marks giggling, laughing at me in my too-tight jeans.
“May?” I heard my father’s voice at the door. “Didn’t you hear me?” he said. “I’ve been calling your name.”
He walked into the room and I stood up, leaving the open suitcase on the floor.
“Breakfast is ready.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m glad you’re back. I missed you and your brother.”
The light from the window fell in an oval against the floor. Outside, the day had brightened. We could hear the sound of the traffic on the street below.
“Dad?”
�
��Yes?”
“Why didn’t you try to phone us? Or come to see us in California?”
My father looked away with a sigh. “Your mother’s the one who took you away. She only phoned me once the whole time, to tell me she wasn’t coming home.”
There was an expression on his face. A grimness, as though he had come to a decision he did not want to make.
“Did your mother tell you that she gave the guru three thousand pounds? Those were her Marks & Spencer shares her father gave her when she turned eighteen. They would have been yours someday.”
“Mum’s never cared about money,” I said
“Everyone cares about money, darling. You’ll realize that when you have to take care of yourself.”
“You had a guru once,” I said.
“Maharaji was a fat man in a bedsheet. A little less flash than this one.” My father held his hand out to me. “Come on,” he said. “Breakfast will be getting cold.”
In the kitchen, the table was set. Our father brought the scrambled eggs to the table in the frying pan, spooning them out on each plate with fried toast, sausages, fried mushrooms, and tomatoes. I ate the eggs, bread, and tomatoes but I hadn’t eaten meat since we left London, and the sausages looked gray and unappealing.
Our father glanced at his wristwatch, a gift from his father, who had won it in a bet. He turned the small windup dial.
“I really tried to take the day off, but I have an important client, a collector, coming round the shop at ten,” he said. “We’re thinking of going into business together. Maybe opening a second shop on Draycott Avenue.” His voice sounded strained, rehearsed, as though he were building himself up for us.
On the table stood the glass vase that opened like a flower. He took a last sip of his coffee and put the cup down on the table. He stood up, brushing down the front of his trousers.
“All right. I better be off.”
He walked to my side and put his arm around me, kissing me on the check. He kissed Eden and then he said good-bye to our mother.
“I’ll come back after the meeting,” he said. “We’ll do something nice together this afternoon.”
Our mother stood up. She followed him to the front door.
Eden and I sat at the kitchen table in silence but could not hear what they were saying. The front door closed, and after a moment our mother walked into the kitchen. She pulled her hair away from her face, tying it with the elastic on her wrist.
Eden took the bottle cap from the milk and gave it to Porridge to lick the cream from.
“Don’t do that, Eden, you know he hates that,” Mum said.
“Who?”
“Your father.”
“But he’s not here.”
Mum put her teacup down. She walked over to the garden doors and stood looking out. She held her cardigan around her. She leaned her forehead against the window glass.
We could not see her face, only the back of her, the arch of her neck. She looked as though she was shivering and then I realized that she was crying.
Eden and I stayed at the table, watching her cry.
As we sat there, I remembered something my mother had told me. When she was a young girl, when she was upset and when she cried, her mother had never tried to comfort her. She had longed for her mother to put her arms around her, but she could only offer a tissue or a pat on the shoulder.
Our mother’s crying grew louder. She tried the handle on the door, to let herself out, but a new lock had been put in and as she pushed the handle it rattled the glass but would not open.
I thought I should go to her. I should comfort her, the way Sati had comforted her mother. I put my hands on the chair to push myself up but felt unable to move. It was as though I were made of stone.
Eden walked slowly toward her. “Mum?” he said. “Mum, why are you crying?” When he was near her she reached for him, pulling him close. Her crying calmed as she held him to her. When she lifted her head, her face was wet with tears. Eden stood beside her, his arm around her waist. She tried to catch her breath. Her nose ran like a child’s, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.
She shook her head, taking a breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing with our lives.” She wiped her eyes with her cardigan sleeve. “I feel completely lost,” she said, as though she were surrendering, laying down the cards.
It was a quarter to ten in the morning.
I stood up and walked to the garden doors. I stood next to her, but I could not put my arm around her.
She wiped her eyes and turned, looking at the clock. “It’s so early,” she said. “I’m going to lie down for a bit.” She walked to the sink and poured a glass of water, drinking it as she stood, leaning one hand against the counter.
Our mother went upstairs to the bedroom, Eden went to watch the telly in the sitting room, but it was ten in the morning and the cartoons were over. Eden said he was going to go upstairs to his room, and I sat on the sofa watching a cooking show.
An advert came on for no-tangle shampoo and conditioner. There was a girl in the bath washing her hair, with a head full of bubbles. I thought there was something familiar about her. Then,
on the television, she was walking through the park with her hair flowing, straight, shiny, and blonde.
It was Greta. I stepped closer to the screen, but the advert was already ending. Greta smiled at the camera. There was something different about her; her teeth were whiter.
I turned away from the television. I thought about the night she had made me take my boots on and off, the rain boots that had scraped a blister on my heel, and now she was on television. When I had told Sati about Greta, she had said that she would have bad karma. That she would never be on television, and everyone will see how mean she is. But Sati was wrong. On television Greta looked pretty and friendly, smiling with her white teeth.
I turned off the television and went upstairs.
I stood in the doorway of Eden’s room, watching him play. He had taken his Legos and metal trains and army figures from the cupboard and arranged them in a circle around himself on the floor. Then he repositioned an army figure, moving it so he stood on top of the Lego wall.
“What time is Dad coming back?” Eden asked.
“I don’t know. He said this afternoon.”
Eden looked at the circle of toys around him, staring into it as though he were staring into another world. I lay down on the single bed, turning my head into the pillow. I closed my eyes, listening to Eden and the low hissing of the radiator.
Later, I went to the kitchen and washed the breakfast dishes left on the table.
I squeezed the green fairy liquid into the sink of hot water. When they were clean I laid the dishes on a tea towel to dry. I scrubbed the frying pan, and wiped the counters. I thought, My father will be happy to see the kitchen clean when he comes home.
The telephone rang and I went to answer it.
“Hello?” a woman said, but she sounded unsure.
I waited a moment, wrapping my fingers around the cord. I could see myself in the doors.
“Is Simon there?”
I held the phone to my ear. “I’m sorry,” I said, “he’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”
I thought I could hear a child’s voice in the background. “That’s all right. I’ll try him later,” she said, and hung up.
I stood by the phone, listening to the dial tone. Then I put the receiver down. I stood in the kitchen, listening to the clock tick on the wall behind me and thinking of the sound of the woman’s voice, like a gold chain.
I went outside to the garden. I watched Porridge walking alongside the wall, stepping through the plants and flowerpots. The air was damp but not cold. Porridge circled the terrapin pond. Twigs and brown leaves floated on the water, but the terrapin was nowhere to be seen. From the garden the lights in the kitchen shone softly, warm and yellow.
TWENTY-FIVE
In the afternoon, our father came home. He h
ung his coat on the rack and left his keys on the table beneath the mirror. Our mother had taken a nap and a bath. She sat in the kitchen, dressed in a brown sweater and jeans, her hair still damp against her back.
The kettle boiled on the stove behind her.
“Did you rest?” our father asked, looking at her.
“A bit.”
“You look better,” he said.
The kettle whistled and she stood up, pouring water into the teapot. “How was your meeting?”
My father nodded. “Quite good, actually. Looks like it’s a go.”
My mother held her hand on the handle of the kettle. “Great,” she said.
She brought the pot to the table and four cups, pouring tea for each of us.
“I spoke to my father,” she said. “When I phoned, Mrs. Stirling answered and told me he hadn’t been well. He didn’t say anything to me about not feeling well, but he asked me to bring him peaches. He’s never asked me to bring him anything before.”
There was an expression on my father’s face, as though he were holding his breath.
“I told him we’d come up this weekend.”
“We’re going to Scotland?” I said.
Eden looked from our mother to our father. “Dad, are you coming too?”
Our mother looked at Eden but no one answered him.
“How will you explain this to him?” our father asked.
“Explain what?”
“The ashram, being away for so long.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’ll say.”
“Mum, are we going to stay for long?” Eden asked.
“Maybe until my father’s feeling well again.”
Our father nodded. “Then what will you do?”
“I don’t know, Simon.”
She laughed, lightly, like a bird released from a hand.
Our father looked away from her; his eyes went to the garden doors. “It’s not too cold today,” he said. He brought his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “Anyone phone while I was out?”
I shook my head. “No one phoned,” I said.
When we finished our tea we went for a walk. We dressed in our coats and hats and put on our winter shoes. Eden’s shoes did not fit at all and mine were tight in the toes.
