‘The competition’s out the window,’ Isobel calls over to Dad as Mimi, one of the gallery’s co-owners, takes the mortar and pestle right out of her hands.
‘Competition is outdated,’ Mimi says. ‘It’s all about collaborative effort.’
Dad’s staring at what was meant to be a fetta pie, before Julian, one of Isobel’s graphic artist friends, swiped the fetta packet and handed Dad some goat’s milk cheese instead.
‘There is that old saying about too many cooks in a kitchen,’ Dad says.
All Isobel’s friends stop work and look at him. I know he’s joking, but they don’t. A few of them give each other looks like, This isn’t Isobel’s new boyfriend, is it? He’s not going to last long with this group.
Dad laughs. ‘But obviously that’s a saying that needs to be retired. So, Julian, what’s the perfect pairing to goat’s milk fetta?’ He makes a face and everyone laughs.
Dad fits in anywhere, unlike me. I always feel like a jigsaw piece that’s bent out of shape. ‘Being a doctor and dealing with so many different patients is good practice for human relations,’ he always tells me. ‘Never take anyone too seriously.’
Emily is laughing as Dad tosses some pastry dough at Isobel. Isobel throws it back on an incline, forcing Dad to leap in the air to make an elaborate save, before spinning the dough on his finger like a pro basketball player. As Isobel turns away to taste the pesto, the dough slips from Dad’s fingers and spins across the bench, narrowly missing a pile of olives. Dad scoops it up and shoots a ‘Nothing happened here!’ glance at Emily and me.
I send Emily a glance of my own: He’s trying to impress your mum.
Do you think so? her eyes say.
I hope so. I’ve never seen Dad try to impress anyone. After all, there was only ever Mum, and then the haze of grief.
But this feels like something. Dad’s bouncing out of his skin with energy. When Isobel smiles at him, he seems to stand taller than his six foot, four inches. When she laughs, he gets this expression like when we go bowling and once in a blue moon his slow-mo ball miraculously stays on course and hits the right spot and, even though it has no force behind it, all the pins go spinning.
‘You two!’ Dad gestures at me and Emily. ‘Get into it!’
I help him mould pastry, and Emily presses olives into the focaccia dough. Isobel shows all three of us how to stack vegies in the pie dish so that later, when you cut into it, the inside looks like a rainbow.
Dad shakes his head. ‘Everything you make is so beautiful, Isobel — your sculptures, your paintings, the pie …’
Emily’s mum blushes, which I can’t believe.
Emily grabs me by the arm and drags me to the downstairs bathroom. She shuts the door and sits on the bath, laughing.
‘Your dad’s line was classic. He sounded so meaningful about a pie, which is so cute but ridiculous at the same time.’
‘Hey, he’s been out of the dating game for twenty or so years,’ I protest, but I’m giggling too.
‘Do you think it’s because they’re our parents that the whole thing seems so funny?’ Em asks. ‘I mean, it’s awesome, but part of me feels awkward witnessing them in action.’
‘Yeah, we’ve never seen them behave this way. I saw Mum and Dad being loving, but to me it was just them, it was normal. I guess that was long-term love, and this is … well, what is this?’
Emily makes a face. ‘I don’t think they know what they’re doing, but you could call it flirting.’
We start laughing again, because flirting is something you read about in Cosmo or see on TV, and it’s meant to be cool and clever, not at all like what we’re seeing in the kitchen. Emily’s giggling so much she slips off the edge of the bathtub and into the bath, and we laugh harder. I pull her up so she’s sitting on the side again.
She rubs her left thigh, which she fell onto. ‘I shouldn’t be laughing. I’m sure if I was cooking with my crush, I’d say or do something waaay stupider than complimenting them on a pie.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’ I brush flour off the back of her magenta cardigan. ‘You’re never stuck for something to say. You weren’t like that today with the guy in art class, were you? Hey, you never told me his name.’
Suddenly she gets the strangest look on her face.
‘Let’s talk about that later,’ she says, and jumps up. ‘If we don’t go back to the kitchen, it’ll look weird.’
The rest of the dinner prep is a cacophony of mixers and knives on chopping boards and chatter, accompanied by a dizzyingly good array of smells, from the salty goodness of the olive and rosemary focaccia, to the eggplant frying on the stove, to the aroma of caramel coming off one of the saucepans.
Once dinner is served, in between all the ‘yums’ and ‘mmms’, Dad asks for a dummy’s guide to art — ‘Seeing as I’m surrounded by experts.’ Emily’s in her element and offers a ton of funny facts, some her mum’s told her, and some, which I can tell from Isobel’s proud expression, Emily’s discovered on her own.
I love art, but for Emily and her mum it’s an all-out obsession. You can see it in the sketches all over Emily’s school books, and the stacks of art books opened up all over the carpet in her room. She even has her own painting room (one of the spare rooms downstairs) and Isobel never goes in there unless Em invites her.
Looking at Emily and Isobel smiling at each other, I realise that I never want to leave this house. I know it’s normally as quiet as our place — probably quieter as Isobel’s always out in the studio — but being four instead of two the last few days has made a world of difference. I hate not feeling like a family any more.
Dad’s looking at me. Obviously I’m wearing an unhappy expression as his eyebrows are creased together in concern. I shake my head and smile.
‘So we’re learning partner dancing this term and, as expected, I’m a complete train wreck,’ Emily announces to the table. ‘Even during the cha-cha, the most basic dance, when the instructor says “right foot” my brain tells me “left”. It gets even worse when I have to step forwards or backwards or attempt a turn.’
‘It’s good to do activities that get your right and left brain working together,’ Isobel says. ‘Try to look at it as another form of creativity.’
‘This is not a good form of creativity for me,’ Em says. ‘I kicked Dylan three times in the space of an hour.’
I smother a smirk.
‘If I’m this bad at the cha-cha, something like a salsa or rumba will be an all-out disaster.’
‘What about the tango?’ Julian asks.
‘Ade, you don’t think they’ll try and teach us to tango, do you?’ Emily’s gone pale; for a moment it’s like her freckles have gone into hiding.
‘You’d think the tango would be a bit sexy for school,’ Mimi says.
‘There’s lots of different types of tango,’ Dad says. ‘With some, like the Argentinian tango, you might dance chest to chest …’
Emily and I look at each other in shock. I’m wondering how I’d cope dancing chest to chest with Theo when just looking at him unnerves me, and I know she’s weirded out at getting that close to Dylan.
‘… but with modern forms of tango there’s generally more space between your bodies,’ Dad finishes.
‘You sound like you know your tango,’ Mimi says.
How? Sure, Mum was from Colombia, but she and Dad never went out dancing. At weddings I only ever saw them waltz or shuffle their way across the dance floor.
‘I learnt at uni.’ Dad looks a bit sheepish. ‘My friends and I heard it was the best way to meet girls.’
Emily and I look at each other and laugh.
‘Daniel, I need to see this,’ Mimi says. ‘Let me find some tango music on my phone.’
She connects her phone to the docking station and a minute later music comes blaring out.
‘It’s been over twenty years!’ Dad protests. ‘Isobel, tell your guest to let me finish my dessert in peace.’
Isobel laughs. ‘I
want to see this as much as Mimi does. As your host, I command you to demonstrate.’
‘Tan-go! Tan-go!’ Richard chants. Emily and I join in.
Dad is laughing as he gets out of his chair. ‘I can’t dance it on my own!’ He holds a hand out to Em’s mum. ‘Isobel, I’m going to insist you help me out.’
She looks up at Dad like he’s crazy. ‘I don’t know how to tango! Plus, I’m about as uncoordinated as Emily!’
‘It’s a good opportunity to get your right and left brain working together,’ Emily teases.
Isobel gives her a look.
My heart is in my throat as Dad stands at Isobel’s chair with his hand out. I look at Emily and I can see she’s crossing her fingers under the table.
‘Tan-go, tan-go!’ Richard chants again and we all join in, even Dad.
Isobel rolls her eyes and then, amazingly, takes Dad’s hand.
‘Alright,’ Dad announces, putting on an accent like Antonio Banderas in Puss in Boots, ‘you ask for tango, I give you tango. Isobel, left arm round my waist and hand in the centre of my back.’ He positions her arm. ‘Right hand holds mine —’
‘This is crazy, Daniel, I’m not going to know any steps!’
‘Let me remind you, you wanted the tango! Forget the steps — follow my lead.’
Emily grips my hand under the table, squeezing it hard.
‘Don’t look at your feet, Isobel! Look at me — I’ll guide you. So it’s backward, backward, backward, to the left, together, and then repeat. Then we travel anti-clockwise.’
Our parents are tangoing across the lounge room, Isobel shaking her head and Dad pretending to be the know-it-all instructor. Everyone is laughing.
‘More sass, Isobel!’ Dad says. ‘Jut that chin out like you’re giving me attitude.’
She gives him a mock black look.
‘Yes! Perfection!’
‘This is The Parent Trap on steroids,’ Emily whispers in my ear. ‘Right now, I love dancing.’
‘Okay, now we’re going to try a move called the Milonguero dip,’ Dad says.
‘No dips, Daniel, I’m not ready for that —’ Isobel lets out a shriek as Dad dips her.
He pauses and they stare at each other, like Maria and Captain Von Trapp when they freeze mid-dance in The Sound of Music. I feel like none of us should be in the room.
If this was a movie, this would be the part where they kiss. Instead, Mimi’s phone starts ringing, the music stops and Dad swings Isobel back up. They smile awkwardly and separate, and Isobel avoids eye contact as she starts clearing plates.
Emily’s Diary
I definitely punished Mum for the whole missing dad thing. When we studied genetics at school, I didn’t speak to her for half a week because even though I could adapt the assignment to trace a physical trait through only her side of the family, I wanted to be able to do the same for my father’s side. Sometimes the punishment was more subtle, like leaving the room if a Father’s Day ad came on TV.
When I was younger, I threw an all-out tantrum in Year One when we had to construct a family tree and I had nothing to put in the space for ‘father’. Ms Lione had told us it didn’t matter if all the trees were different, but I wanted mine to look complete, not lop-sided with all the names on the left and none on the right. Mum did her best to distract me with her family stories and photographs.
‘Em, we can fill in the names of your great-great-grandparents over here. They lived in England, and they were farmers too, like your grandad.’
‘I don’t care what they did! I want to know his name!’ I remember hitting my fists against the floor of the studio. ‘I need a name for the space!’
‘Em, I spoke to your teacher. She doesn’t mind if you don’t have a name for certain spaces —’
‘Why won’t you give me his name?’ I was crying so hard I felt like I’d throw up. ‘It’s not fair!’
Mum sighed. ‘Okay. We’ll put in the name. It’s Olivier Martin.’
I went quiet as I watched her write the name in the space.
She gave my shoulders a squeeze. ‘Are you okay to finish off the tree? You can put birds in, or maybe possums, or a koala. I know you love drawing koalas.’
I nodded, picking up my orange pen. Mum went back to work on her canvas. As I coloured, I said the name over and over in my mind. It sounded like Oliver, which was the name of a boy in the year above me, but it was different at the end. Oliv-E-ay. I liked the way it sounded.
When we handed in our project to Ms Lione, I peeped at some of the other dads’ names scrawled on the trees. John. Tom. Luke. They weren’t as cool as Olivier.
As soon as I had his name, that’s when the stories began. I’ve always been good at constructing something out of nothing. And in this case, anything I came up with was better than a blank space.
When other kids asked me what my dad did, I’d tell them my latest version. ‘He’s an Arctic explorer,’ I’d say and their eyes would grow huge. ‘He builds igloos out of huge cubes of ice, and he once wrestled a polar bear.’
During our writing unit, I penned stories about Olivier as a CIA agent, or a ninja warrior. Sometimes he was a pirate (I loved pirates, especially ones with treasure chests spilling over with gold), but he had a heart of gold and only stole to help the poor. Often, he was Batman. After all, no-one knew who Batman was, so he could easily be my dad. No matter what story I wrote him into, Olivier was always super-cool, and the reason he wasn’t in my life was because he was working for the benefit of humanity. He had a mission, and he had to fulfil it. He’d made Mum promise not to tell me anything as that would be a threat to our safety.
At first when I handed in the stories, Ms Lione would hand them back with a star and the words ‘Well done!’ or ‘What a great imagination!’ But after a few weeks, she started frowning when I handed her my book.
One afternoon, Mum arrived during free play, and she and Ms Lione talked until the bell rang. When I ran up to Mum, ready to go, she suggested we go for ice-cream. We took the cones down to the beach. The water was the colour of my Prussian blue pastel, and the sand was cold under my feet. I knew it was April, which meant winter wasn’t far away.
‘Em, Ms Lione told me that you’ve been writing stories about your dad for your writing unit.’
I nodded. I was focused on not dripping ice-cream down my arm. I was wearing my favourite turquoise jumper that day and I didn’t want to mess it up.
‘It’s okay if you write stories, but it’s important to remember that’s what they are, okay? You know your dad’s not a pirate or Batman.’
‘Well, who is he then?’
‘Your dad was lots of different things when I knew him. But it’s important that you understand he’s not in our life for a reason.’
The ice-cream started to taste icky in my mouth. There were tears at the back of my throat even though they weren’t in my eyes yet.
‘But none of that has anything to do with you, okay?’ Mum’s voice sounded trembly, like the tear that was teetering on the eyelash of my right eye. ‘You are the most loveable person in the whole world. You’re like one thousand kittens and five hundred rainbows and a hundred boxes of coloured pencils all combined into one, and I hope you know I love you more than this.’
Mum stretched her arms out as wide as they’d go.
‘Only that much?’ I said.
‘More than this!’ Mum ran along the sand, her arms wide out. ‘As far as the ocean, and you know the ocean doesn’t stop at the horizon, it goes all around the world. That’s how much I love you.’
‘Let’s turn cartwheels!’ I yelled, and then we were tumbling down the beach, Mum’s cartwheels longer and faster than mine, although mine were neater.
I turned until I was dizzy, and then I fell down on the sand and watched the sky spinning above me. When I stood up, I pretended I was brushing the sadness off me like I was shaking the sand off my clothes.
It’s funny — ten years later I still find myself constructing stories a
round why he left. It’s always ‘maybe he this’ or ‘what if he that’.
That’s when I force myself to remember: not everybody has a noble reason for leaving.
11
EMILY
After the guests leave, Mum’s extra quiet. Daniel’s busy taking out the garbage, and I’m hoping that when he comes back in, it won’t be a replay of last night when she froze him out. I watch her scrubbing at a pot — the wrists of her top are wet from where she’s splashed water onto them.
Our clean-up sessions are never controlled or tidy — it’s all soap suds and drops of water on the floor, because we’re always busy dreaming up art concepts or discussing new ideas. We’ll play Florence and the Machine or Banks if it’s my choice, or Tori Amos or Tracy Chapman if it’s hers, and sing the lyrics to each other — lyrics that make you feel like maybe you aren’t the only one who’s confused or struggling.
Mum looks up at me and smiles. Her face is more relaxed than normal, nothing like last night.
‘Where’s the music?’ she says.
I grin and hit play on the iPod, and we both sing the first few lines of ‘You’ve Got the Love’ together, and I reach over and push her sleeves up for her.
Sometimes I love my mum so fiercely it scares me.
Adriana’s asleep on top of our bed by the time I finish showering. So much for telling her about Theo tonight.
In a way, I’m glad. Even though I wanted to get that conversation out of the way, I’d like some time to dream the whole thing away, so maybe when I wake up tomorrow, what seemed like an instantaneous connection will have faded into what it really was — just a conversation in art class.
My Best Friend Is a Goddess Page 12
