Paper Alice

by Charlotte Calder

  Mum looked up from perusing the phone book as we clomped down the last couple of steps.

  ‘Hi–’ she started, then stopped, registering that something was up. My face was still glowing like a beacon, for starters.

  ‘Gunna get some brekkie,’ I muttered, making for the cupboard, my gaze sliding from hers.

  ‘For two, I hope,’ Dad said. He turned to Mum. ‘Tinks, there’s an Andy upstairs having a shower, and Al really, really likes him.’

  Silence. I knew they were exchanging major Looks, but I couldn’t bring myself to face either of them.

  ‘Yes,’ I said grimly, fishing out a couple of plates and bowls and banging them on the bench, ‘I do.’ I suddenly felt myself starting to smile; I bit my lip. ‘So . . . be nice.’

  ‘What else would we be?’ cried Dad jokily. ‘And anyway, if you like him, I’m sure he’s delightful!’

  ‘Dad,’ I hissed, glancing towards the stairs, ‘ssshh!’

  Dad pointed a finger and one ear towards the ceiling, roughly in the direction of the bathroom.

  ‘Shower still going strong, as far as I can hear.’ He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘So,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘we haven’t heard a word about this . . . Andy. Fill us in.’

  I shrugged, still avoiding Mum’s gaze.

  ‘Oh . . . I’ve known him for a while . . . round Uni.’ I was still busying myself, hauling out Weet-Bix, muesli, juice and bread. ‘He’s one of the directors of the revue – y’know, the one that I’m helping out with.’

  The moment I’d said it I knew what was coming. Dad simply couldn’t resist.

  ‘Ah-ha,’ he cried, ‘sleeping with the director, eh?’

  ‘Da-ad!’ I half-glared at him, almost wishing he was still depressed. But then Mum, out of the blue, laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Come on, Pete,’ she said with a laugh, ‘give her a break.’ She turned to me. ‘That’s great, darling,’ she said with a little smile, ‘that you’ve found someone nice . . .’

  A pause. Yet again, I knew what was coming. I braced myself.

  ‘I hope you’re taking pre–’

  ‘Yes!’ I cried furiously, reddening again. ‘I’m not stupid!’

  To my surprise she was suddenly by my side, putting her arm around my shoulder, giving me a hug.

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ she said. Then she kissed the side of my head. I smiled and hugged her back, getting another happiness rush. Interlaced, I have to say, with nervousness.

  ‘Now Pete,’ she said, deliberately changing the subject, ‘have you got everything ready for tomorrow?’ Dad was starting his new job the next day. ‘Shirt and tie picked out, shoes clean,’ she added, teasingly schoolmarmish.

  ‘Yep.’ Dad rubbed his hands, mock-gleefully. ‘All set. It’s like the first day at school!’

  We chatted inconsequentially for a couple of minutes, our minds not really on what was being said. Waiting.

  Then suddenly here he was, coming down, thongs flip-flopping on the wood. We all turned – we could hardly ignore him – which made even him go a little bit pink.

  He was unshaven, of course, in yesterday’s jeans and torn T-shirt, a large dirty mark down the front where he’d been helping shift bits of scenery from another production. Though I could tell he’d made some kind of an attempt on his hair with my brush – without much result.

  I stole a look at Mum. Her face was expressionless, but I caught a glint of interest in her eyes.

  He reached the bottom, and gave a bashful little grin.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey,’ I mumbled back, swallowing. Then added, gesturing idiotically: ‘Mum and Dad – this is Andy. Andy – Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Pete McBean.’ Dad launched forward heartily, seizing Andy’s hand. ‘G’day, mate!’ He laughed. ‘It wasn’t much of an introduction before!’ Then he turned to include Mum. ‘And – Marisa.’

  Who took a step towards him with a small smile, extending a slender hand.

  ‘How d’you do?’

  Please Mum, I begged silently, don’t come over all chilly.

  ‘Want some brekky?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh,’ said Andy with another little grin, the fingers of one hand in his pocket, scratching his head, ‘that’d be great. Thanks . . .’

  ‘What would you like?’ asked Mum, glancing from him to me. ‘Eggs and bacon? Cereal?’

  Andy smiled at her, then at me. ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘We’re starving!’ I cried.

  There was a tiny silence.

  ‘We actually . . . hardly had any dinner last night,’ said Andy.

  Our eyes met; I felt myself starting to blush. ‘What with one thing and another,’ I mumbled. Then added: ‘I think I’ll have eggs too.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Dad, ‘a cooked breakfast for you! You must be hungry!’

  I frowned, starting for the fridge. ‘I’ll get it. Sit down,’ I said, to Andy, gesturing at the table.

  ‘No, I will,’ said Mum. ‘You help yourselves to some cereal.’ She bent down and pulled open the saucepan drawer, pausing to look up at us. ‘Scrambled, poached or fried? With bacon, tomato and mushrooms?’

  Another grin from Andy.

  ‘That sounds great!’ We looked at one another. ‘Scrambled?’ we both said together, then laughed.

  ‘Scrambled with the works please, Mum,’ I said, smiling. I just couldn’t seem to stop.

  I hauled out a bowl for Andy and the muesli; he poured himself a large amount. Dad made coffee and I started on the toast.

  ‘So,’ said Dad, turning over his shoulder to Andy, ‘Al says you’re the director of the revue.’

  Andy rolled his eyes, swallowing a mouthful.

  ‘One of them – if you can call it that . . .’

  ‘Of course you are!’ I cried. ‘And co-writer, and actor . . . You should see his trans-gender vet,’ I added, dropping bread into the toaster. ‘It’s hilarious!’

  Andy made a face. ‘My one-woman fan club,’ he said wryly, and we all laughed.

  We chatted a bit more about the revue, and other things. Dad asked Andy what he was doing at uni and I could tell they were both taken aback/suitably impressed when he said he was studying Pure Maths.

  ‘So,’ asked Mum, glancing across from the sizzling frying pan, ‘are you doing any abstract algebra?’

  He looked at her, his eyes widening slightly with surprise. ‘Yeah, we’ve done some basic groups, rings and fields, and we’re gunna be moving on to some Galois Theory next.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mum with a laugh, flipping the sizzling bacon, ‘I took some pure maths courses in first year uni, but we never got anywhere quite as far as that!’ She pushed a lock of stray hair back with her wrist. ‘But I guess it’s all about computability and logic these days.’

  ‘Kind of,’ said Andy, and then they were off, talking about someone’s theorem and something or other machines, until Dad and I looked at one another in amazement.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Dad, and I cried, ‘I didn’t know you did maths at uni, Mum!’

  She turned and looked at me, raising one eyebrow archly.

  ‘There’s quite a bit you don’t know about me.’ Then she stopped, and I saw another thought cross her mind. Like a shadow, something the complete opposite of fun and flippant. She turned around to the stove.

  ‘My mysterious wife,’ said Dad, nodding cheerfully. But I was still staring at Mum, or rather, at the back of her.

  A few minutes later, when we were just starting to tuck into our eggs and bacon, the doorbell went.

  We all looked at one another.

  ‘Anyone expecting anyone?’ asked Dad.

  Mum and I shook our heads.

  ‘Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses or someone,’ I said carelessly, popping a large piece of tomato into my mouth.

  ‘It’s Sunday morning,’ called Dad over his shoulder as he went into the hall, ‘they’d be in church, surely . . .’

  ‘I think they’re one of the ones who go on Saturdays
,’ said Mum, who seemed to have regained her playful mood, ‘aren’t they?’

  ‘Search me,’ said Andy

  ‘How would I know?’ I cried, simultaneously.

  ‘Sssh . . .’ Mum put a finger to her lips; we strained our ears to catch the murmur of what sounded like a female voice.

  There was a silence, then Dad’s voice cried ‘Yes – come in!’

  The other voice said something like: ‘Just for a minute . . .’ And two pairs of footsteps came along the passage.

  And there, rounding the corner and following Dad into the room, was Wilda.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  ‘Al,’ said Dad, turning to her with a smile, ‘look who’s here – your twin!’

  Despite my shock, it occurred to me that he must be wondering if any more surprise visitors were going to turn up. I’d mentioned to him that I’d finally met Wilda, though with the exams and whatnot I hadn’t got round to telling Mum. Something, if I’m honest, had stopped me.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ I cried, standing up from the table. ‘Hey . . .’

  Wilda smiled, but unlike the last time she looked slightly flushed, almost ill at ease.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to lunch with those friends – you know, the ones who live in the next street – so I thought I’d pop in and say hi on the way–’

  ‘Great!’ I said, pulling out the chair next to me. ‘Sit down.’

  But her gaze had swivelled to Mum, then Andy.

  ‘Oh, this is my mum, Marisa, and . . . Andy.’

  I’d just stopped myself from saying ‘my boyfriend’. Wishful thinking, but a mite presumptuous . . .

  Then I registered the look on Mum’s face. I know it must’ve been a shock to see someone who so resembled her own daughter, but for a moment her eyes seemed to hold something more than just shock.

  Fear would be a closer approximation.

  Then whatever it was was gone, though I noticed she did keep staring at Wilda, on and off. We all did.

  ‘Well,’ Mum said with an odd little laugh, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘Everyone apparently has their double somewhere in the world.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Wilda, smiling at me, ‘that’s us – separated at birth!’

  We laughed, and then Dad said, ‘What about a coffee – or tea?’

  ‘Well–’ Wilda looked at Andy’s and my half-finished plates.

  ‘Or breakfast!’ I said. ‘D’you want some brekky?’

  ‘No!’ she cried, laughing. ‘I’m about to have lunch!’ She smiled at Dad. ‘OK, a coffee’d be great – ta.’

  I motioned to the chair again and she put down her bag (not the red one this time) and sat down.

  Mum crossed to the machine. ‘Cappuccino? Latte?’

  ‘Gee,’ said Wilda, ‘what service!’

  I could see her taking in the sleek planes of our house – the glass, stainless steel and expensive furniture, and felt obscure stirrings of guilt again.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I said. ‘Wilda’s friends with the people in the share house just over our back fence. Y’know,’ I added, turning to Dad, ‘the house that we go past on our run – the one that often has their front door open.’

  ‘Oh, yeah . . .’ Dad looked a bit vague and I realised he hadn’t really noticed it. After all, it wasn’t their bedroom window that looked out in that direction.

  ‘Much less than six degrees of separation here,’ said Andy. He smiled quizzically at Wilda and me and then gave a little laugh, shaking his head. ‘It’s uncanny – I can’t believe you two aren’t related!’

  ‘Well . . .’ Dad laughed and shrugged exaggeratedly, arms spread wide. ‘Much as I’d like to claim you as a long-lost relative, Wilda, I’m afraid my side of the family is pretty well accounted for. No dark secrets there . . .’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Wilda stared back at him, and I wondered if it was only me who could see the chip of doubt in her eyes.

  Dad was turning to Mum. ‘How ’bout you, Tinks? Any dark–’

  Mum, however, had temporarily left the room.

  About fifteen minutes later Wilda drained the last of her coffee.

  ‘Guess I better get going,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

  ‘You sure?’ I said politely.

  ‘Yeah.’ She reached down for her bag. ‘They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  Dad, Andy and I stood up too.

  ‘Thanks, it’s been . . . great. To meet you all,’ she added, her gaze lingering for a second on Dad.

  ‘Great’ wasn’t the word I would have used, exactly. The morning had lost the lovely chilled-out feeling it’d had before she arrived.

  I followed her to the door. We stood there on the front step in the pale winter sunshine. She grinned, jerking her head in the direction of inside.

  ‘Cute!’ she said. ‘Been around for long?’

  I laughed and took a breath.

  ‘Brand new . . . but I hope he will be around – for long . . .’

  She patted my shoulder.

  ‘He will,’ she said. ‘Trust Wilda – she can tell these things. You two go together.’

  We laughed and hugged one another.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Is there anyone–’

  A shadow flitted across her face.

  ‘One of the guys in that house, actually,’ she said. ‘But it’s been a bit . . . problematic. Tell you all about it another time – when you’ve got a spare hour or two.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said sympathetically, ‘one of those . . .’

  ‘Mmm . . .’

  I suddenly thought of all the time I had spent thinking about my ‘twin’, when she may well have been just about a hundred metres away.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, after a moment, ‘you’ll have to come around for dinner!’

  ‘Love to!’ She grinned again. ‘After all, twins have to stick together!’

  I laughed. ‘Yep!’

  ‘And . . . Al?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  She was drawing away from me, frowning slightly. As though she was plucking up courage to say something.

  ‘Wilda?’ I stared at her. ‘What?’

  Her eyes met mine again; she bit her lip.

  ‘I think we must be related. Your dad . . . he looks so similar – to mine!’

  I told Andy what Wilda had said as I was driving him home.

  ‘Told you,’ he said, glancing sideways at me with a little smile. ‘You’ve got a sibling after all. Well, a half-sister.’

  ‘Hardly!’ I cried, making a face at him. ‘I mean, it’s not as though she doesn’t know who her dad is – she sees him every few years.’ I put my indicator on, glanced over my shoulder and darted into the next lane. ‘Just because our fathers look similar . . .’

  ‘Anyway, you don’t look hugely like either of your parents,’ he said, his gaze teasing. ‘Well, you’re kind of a mixture, I guess – a unique blend.’

  Our eyes met; I laughed. ‘Yeah, right!’

  Then we both remembered Wilda; laughed again.

  ‘Actually,’ we said, more or less together, ‘not so unique!’

  A red light was suddenly looming; I braked hard.

  ‘Whoops – sorry!’

  And it’s a wonder I didn’t have a prang on the way home. I must have driven on auto-pilot, my mind was so full of everything but the road in front of me. Andy’s eyes, his grin, his kiss goodbye. The happy feeling in the kitchen with him and Mum and Dad . . .

  Then I thought of Wilda’s gaze on Dad, almost fierce with a kind of hunger. And Mum’s expression when she first saw Wilda, how she’d seemed to withdraw slightly, go into one of her shutdown modes. And of Wilda’s tone at the door, almost apologetic in its insistence.

  He looks so similar.

  The hug we’d shared. And that strange sense of connectedness, blood relations or not.

  As you can see, the weekend certainly wasn’t dull. Nor the week that followed, for that matter.

  By the time I got
back that afternoon Dad had taken himself off on a tour of some of the larger hardware stores, to carry out a reccy on plumbing supplies before starting work the next day. And I went off to rehearsals later on, then stayed the night at Andy’s place afterwards. (Had another lovely chat with Lil the next morning.) Monday night I had a job with Bunters from which I got home late. The next evening was rehearsals again, followed by a party with Andy, and the next was Bunters. Et cetera, et cetera. So what with late nights and holiday sleep-ins, I barely saw Dad, let alone got the chance to raise the subject of mystery family members, until the following weekend.

  I did have a little chat to Mum late one night after Dad had gone to bed, but something stopped me telling her what my ‘twin’ had said about our fathers’ resemblance. She did agree that Wilda and I were very similar looking, though not so much, she was quick to add, in personality.

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’ I asked, leaning against the study doorway, wondering whether to be offended.

  Mum, sorting through paperwork in front of her laptop, shrugged carelessly.

  ‘Oh . . . I d’know. She seems a bit . . . more worldly than you, that’s all.’

  ‘What d’you mean,’ I repeated irritably, even though I knew perfectly well, ‘more “worldly”?’

  Mum, still half turned away from me, pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

  ‘Well, it’s fairly obvious,’ she said finally, carefully, ‘that she comes from a very different background to you. That she’s had to . . . look after herself.’

  She trailed off; it seemed more like a question than a statement.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I said, ‘she has.’

  I gave her a brief rundown on Wilda’s upbringing. And I could tell Mum was listening intently, because even though she was still facing the screen, she sat very still, her hand clutching the sheet of paper.

  ‘I reckon,’ I finished, ‘she’s survived amazingly well, considering everything . . .’

  For what seemed like about five seconds Mum was silent. Then she resumed some brisk paper shuffling.

  ‘It’s remarkable,’ she said, in a voice that sounded strangely hard and bright, both at once, ‘what the human spirit can survive.’

  ‘Mum?’