Читать книгу The Sea Sisters - Lucy Clarke - Страница 16

Finn laced up his hiking boots in the dark, with a foot on the wheel arch of the hire 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 Haleakala¯ 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 head torches. 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 torch 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 travelling 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 head torch, threw down his pack and leant 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 leant into him, lifted her chin, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

He was 16 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, ‘Haleakalã’ 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.

Travelling 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 pink 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 colours 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. Sugar-cane fields backed onto 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.

Two young boys emerged from the neck of a footpath with wet hair and bare feet, surfboards thrust underarm. Rather than turning right into the street that would deliver her to Mick’s house, Mia found herself taking the footpath, which led her through palm and papaya trees, to a wide stretch of beach.

The air smelt fragrant, a crush of petals infused on the humid air. She slipped off her flip-flops and padded through the warm sand, which had taken on the pinkish hue of the evening sun. Her calf muscles and the backs of her thighs ached from hiking so she found a stretch of deep sand and sank down into it.

Clean sets of waves rolled in from the ocean in neat lines, like a watery army. She watched as each wave rose gracefully to a fluid peak and then broke in a powerful cacophony of spray and froth, sending white-water roaring towards the shore.

Beyond the breaking waves a lone surfer caught her attention. He paddled hard as a great mound of swell grew beneath him, and he was suddenly propelled onto it. He rose to his feet and dropped down the glassy face of the wave. He cut two smooth and fluid turns, carving white spray with a flick of the board’s tail, and then popped over the back of the wave moments before it closed out in a boom and a crush of foam. Mia realized she had been holding her breath watching him.

From her bag she took out her journal and placed it on her knees. The four lines of her father’s address were written on a scrap of paper that she’d stuck in the centre of a double page, around which she’d begun to write brief notes and questions.

Writing was Mia’s way of organizing her thoughts; when she could see words physically taking shape on a page she would then recognize threads of feelings or emotions that she’d allow to simmer, unidentified. Talking had never come as easily. She admired the way Katie would flop onto a chair, cup her hands lightly around her face, and air whatever grievance was troubling her. Regardless of the advice Mia or their mother gave, it was obvious that it was the act of talking that helped clear Katie’s mind, in the way a brisk walk on a frosty morning clears the sinuses, and she would always leave brighter for it.

Looking at the double page now, Mia noticed that two questions stood out more prominently than the other notes, and she circled them both. The first was simply: ‘Who is Mick?’

She knew the basic facts: Mick had been 28 when he met their mother, seven years her senior. They married four months later and bought a small house in North London where Katie and Mia were born. Mick worked in the music industry and set up three independent labels during his career; the first two went bust and the third he sold before retiring to Maui. Few of these facts had been elaborated on by their mother, always reluctant to talk about a man who had so little input into her daughters’ lives. When pushed, she had described him as charismatic with a shrewd head for business, but added that he was deeply selfish and never committed to the responsibilities of fatherhood.

The second question Mia had circled was more complicated. Even as a child she had sensed how different she and Katie were. Teachers praised Katie’s positive work ethic and her popularity amongst classmates, but complained about Mia’s disruptive behaviour and the lack of care applied to her studies. Katie became the benchmark against which Mia was measured, never the other way round.

The comparisons other people made, however, were nothing against those Mia and Katie drew between themselves. Mia had sometimes wondered if their differences were more pronounced since, oddly, their birthdays fell on the same day – 11 June – but with three years between them. The year Mia turned 12 and Katie 15, Mia asked to celebrate with a beach barbeque, and Katie, who was nearing the end of senior school, wanted a party. Their mother offered a solution: they would have a party at the beach.

Katie invited a dozen school friends; the boys headed straight for the water and the girls basked in the early-evening sun. Mia left to explore the next bay along with Finn, who was the only person she’d thought to invite. They spent their time digging for lugworms or chasing each other, swinging thick ropes of seaweed above their heads. They rejoined the party only when they could smell the burgers cooking, and then took their loaded plates to the rocks where they sat together eating and throwing the occasional scraps to the cocky gulls that gathered nearby.

Mia watched Katie moving seamlessly from friend to friend, checking that they had enough food, that their drinks were full and that they were enjoying themselves. She noticed how the girls brightened as soon as Katie joined them, and the boys’ gazes would linger on her. One of the party, a diminutive girl who’d earlier been caught unawares by a wave that soaked the bottoms of her jeans, sat alone, deflated after the incident, her paper plate sagging on her knees. Noticing her, Katie slipped apart from the group she was with and sat beside the girl. She touched the damp line of the girl’s jeans, and then whispered something that made her laugh hard enough to forget the cool denim at her shins. When Katie stood and reached out her hand, the girl took it and then followed Katie as they moved to rejoin the larger crowd.

Mia was impressed. At 15, when most teenagers were awkward and temperamental, Katie had an intuitive ability to put people at their ease. From her vantage point on the rocks, she saw Katie join their mother beside the barbeque as she heaped the last of the blackened sausages onto a spare plate. As they stood close, their blonde heads leaning towards one another, their gazes levelled at the sea, it suddenly struck Mia how similar her mother and sister were. It was more than their physical likeness, it was a likeness etched into their personalities. They shared a gregarious manner and a gift for understanding people, both able to read gestures and expressions in a way that was entirely alien to Mia.

The realization of their similarities unsettled Mia, but it wasn’t until years later, when her mother’s cancer was moving into its final stages, that she understood precisely why. Mia was visiting home and had swung into the drive – three hours late according to the schedule Katie had emailed her. A headache thumped at her temples and alcohol fumes emanated from her pores.

When she let herself in, Katie was coming down the stairs holding a leather weekend bag at her side. ‘Mum’s sleeping.’

‘Right.’

Katie reached the bottom step and stopped. Up close, Mia could see her eyelids were pink and swollen. ‘You’re three hours late,’ Katie said.

Mia shrugged.

‘An apology would be nice.’

‘For what?’

Katie’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve delayed me by three hours. I had plans.’

‘I’m sure your boyfriend will understand,’ Mia said with an arched eyebrow.

‘Don’t make this about us, Mia. It’s about Mum.’ Katie lowered her voice. ‘She’s dying. I don’t want you to look back and regret anything.’

‘What, like the way I regret having you as a sister?’ It was a childish, dirty remark, which Mia didn’t feel proud of.

As Katie moved past her, she said to Mia, ‘I have no idea who you are.’

In that comment she had hit upon the very thing that had always troubled Mia: if she didn’t take after her mother the way Katie did, then it could only lead Mia in one direction – Mick. And since all she knew of him was that he had abandoned his family, the second question she had circled in her journal was: ‘Who am I?’

Glancing up, she saw that the shadows of palm trees had clawed their way across the beach. She stood, dusting the sand from the backs of her thighs, knowing it was time to answer those questions.

As she moved along the beach, her gaze was caught again by the lone surfer paddling for a wave. He rode the liquid mountain as gracefully as a dancer, arching his body and turning his hips to catch the right motion. Mia watched him, rapt, and still didn’t move off as he paddled back in to shore, letting a small ridge of white-water carry him almost to the beach. Then he slipped from his board and stood, hooking it beneath his arm as he waded in.

The man, who looked to be just a few years older than her, had a closely shaven head and a dark tattoo that stretched across the underside of his forearm. He squeezed a thumb and forefinger against the corners of his eyes, flicking away the salt water and blinking. He set his board down, removed his ankle leash, and then turned back to the ocean where a final blaze of red sky fringed the horizon. He stood with his arms loosely folded over his chest, his chin raised. The posture was stoic, resolute, yet somehow contemplative, too. Mia was intrigued by the way he watched intensely as if he were in communion with the ocean.

Minutes passed and the red sky faded to a warm orange glow, and still he did not move. Mia knew she should go but, as she stepped forwards, the man turned sharply.

He looked directly at her and his expression was one of affront, as if she had intruded on a moment intended for him alone. There was no hint of his mouth softening into a smile, or his eyebrows rising in acknowledgement. Thick lashes shadowed dark eyes and the intensity of his gaze bore into her. His eyes held her fixed and she felt heat rising in her cheeks. For a moment, she thought he was about to say something but then he dipped his head and turned back to the horizon.

She moved on, leaving the beach in his watch. She followed a narrow footpath, which eventually brought her out in front of a row of beach-front properties. Sprinkler systems kept trimmed lawns fresh and green, and large cars with tinted windows were parked on tarmac driveways. Mick’s house, number 11, was two storeys with a terracotta roof, stonewashed walls and blue shutters framing the windows. Bright tropical plants grew in curved flower beds that bordered the path to the front door, and she caught the sweet smell of frangipani in the air.

She hovered awkwardly at the edge of the driveway. Her heart was beginning to pound and she shoved her hands in her pockets to stop the trembling of her fingers. For every minute she waited, her anxiety doubled. The visit wasn’t simply an exercise in curiosity; it was far more crucial to her than that. Mia had always felt like an outsider in her family, and had taken a strange comfort in the idea that somewhere in the world was her father, a man she was just like. She had come to Maui to hold up a mirror to him, wondering if she would see herself in its reflection.

She drew in a long, steady breath, and then placed one foot in front of the other. When she reached the front door she steeled herself and pressed the bell.