The Sea Sisters (9 page)

‘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.

K
atie glanced up at the floodlit sign for San Francisco International. A rush of passengers with luggage trolleys weaved around her, and a busy procession of taxis, minibuses and coaches ducked in and out of drop-off bays. A car horn hooted twice. Headlights were flashed. A door slammed. Then overhead, the roar of a plane taking off filled the sky.

She slipped her phone from her pocket, dialled, and walked into the airport.

Ed answered. She could hear a tap running in the background and imagined him standing in a towel, smoothing shaving foam over his face.

‘It’s me.’ She hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days and the weakness in her voice startled her. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m at the airport.’

‘Where?’

‘San Francisco.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m flying home.’

She heard him turn off the tap. ‘What’s happened? Are you okay?’

When she had set out on this journey, she knew Ed had questioned the wisdom of her decision. It was one thing for Mia to travel to far-flung corners of the world, but Katie was cut from a different cloth and he’d doubted she’d be able to cope so soon after losing her sister. ‘I can’t do this,’ she admitted.

‘Katie—’

‘I really wanted to. I can’t bear to think that …’ She broke off as tears slipped onto her cheeks.

‘It’s okay, darling.’

She swiped at the tears with the back of her hand. It wasn’t okay. She had only been in America for twelve days. Leaving England she’d felt certain that retracing Mia’s route would bring her closer to understanding what happened, yet the further she travelled, the more distance she felt from Mia. She hadn’t danced till dawn in San Francisco’s downtown, or swum in her underwear in the Pacific; she hadn’t the energy to hike into Yosemite to look down from the tops of waterfalls, or gaze up at age-old redwoods; neither did she have the courage to stay in the colourful hostels Mia and Finn had visited, or put up a tent beneath a sky of stars. She could no more travel like her sister than she could understand her.