Marshmallows for Breakfast (12 page)

Behind her beautiful navy-green eyes I could see the cogs whirring, wondering what I meant. “I'll be right back,” I said and turned on my heels. Dropping my bag on the bottom step, I made my way down the corridor and into the kitchen, and began opening cupboards and drawers until I found what I was looking for. And then I went back to the playroom, reentered with my hands behind my back, hiding what I'd found.

“So, Summer, do you want to know why you're going to wish I was your mumma in just under eight minutes?”

She stared at me, defiant, but curious: her eyes asked why even though her mouth wouldn't.

“Because, in about three minutes, I am going to use these.” I brandished my kitchen find—a roll of large black binliners. “You see, I know lots of kids who'd love these
things,” I said, indicating the sea of toys and playthings at her feet. “They don't have toys, and even if they do, their toys aren't half as nice as these things.

“Now, if I was your mumma, I wouldn't think of giving all this stuff away because I would have spent hours and hours at work, earning the money to pay for them. She'd remember how much everything cost. She'd also remember how much you loved playing with that set of wooden dolls.” I pointed at the brightly painted set of Russian dolls that lay separated on the floor by her foot. “And your mumma would remember how you used to sleep with that rag doll, and how sweet you used to look, all cuddled up with her.” I pointed at the battered green and pink doll with black wool hair and a missing eye that lay splayed under the window. “And your mumma would know how much you loved to read that book before you went upstairs for your bath, even though you'd both pretended you were too old for it and she was the one who wanted to hear it.” I pointed at the book of childhood rhymes that had obviously been flung at the wall beside the door and bounced back, open, onto the floor. “Since I'm not your mumma, I don't know all these things. These toys mean nothing to me and I don't know what they mean to you. I don't know and don't care how much they cost, all I know is that they're a nice bunch of things that several other kids would appreciate. And would probably keep very tidy.

“So, Summer, I've taken two minutes to explain all this, so in about a minute—that's the time it takes to count up to sixty—I'm going to get down on my hands and knees and start packing this stuff up. Obviously, if they're all tidied up and put away, I won't be able to do that. But, as you said, I'm not your mumma, I can't tell you what to do, so I'm not going to ask you to tidy up. I'm just going to count to sixty and then start putting things in my bags. Either way, I
reckon that in under six minutes, this floor is going to be clear of toys.”

As I'd been talking, Summer's eyes had been growing wider and wider. She wasn't sure if I was pulling her leg, trying another way to upset her, or if I was serious.

“And, don't worry, I'm not going to count out loud or check my watch, I don't want to stress you out. I'm just going to count in my head and then start packing, OK?”

Summer looked to her father. He stood by the door, leaning on the door frame, and obviously wasn't going to intervene. Her gaze darted to her brother, who was also watching the unfolding scene.

“They're Jaxon's toys, too,” she informed me.

“I know.” I shrugged. “Your mumma would care about that. Your mumma would worry that Jaxon would be cross with you because you got all his toys taken away, but not me—I'm not like your mumma.” I unrolled the black bin-liners in my hand and snapped one off at the perforations, the sound ricocheting off the tense silence in the room.

In response, Summer threw herself onto her knees, started gathering up her toys, clinging to all she could in one arm, while trying to right the drawer nearest to her. Once it was upright, she threw stuff into it. She moved at lightning speed, her eye mask wobbling on her head as she worked, her face a picture of anxiety. She scooped and threw and tidied with a fervent energy that was exhausting to watch. Within the predicted eight minutes the floor was clear and Summer was out of breath. She clambered onto her feet, her eye mask askew on her head, her face taken over by a grin.

I smiled back at her. “Well done, Summer, I'm really proud of you,” I said. “You tidied up perfectly, you're a really good girl.” I opened my arms. “Do I get a hug to show we're still friends?” She moved towards me, threw her arms around me and squeezed. Hard and tight. All the gratitude
she was feeling expressed in that hug. She was thanking me for talking her down without a shouting match. She and her father had reached an impasse: neither of them could exit that power play without losing face. She was the type of girl who wanted to win, would do almost anything to win, but wanted people to like her, too. She wanted to do the right thing, but it was hard. I straightened her eye mask, then bent and kissed the top of her head.

“Are you going to eat your dinner?” I asked her. Without hesitation she nodded her head against my solar plexus. “Go on then.”

She broke away and then wandered off to the kitchen. Jaxon got up and followed her. I hijacked him on the way out the door, hugged him and gave him a kiss on top of the head, too. Once they'd gone, I exhaled, tension draining out of my muscles like sand running through an hourglass. In seconds I was almost weak with relief. Every minute I'd been waiting for World War IV to start: for her to throw a toy at my head and a tantrum on the floor; I'd been prepared for bloodshed.

I turned to Kyle, who was looking at me with a mixture of admiration and surprise. “Taking on Summer,” he said and whistled. “You're a braver person than me.”

“She's terrifying,” I replied. I put my hand over my racing heart to slow it down. “I kept waiting for her to completely lose it. I don't know what I would have done then. I take it your wife used to deal with this?”

Kyle's eyes flickered with sudden fury and, for some reason, shame. He gave a noncommittal half-shrug and then said darkly, “Something like that.”

That was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it, Kendra?
I thought.
Every time he speaks to his wife it ends in a row he's drunk himself comatose because of her. So what do you do? Talk about her.

“Summer wasn't always like this,” he said, still mired in whatever hell had descended upon their lives since Mrs. Gadsborough had walked out. “Well, not with me. And not every day. She was lively, but not…” He ended the sentence there. He had no words for what Summer had become. “And Jaxon wasn't so quiet, so meek. He was like any other boy his age. Always running around, playing games, talking. Now all he does is … Not much.”

“Oh,” I said. Either separation from their mother had done this to them or—as was quite possible—Kyle hadn't been around enough to know what his children were always like. He probably only saw them before bed or before school or on weekends. He probably wasn't here for that crazy hour, nor to experience his son retreating into his own world. It was possible—actually probable—that Kyle didn't know what his children were like at all.

“Do you fancy staying for dinner?” he asked. “There's plenty left. It's only pasta and salad but, despite Summer's behavior, it is edible.”

I smiled at Kyle. “Love to, thanks,” I said. Yes, I had intended to keep my distance, but they needed help. It'd shown in the forlorn, desperate way Summer had hugged me, the welcoming look in Jaxon's eyes as he managed a slightly larger smile at me, the twist of bewilderment that had taken over Kyle's voice. I wasn't sure if I was the person to give that help to them, but I at least had to try.

CHAPTER 10

T
here are many things that make me uneasy: people who are nice 100 percent of the time (a sign of repressed rage); those who believe that cucumbers don't taste of anything (they do, actually, and they're the work of the devil); people who use the term
politically correct as
though it means something; my phone ringing after midnight and before 7 a.m.

When the flat's phone started ringing just as I was leaving for work, my eyes went to the clock on the wall in the kitchen area: 6:30 a.m.

I knew instantly it was the kids.
Oh God, what's happened now?
I'd given them my phone number to call me if they ever had any problems or if their dad had … I fell on the phone, almost ripped it from its cradle and asked a frightened, desperate, “Hello?” into the receiver.

“It's Jaxon,” he said, his voice hesitant and small.

“What's the matter?” I asked, instead of saying a reassuring “Hi.”

“Nothing.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, it's nice of you to call me. How are you?”

“Fine,” he said. And then paused. Waiting for me to say something.

“That's good. And how's your sister?”

“Fine,” he replied.

“OK, that's good. And how's your dad?”

“Fine.”

“That's good.”

“You didn't ask about Garvo,” Jaxon said, an accusatory and disappointed tone to his voice.
Garvo?
I hadn't heard of Garvo before. They had no pets. They had no friends I'd met nor whom they'd mentioned.

“Oh, sorry, how is Garvo?”

“He's fine. He didn't like his breakfast—Dad made toast.” Garvo was around for breakfast? Curiouser and curiouser. “He doesn't like Dad's toast. It's always burnt on the edges. Mumma's toast is nice. Garvo likes it best.” Four whole, un-coaxed sentences from Jaxon. Four. I was so stunned I didn't know what to say. “Summer wants to talk to you,” he said. I glanced at the clock again. If I didn't leave in the next five minutes, I'd miss the bus. And then get caught up in rush-hour traffic. I wouldn't be late for work, but I wouldn't be on time by my standards, either. The day would start at a rush, trying to get my little routines—checking e-mails, going through the want ads in the papers and online—done before the calls started. Before the temps arrived to wait and see if there were any last- minute bookings. I started jiggling from one foot to the other. I really needed to get going.

He handed over the receiver. “Hi, Kendie,” she said, bright as a button that had taken advantage of all the sleep allotted to them.

“Hi, Summer,” I replied.

“I'm ringing to ask you a favor,” she said. “It's not a big favor, but it's quite big.”

“What's that then?”

“Will you get us from school tomorrow?”

All thoughts of being late left my mind. “Pardon?” I asked.

“Dad has to go to work tomorrow for the afternoon. And he said we can go to Gra'ma Naomi's house or wait in the car. But I said you would pick us up. At Gra'ma Naomi's
house you can't do anything. She always says, ‘Sit down, dear’ ‘Don't play with that, dear, it's ‘spensive.’ So you have to get us.”

I do?
“Thing is, I've got to work, too. I don't finish until after six, so it won't really be possible.”

There was silence on the other end. A yawning, unimpressed silence that resonated with the patheticness of my explanation. “After school tomorrow I've got gymnastics and Jaxon's got football. So we finish at… Dad, what time do we finish?… It's on the fridge! Yes it is!… Next to the picture of the train …
Dad!
… Oh, OK, we finish at four-thirty So you can come get us then,” Summer said, as though I hadn't just explained to her why it wasn't possible; why her dad having to work shouldn't impact upon me.

If you need anything, anytime, call me. I'll be there.
Hadn't I promised them that? Hadn't those noble words come out of my mouth when I had clipped on my cloak of the rescuer, folded my arms across my righteous chest and looked down my nose at their unsuitable father? Did I want to become an adult who lied to two children with an absent mother and a father who was barely coping?

“I'll see if my boss will let me leave early so I can come get you. But if she says no, then you'll have to go to Grandma Naomi's house.”

“She won't say no,” Summer reassured me. “You need to bring us a picture, Dad says.”

“A picture?”

“Talk to Dad, he'll explain it. Bye.”

Twenty minutes later I was on the way to work, having given the Gadsboroughs a photo of myself for the school records so Kyle could sign a piece of paper adding me to the list of people who could collect Jaxon and Summer. After a bit of argy- bargy of “No, I couldn't possiblies” and “No, you musts,” Kyle had handed over the keys to his wife's car so I
could drive the kids home. A silver Mercedes that was at least ten years old, with two booster seats in the back for the kids. It sat under a green plastic cover outside Kyle's house, unused, unloved, unnoticed since she'd left them behind. It was creepy holding the keys to the car of a woman who wasn't here anymore. It was almost like being asked to step into a dead woman's shoes, take her place in the family.

Especially when I didn't understand why she'd left it behind. If she'd left in the middle of the night, as Kyle said she did, then wouldn't she need to take her car? To help with the getaway and to have something to sell if she needed money? If I hadn't known that they'd been away together, and if I hadn't been there while Kyle had spoken to her on the phone that first day, I'd wonder if he'd done away with her. Had buried her somewhere. Instead, I was wondering what had happened to make her so desperate and determined to get away and start over on her own. What was the terrible thing that had happened that made her so desperate and determined to flee that she left her children behind?

I'd said we'd be OK on the bus, but Kyle had been firm: if I was going to pick them up, then I'd either have to drive them or get a taxi. Drive it was. In a vanished woman's car.

Gabrielle sat back in her chair, stretching out her curvaceous body.

I'd just asked her if it was OK if I finished early the next day and told her why. Now, she was sitting back, contemplating me in a quiet, faintly disturbed manner. Eventually she said, “Let me get this straight: you haven't got children of your own, but you've got to leave early to pick them up?”

“That's about it, yes,” I replied, knowing how it sounded. Had I been on the other end of that conversation my reaction would have been identical. Something along the lines
of
“Are you taking the piss?”
“I'll come in early tomorrow and work back on Wednesday.”