21. Nothing Like Barbie
Summer
Roman’s mother and the others left at last, but only after Roman stood up and said, “That’s all I have time for tonight,” followed by, “No, Mum, I mean now. I have work to do.” I thought, Wish I could do that, and also, Is he really able to see things this clearly? Is all of this really not bothering him more than this?
When he shut the door on them, though, he laid a palm against it like he was bracing himself, which told a different story. I asked, “Want to talk about it?”
“No,” he said, turning around with that intensity still on him.
I said, “It’ll be OK. And even if it isn’t, you’re clearly the rise-from-the-ashes type.”
“I don’t have to rise from anything,” he said. “I’m already here.”
“Wow,” Delilah said, because she hadn’t gone far. “You’re really hard to sympathize with, you know?”
“Fortunately,” Roman said, “I don’t need sympathy.”
“Right,” I said. “Time for bed. See you in the morning. Come on, Delilah.”
“Hey,” she said, “I’m an adult, remember? Maybe I want to stay out here and annoy Roman.”
His mouth twitched, at least, and he said, “Tragically, though, I’m going to work out,” and headed back through the house. Shutdown mode, but some men were like that, unable even to identify their feelings, much less discuss them, until their subconscious had sorted them out. Besides, I didn’t get blown around by men’s moods anymore. I refused. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I could feel for him while maintaining my emotional boundaries.
I told myself that, anyway. And then I went to bed.
I woke sometime after six on Sunday morning to the startlingly loud trill of birdsong out the open window and the smell of coffee, bacon, and cinnamon drifting in, and quickly deduced that it wasn’t coming from Delilah’s cooking attempts, since her idea of “making breakfast” consisted of slapping a slice of toast and an overcooked hard-boiled egg onto a plate and calling it good. I threw my robe over my tank top and boxers and headed out to the kitchen, where Roman was sliding two slices of French toast into an oven in which a tray of bacon was gently sizzling.
He glanced at me with some more of his trademark dark intensity and deeper lines than usual around his eyes, which made me wonder how well he’d slept. “Go on and fix a coffee,” he said as he laid cinnamon-sugar-dusted sliced bananas into a frying pan that was doing some more sizzling, this time with melted butter. “This is almost ready. You letting Delilah sleep?”
“Seems wise,” I said, “since you probably don’t want to hear her opinion of your possible new family on an empty stomach.”
He almost smiled at that one. “She’s honest, anyway.”
“She is that,” I said, tamping the grounds and slotting the holder into the espresso machine. “I half expected you to be gone this morning. You seem like the type to drive fast and far when you’re emotional, especially if you can’t be alone otherwise.” He looked at me sharply, and I said, “Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But I didn’t.”
I inhaled the aroma of cinnamon and warmed maple syrup as he fixed the plates, poured probably too much of said syrup over my French toast, and told him, “So instead of asking you how you slept, since I can see you’re still tense and you probably worked out hard for an hour and then did another two hours of strategic analysis on the economics of your wind farm, after which you lay awake for yet another hour wondering why nobody will leave you alone and your house keeps having all these people in it, I’m going to switch the topic to me and say that I’m glad I’m allowed to gain weight now, because I’m sure enjoying the process.”
He sat beside me, gave me one of those stares that made my toes curl, and said, “We’re going to have to talk about this idea of yours.”
“What idea is that?” I took a bite of French toast. Pure custard in the middle, and with the crispy-edged sugared bananas? Oh, yeah.
“The weight idea,” Roman said. “That you’re, what? Not gorgeous anymore? Sorry, that doesn’t fly.”
“I’m still not doing what you want, though,” I pointed out.
“Well,” he said, “there’s that.” And drank his coffee.
“So,” I said. “Your new family.”
He grimaced, but didn’t say anything like, “This topic is forbidden,” so I went on. “I guess I’d say—that must have been some journey you’ve taken, getting where you have from where you probably were.”
“I could say the same about you,” he said.
“True,” I said. “We’re probably not wildly different in some ways. Matiu seemed all right, though.”
“Not bad,” he answered, in another brilliant display of linguistic genius.
Well, this was going nowhere. I was planning to move on to the topic of … well, of moving on. Instead, I found myself saying, “Thanks for speaking up for me last night, too, though I was doing all right for myself. With Daniel, I mean.”
“I wasn’t meant to do that? Sorry, I’m going to do that every time. You said it. I’m possessive.” He ate some more bacon.
“That wasn’t possessive,” I said. “It was protective. Not that I needed it, but still.”
He said, “Call it what you like. I’m doing it.”
I thought, Back off, and then, Why? You wished you could be as blunt as he is. Well, here’s your chance, because he needs to hear it. That’s why I said, “You’re being a little difficult this morning, aren’t you? I could give you more space with that, but I won’t. If you wanted to be alone, you could have gone for a walk on the beach, or, of course, left. Instead, you made me breakfast, so I’m going to plow right ahead. You said you wanted my impressions. I’m not sure that’s true, but Delilah could come out here any minute and I’m probably never going to see you again after this weekend, so I’ll give them to you anyway. Your possible father has spent his life casually wrecking other people’s lives, I’ll bet anything, and still somehow thinks he’s the victim every time. He’s the kind of guy that should have died about twenty years ago, given his choices, but will probably live to a hundred, because those guys always do. Your mum isn’t as bad, but she wants to take credit for way too much of what you’ve done and probably thinks that whatever you give her—and I’ll bet it’s a lot—isn’t nearly as much as she’s entitled to. Your possible cousin would rather not be in the same room with either of them, but he went to all that trouble because he loves his grandfather, and I’m guessing the grandfather is worth it. I liked Matiu, and weirdly, I keep liking you, too, when I’m not thinking you’re incredibly overbearing. At least you’re honest. Authentic. That’s my new word, and you’re it.”
“Which means,” he said, “that I’m rude, but you’re getting used to it.”
I raised my cappuccino glass to him. “You said it. You’ll keep doing what you think of as your duty, too, because you’re a … I’m not sure what the word is.”
“Oh,” Roman said, “I have faith in you.” He was smiling, finally. “Don’t stop now.”
“OK, you’re a … a fair person, I guess. And a responsible one who’s honest all the way through, and honorable, too, from what I’ve seen, and you didn’t get it from either one of them. Honor isn’t a fashionable word anymore. I wonder why not. Seems important.”
“Mana,” Roman said. “Not saying I have it. Saying that’s the word, and it never went out of fashion in New Zealand.”
“I thought you weren’t Maori,” I said.
“You don’t have to be Maori to know about mana,” he answered.
I thought about that and went on, even though my heart was beating hard, like I was stepping way out of line. This was why I’d tried to make things even between us, though, right? So I could be equal. So I could say what I thought. “And however arrogant you may seem, you don’t quite believe you’re any of those things I said. Why is that? My mom may not have been able to give me everything she’d have wanted to, but she told me I was brilliant, not just beautiful. She told me when I was helpful and hardworking, and when I was kind. That those were the important things, and that she saw me doing them. She thought I hung the moon. At least I had that, and that’s not nothing. Who was telling you that? And still, you rose above. You’re a responsibility junkie, like me. You can’t stand to give less than your best or to be less than you can, and that comes from you. From down deep. Which means that if you are Daniel’s son, you’ll probably go meet the grandfather and the rest of them, but you’ll hate every minute of it, especially the idea that they’d think you’re after something for yourself, because you can’t stand to need anyone. There you go. My impressions.”
He was staring at me. Offended or amused, I couldn’t tell. “How do I feel about you and Delilah, then?” he asked, and speared another crispy/creamy bite of French toast along with a tender morsel of salty, meaty, lean bacon.
“You think she’s funny,” I said. “I think she’s funny, too. You aren’t annoyed by her, because you don’t actually annoy that easily. You think I’m a pain in your hind end, what with my stubborn independence and all, when I should let you handle things for me and quit fighting about it, but you also think I’m good-looking, and you can’t decide which part you care about more. Of course, I am cleaning your house and haven’t stolen anything so far, so I’m useful. There you go. How’d I do?”
That wasn’t just a smile. It was an outright grin, and it made me feel pretty powerful, if you want to know the truth. “Fairly good summation,” he said. And my ‘hind end?’”
“My mom was a redneck, and I’m not all that classy myself. Sometimes it slips out.”
“Mm.” He ate some more French toast. “Do me a favor. Stay the week. Maybe I don’t trust my mum not to come back. I thought Delilah could turf her out, but maybe I should give you more credit for toughness. Anyway, you still need your stitches out.”
“Friday,” I said. “Same day your cleaned rugs are ready.”
“Which means you won’t actually be gone after three days,” he pointed out.
“No,” I said, “because you could pick them up in Dunedin yourself. Well, if you had a ute, you could. If you hadn’t stupidly sold it to some random woman for a third of its value.”
“Collect them yourself, then, if you owe me,” he said. “And come out to dinner with me in Dunedin on Friday night, after your appointment.”
“Can’t,” I said. “Job.”
He frowned. When I didn’t respond, he said, “Fine. Friday night back here, then. And when you’re done with your breakfast, let’s go for that walk on the beach. I could use the peace.”
“Which means I should shut up,” I said.
He grinned again. “Well, that’s one idea.”
Roman
It was Friday again, and even though I never spent consecutive weekends at the Catlins house, the car had got on the road as if it were driving itself. Down the motorway and then finally off it and on the winding road through the hills and, sometimes, looking down on a curving bay and the sea, and I was thinking about the rest of that Sunday with Summer. The images were right there, as they had been all week. When I was busy, I could shut them out. When I was falling asleep, though, or having my senses lulled by the green of the bush and the blue of the sea and the smooth motion of the car, they crowded in uninvited.
Walking on the firm sands along the wide beach with Summer under the endless early-morning sky with its slanting rays of dawn light and its wisps of cloud, an older couple and a runner with his big black dog the only other souls to be seen before seven in the morning, all of us watching the tide come in with its lapping tongues of foam-edged surf. Susurration, that was the word for the sound the quiet sea made. A whisper. A murmur. How could the sea always calm me, even when it was wild and rough? I didn’t know, but as always, it was as if the sound and the vibrations were in my very bones, especially down here where the wind and water were an elemental force, not the tamed beast that was a city harbour. If you were trying to live in the moment—well, the sea helped you do that, that was all. The salt breeze ruffled our hair, seabirds wheeled and called overhead, and I felt the morning tilt me onto my axis again.
Summer walked beside me, quiet now, and I found myself wondering what she was thinking, something I never did, because it was pointless. Whether she wanted to be here with me, or had thought I needed company after the events of last night. There was an idea to make me squirm, but Summer was a helper. A comforter. She was trying not to be, but you couldn’t change your nature. What she didn’t realize was that I didn’t need any help. I was over it already.
Walking down toward the end of the curving slice of shoreline, then, and spotting the humped brown shapes lying lumpily on the sand. I stopped and said, “We won’t go closer.”
“What are they?” she asked. Not looking like she wished I’d hold her hand, but seeming content.
“Kekeno. New Zealand fur seal. There, the one that’s sitting up. See her fur cape? And hear that yipping?”
“I do,” she said. “They’re beautiful, but they sound like dogs. And how do you know she’s a female?”
“The males want nothing to do with the pups,” I said, “and that’s what’s yipping. Or with the females, either, once the mating’s over. Men, eh.”
“A little like your possible father,” I said. “Or mine, come to that. Whoever he is or was. That never occurred to me, that we’re the same that way.”
“It’s a pretty big club,” I said. “On the other hand, fur seals are good mums. Like yours. And I’m not so sure they’re beautiful. Like giant garden slugs, really.”
“You have no soul,” she said.
I laughed. “You should go to Nugget Point this week. That’s a good view, and you may see elephant seals out there. If you’d been here in November, you could’ve seen the old elephant seal bulls defending their breeding rights. If you think I’m possessive …”
She said, “And, see, that’s not even a sexy topic, because it’s elephant seals.” Still watching the fur seals, one of them waddling out into the sea now with nothing like grace.
“Oh, I dunno,” I said. “The males are about ten times heavier than the females. If that’s not a sexy topic, it may be an interesting physics problem. And they fight for dominance. That could be sexy.”
She said, “Another fail. Let’s walk back.”
Really? She didn’t like that? And yet I’d swear she’d liked it last night, when I’d been fighting for dominance all the way. I looked at the wisps of hair escaping her ponytail, the pink in her cheeks as we turned into the wind, and said, “So. The show.”
She tensed, and I felt it. “I knew this was coming. Better than talking about my marriage, anyway, but wait—I already did that, didn’t I?”
“Barely. I looked at some video on him. Felipe. Show pony, celebrating everything he does, beating his chest. He’d be run straight out of rugby. Footballer all the way.”
“You think?” she said. “You could ask me what possessed me, but you’ve been married twice, so …”
“And I told you about Wife Number One,” I said. “What’s this show all about? Did you star in a porno? Hope you used a different name.”
She stopped and stared at me in astonishment. “Do I seem like the kind of woman who’d be in a porno?”
“No,” I said. “Which is why I wondered about the shame.”
“I’m not ashamed,” she said, walking again. “I’m just embarrassed.”
“What was it called?” I asked.
She started walking faster. “You didn’t look?”
“I’m a busy man.”
“Or you felt like you were invading my privacy.”
“Nah. I’m not that sensitive. Didn’t occur to me.” I was probably lying, but oh well.
“It’s Shipwrecked. The show. One of those survival ones, based on Robinson Crusoe. I was on Season 1, while it was still a big deal. Making a raft, getting what stores we could transport off the sinking ship, trying not to drown or starve to death.”
Now I was the one who stopped. “Why?”
She turned back, all of her looking like wariness. “Why what?”
“I thought you didn’t want all that. The attention. The beauty thing. Why would you do that?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She laughed, and when I didn’t, said, “First, I wasn’t that beautiful, not out there. And, I don’t know, I guess I thought it would be a challenge, mentally and physically … and socially, too, because that’s a lot of it. Tempers flare when people are under stress. I thought I could just play Good Girl Barbie, since that was why they picked me. I’d be Low-Drama Sweet Girl, get along with people, earn some money, and then go back to just being me. The group votes somebody off periodically, as seen in every reality show ever. Survival of the fittest, or maybe survival of the least irritating.”
“But you went to the trouble to … audition,” I said. “Or whatever. Not something you can fall into.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, because they scouted me. In a Starbucks. How Seattle is that? I was probably flattered. I’d just finished college, and it paid—first because of the scouting deal, and then more, depending how far you got before you got the boot. I thought—hey, vacation I can’t afford to take otherwise. Adventure, before I go be a software engineer for real in some cube farm, and depending on the money, maybe I could pay off my mom’s mobile home and finally get my own place. Of course, I could have just looked for that good-paying job with, oh, any number of companies that happen to be located in the Seattle area, two of which I’d interned for, and done the same thing within a few years, so I was probably looking for something else. My fifteen minutes of fame. I didn’t realize that fame isn’t always fun, but—hey. I did pay off my mom’s mobile home. And, of course, I met Felipe.”
“How?” I asked.
“He was on the show. I guess you really didn’t watch.”
“What was he doing on something like that?”
“It was summer. The Premier League season was over. And he wasn’t a star yet—this was nine years ago—but he wanted to be. He had visions of endorsement deals, but he went for the challenge, too. He assumed he’d win. Felipe was like that.”
“Sounds like a real prat,” I said.
“Maybe, but underneath … he was more than that. That was what—” She broke off, and for the first time, I thought, She’s still in love with him. That’s what’s behind all the reserve. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter. It didn’t work.
Unfortunately, we were only halfway back to the carpark. The breeze had picked up, and there were occasional flecks of foam on the wavetips. “Storm coming in,” I said.
“Mm. I’m glad we did our swim yesterday. And that I’ve replaced the weatherstripping on your doors.”
“You have, eh.”
“I have.”
She tugged her jumper closer around herself as she walked, and I said, “I could put my arm around you, of course. Warm you up.”
“Or,” she said, “we could run.”
“Do you run?”
“You should watch the show,” she said. “Then you’ll see that I can run.” And she did. Headlong. Hair flying, jumper flapping, sand swirling up behind her, into the wind. And when I came up beside her, she grabbed my hand and said, “Fast as we can go.”
Which we did. Fast, hard, and flat to the boards. Holding hands.
Sweating. Gasping. Sandy. Real.
Nothing like Barbie.
Now, I smiled, remembering that, and put my foot down a bit more. Nearly eight-thirty in the evening, and the daylight nearly gone. She’d have got home before me, probably, have taken her shower. If I were lucky, she’d come out in the thin dressing gown again. I’d turn on the outdoor fireplace, pull out another bottle of wine, and when she was relaxed and soft …
We’d see whether I could make her forget.