Swimming at Night: A Novel (11 page)

(Maui, October Last Year)

M
ia waited on the doorstep. Even at dusk the air still held its warmth and she could feel a thin slick of sweat under the waistband of her shorts. She hooked a finger into the back of them and waggled it a little, encouraging air to reach her skin. Sweat prickled underarm and beads of moisture formed between her breasts as she waited.

She listened, barely breathing, for the sound of footsteps and eventually heard them, fast strides to reach the door. She took a step back, folding her arms and then refolding them less tightly.

Mick was exactly her height. He wore a loose white shirt with black shorts, to which a cell was clipped. His face was rounder than she’d recalled from his photo, a definite fullness about the jowls, and his hair was steel gray, thinning at the sides, but cut short. He had Katie’s eyes, she could see: hazel with pale lashes.

They studied one another closely. Mia wondered what he made of the young, silent woman on his doorstep. Should she have dressed so casually in shorts and flip-flops, when perhaps a dress
and sandals might have been more appropriate, more like something her mother or Katie would have worn?

Then, Mick chose his first word. It had the force of a slap: “Yes?”

He didn’t know who she was.

Her gaze fell away from his and came to rest on the doormat between them where a fly, caught in the weave, struggled to turn itself upright. When Mia had imagined this meeting—and she had imagined it many, many times—she had pictured an embrace of sorts, Mick instinctively reaching for her, and that first hug between father and daughter sealing an unspoken connection. She had prepared for rejection, too: Mick explaining that too much time had elapsed, or shielding her from the view of a second wife who didn’t know of her existence. Yet, in all the imagined scenarios, she had never once considered that he wouldn’t recognize her.

When she looked up, Mick was still waiting, his eyebrows raised and his head tilted slightly to the side. His lips were turned up in one corner, a half smile. She couldn’t tell if it was encouragement to speak or bemusement at her silence.

“I am—” she began, her eyes searching his face, hoping to catch the moment when it might click and she’d be spared this humiliation. “I’m Mia.”

His expression didn’t change.

Would she have to say it? Did she need to tell him that he was her father? It was a relief that Finn hadn’t accompanied her; for someone to witness this would have been too much.

Finally she said, “I’m your daughter.”

The half smile vanished. He blinked rapidly and his gaze mapped her features, perhaps searching for clues he’d missed before. “Sorry, I . . . I didn’t realize who . . . ”

She remained facing him. After a moment he stepped aside and said, “You’d better come in.”

She walked through a cool white hallway, following it until she reached a tastefully designed kitchen. An L shape of granite work surfaces framed the large room and glass-fronted cabinets housed elegant wineglasses. Many of the appliances had been chosen in stainless steel: a cordless kettle, a double oven with a digital clock, a sleek fridge. The walls, white again, were bare save for an electric guitar sculpted into a clock, and four discreet Bose speakers pumping out a Neil Young track.

Mick picked up a slim remote from a glass dining table piled with magazines, song sheets, and mail, and stopped the music. He looked shaken. “This is a surprise.”

Mia still couldn’t find her voice and was aware of heat rising in her cheeks.

“Take a seat on the deck,” he said, indicating a set of French doors thrown open on to a garden. “Drinks. I’ll make us drinks.”

She moved outside and was drawn to the edge of the garden where a low stone wall was all that separated Mick’s property from the beach. The air was salt tinged and fresh, and she breathed in deeply. In the low light of evening she could just make out the faint line of the horizon, a washed-out blue fading into deeper shades of mauve and dusky navy. Somewhere far off, waves were breaking, and she centered her thoughts on the sound.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Mick said, joining her. He handed her a large glass of something clear. He watched as she took a sip. It was sweet, alcoholic, and ice cold, fulfilling all her requirements.

They moved back to the deck and Mia took a seat at a teak table with a parasol positioned at its center. Mick unhooked his cell from its clip and placed it in front of him before sitting. A tiny blue light on the phone flashed every few seconds. He took a
packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. “Do you smoke?” he asked, offering her one. There was a tremble to his fingers.

“No.”

He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It afforded Mia a moment to look at him. Mick had changed dramatically from the trim, suited man in her photo. The muscles in his arms had turned slack and a neat paunch strained against his shirt. Thin red skin stretched over the bridge of his nose and his eyelids looked heavy.

He exhaled a drift of smoke into the air, the cigarette returning much of his composure. “So,” he said, stretching forward to tap ash into a wooden bowl, “are you here in Maui alone, or is Katie with you?”

Her sister’s name so soon was a small surprise. “I’m with a friend.”

He nodded and she wondered whether he was disappointed or relieved.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Pineapple Hostel.”

“I know it. It’s only a few minutes from here.” Mick rested his left arm over the back of his chair. “Will you stay long or are you traveling elsewhere?”

She understood that he was gauging her intentions. Who was she with? How long would she be here? What did she want from him? “I’m traveling for a few months,” she told him. “We started in California. Thought we’d make Maui our next stop. From here we’re flying to Western Australia.” It was the most she’d said since she’d arrived and her throat felt dry and tight. She picked up her drink and let an ice cube knock against her tongue.

“We?”

“Me and Finn—my best friend.”

A long silence stretched between them. Mia focused on the contents of her glass. She had imagined that the words would come easily—there would be a flow of conversation to start filling in the years—yet now that she was here, she felt as if there was so much to say that she couldn’t decide which words should come first.

They finished their drinks. Mick stubbed out his cigarette and went to the kitchen, returning with fresh drinks and two citronella candles that he lit, their sharp lemon scent filling the air. He drank quickly, the alcohol barely touching the sides of the glass. In that she recognized their first similarity.

“I heard about your mother passing away,” he said finally.

She wondered how.

“It must have been hard for you and Katie.”

“Yes.” She couldn’t think about her mother now. This, being here, was already too much.

“How is Katie?”

“Good. We have an apartment together in London.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s working in recruitment.”

He smiled, and she took that as encouragement. “And yourself?” he asked. “What do you do?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been doing some casual work—bar jobs, waitressing, that kind of thing. I’m not sure what I want to do yet.”

“I trained as a chef before I found the music industry.”

It was the first new fact she’d learned about him. Her father had been a chef. Had he ever cooked for them? She considered whether she had any inherent culinary know-how, but couldn’t think of any.

Mick explained how his career began at a French restaurant in West London. One of the young waiters there had an incredible singing voice but lacked the confidence to do any gigs. Mick put him in touch with a fantastic guitarist he knew from college and
later began making bookings for them—for a cut. Within six months, Mick had brought on a drummer and bass guitarist, and the new band was doing so well that he found the money for an album to be recorded. That was the start of his first record label.

Mick talked quickly, one sentence rolling into the next, one story unfolding into another, either to avoid the quiet awkwardness or else to delay the more serious discussion of why Mia was there. The more he spoke, the more she felt herself withdrawing, silence closing around her throat like a pair of hands. She knew she was being odd, but it was as if the subject of his desertion was too big to even broach.

“Mia?”

She glanced up, unsure how far away she’d drifted.

Mick was staring at her, looking directly into her eyes. “Are you interested in music?”

“I love it,” she said, twisting a broken strand of hair around her fingertip. “Listening, not playing.” She loved going to gigs and feeling the rhythm of the music beating deep within her chest. London had been good for that, a saving grace in the city.

“You said you’ve come from California. What did you make of it?”

Mia unwound the strand of hair from her finger and tucked her hands beneath her thighs. “The beaches were wilder than I expected. And quieter. It was beautiful.”

“Did you fly into LA?”

“San Francisco.”

“I lived in LA for seven years,” he said. “Fantastic place—so much buzz.”

So much buzz.
Would she ever choose that phrase? No. Katie would have. She could see flashes of her sister in Mick—a shared confidence, an ease with words.

“I had an office overlooking the beach,” he continued. “Not a bad spot to be in after London.”

After London. After he left them. She needed to steer the conversation towards their lives there. She concentrated on recalling the details she’d written in her journal, but all the words seemed to be swimming in her head and she couldn’t grasp any of them.

Mick’s cell rang. He answered immediately. “James! Yes, yes . . . That’s right . . . Absolutely.” He checked his watch. “We’re still on.”

Mia drained her drink. She should have eaten before coming out here. Already she could feel the muscles in her face beginning to loosen. She set down the empty glass, suddenly noticing that dusk had been swallowed by night.

“Give me twenty?” Mick was saying. “Looking forward to it.”

He placed the phone back on the table. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to meet a colleague for dinner. I’d lost track of time.”

“Oh.” He was cutting her visit short when there was still everything to say.

“It’s been nice to see you,” he told her, rising. He moved away from the table, triggering a floodlight that illuminated the deck. She blinked in the sudden brightness, disorientated for a moment.

When she looked up, Mick was already moving through the kitchen, towards the hallway. She followed, deciding there would be another chance to talk. Perhaps it was right to ease into their reunion, hold off discussing the bigger issues until next time.

On reaching the front door, Mick said, “Thank you for visiting.”

She nodded. “I’m here for two weeks.”

“You’ll love the island.”

There was no reference to seeing her again. Surely this couldn’t be his intention? “I’m free tomorrow.”

Mick didn’t look at her as he said, “Tomorrow isn’t so good. My lawyer’s here all day.”

She waited a beat, sure he would offer an alternative, but he said nothing. A click of air freshener was released on a timer somewhere. The smell of artificial pine filled the hall, catching at the back of Mia’s throat. “The day after?”

Mick rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, his composure beginning to wane. He rolled onto the balls of his feet and cast his gaze at the ceiling. “I can’t do this, Mia.”

“Do what?” she said, her fingers beginning to work the edges of her pockets.

“See you again. Be who you want me to be. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” He shook his head sharply. “There’s a lot you don’t understand.”

“So tell me,” she said, hearing her voice rise.

“It’s all in the past. Let’s leave it be.” He placed his hand on the door handle. “Sorry, but I need to get going.”

She stared at him for a moment, unable to believe they’d reached this point so soon. She suddenly felt light-headed, insubstantial, as if the crush of disappointment had dissolved her.

“I’m sorry that this wasn’t what you’d hoped for,” he said with feeling, and then he opened the door onto the night.

*   *   *

Stunned, Mia drifted away as her father closed the door gently behind her. She shook her head, thinking,
Was that it?
Where were the similarities between them, or the connection she’d been sure she’d feel? Humiliation burnt across her cheeks: she had flown to Maui, visited her father’s house, accepted his drinks and
conversation, yet all the while he had been biding his time until the moment he could ask her to leave.

She wished Katie had been with her. Katie wouldn’t have accepted Mick’s dismissal. Mia pictured her sister grilling him for answers, her fierce eloquence tying his excuses in knots. The image emboldened her momentarily and she considered turning around, going back. But deep down, she knew she didn’t have the heart for it.

Eventually the path delivered her to the beach where she’d earlier watched the lone surfer. The air smelled briny and sharp. She glimpsed the dark curves of distant waves, their arching backs licked silver by moonlight.

She threw down her bag, kicked off her flip-flops, and plunged her feet into the sea. The water felt powerful and alive at her ankles, sucking the sand from beneath her toes. She drew in a deep lungful of air and let the whoosh of waves fill her ears. Thoughts of Mick began gradually washing away, like words drawn on the shoreline.

She waded forwards and a small wave broke over her thighs, soaking the hem of her shorts. A second bowled into her, but she didn’t recoil. Cool water soaked through her shorts and into her underwear. She tasted something thrilling about being alone at the edge of the ocean and she let the moon draw her towards it. Water rose over her waist, causing her stomach to shrink away from the cold.

In a fluid motion, she bent her knees and pushed forwards, letting the sea catch her and bear her weight. She kicked away from the shore, making deep smooth strokes, her T-shirt clinging to her skin.