‘Dehydration?’
The word echoes off the walls in the bare, tiled room. I repeat it several more times, even as Dr Rivas nods at me patiently, confirming that I have not misunderstood her Spanish and my father is not, after all, about to die.
‘A passer-by found him wandering along the riverbank, just before he passed out. Apparently he was trying to make a phone call from a mobile phone with no battery, and going on about trying to look for somebody… luckily for your father, the passer-by had good intentions and brought him in to us.’
I stare back at the doctor and her polite, professional demeanour, trying to assimilate her description with the Dad I know.
‘We don’t think he had eaten or drunk anything for many hours by the time he came in. He was also suffering from mild sunstroke. He seemed to have spent the whole day walking around Mindo.’
‘Just… sunstroke, and dehydration?’ I say again stupidly, feeling a crashing wave of relief begin to break over me.
‘We did a brain scan and checked his heart. We are confident this… episode… was not caused by anything more serious… at least physically.’
I lean forwards in the uncomfortable metal chair drawn up opposite Dr Rivas’s desk and rest my head in my hands, feeling suddenly exhausted as the coil of suppressed worry and panic of the last three hours begins slowly to unwind inside me.
Something in the atmosphere of the cramped little doctor’s office changes almost imperceptibly, then Dr Rivas speaks again. ‘Miss Morgan, has your father ever been diagnosed with… any form of dementia or other mental health condition?’
My head jerks up of its own accord, at last properly taking in the woman sitting opposite me wearing an obviously long-practised Sympathetic Doctor Face. Faintly pursed lips, gently knitted brow, her own age-spotted hands folded neatly before her on the desk.
‘He’s fifty-five,’ I say mindlessly. A good fifteen years younger than you, I only just stop myself from adding.
Dr Rivas’s marshmallow-pink lips purse even further. ‘Miss Morgan, the reason I ask is that your father, when he came in, did not stop talking about a person called…’ she glances down at a notepad on the desk in front of her. ‘…Dorice.’ I hear the quote marks in her tone as she says the name. Dr Rivas straightens her glasses and lowers her head slightly, as if preparing to deliver me some terrible news. ‘He was insistent that this person was travelling with him, was just around the corner, and kept asking us to phone her… the thing is, Miss Morgan, your father appears to be here in Mindo completely alone. Of course, it has not been easy to understand him with the language barrier. But we are beginning to doubt this Dorice person actually exists.’
‘No, no, Dorice is real all right,’ I mutter, remembering her for the first time since I left Quito. ‘She’s his girlfriend. They came here together.’ So where the bloody hell is she? ‘Look, can I just see my dad? I think everything will become clearer once I can talk to him.’
‘Of course. I will take you through now.’ Dr Rivas is already getting to her feet. ‘But I think I should warn you, Mr Morgan may still be experiencing the effects of the sunstroke, so he might not… make a lot of sense.’
I follow her along a short corridor, its walls lined with leaflets titled things like ‘Urinary Incontinence: What You Need to Know’ and ‘Family Planning Basics’ in Spanish. I’m reminded strangely of the little GP surgery back in Fenbridge, and realise that, despite its humble outer appearance, this clinic could just as easily be somewhere in the UK. Everything is spotlessly clean and ordered, although the three rooms we walk past appear to be empty apart from an occasional blue-coated nurse opening cupboards or mopping floors.
‘Here you are.’ Dr Rivas stops at one of the doors and holds it open for me. I feel a pang of something similar to nervousness. Just how incoherent is my father going to be? I’m not sure I will know how to handle any crazed rantings and ravings…
I step into the small, bare room. The bed in its centre is empty and my father is sat in a big reclining chair beside it, flicking through a Spanish-language edition of Grazia. He looks up as we enter, and immediately gets to his feet, the magazine sliding to the floor forgotten.
‘Kirsty!’ He takes a step towards me, arms outstretched, then stop abruptly and frowns, sitting back down again heavily in the chair. ‘Er… thank you so much for coming.’
I hover in the middle of the room, also wondering whether to go and hug him, but eventually settle for perching on the edge of the little coffee table opposite him, and reaching out to pat his arm awkwardly.
‘Dad – what on earth happened?’ I flick a glance at Dr Rivas, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, watching us, and showing no signs of leaving. I lower my voice. ‘What were you doing, and where the hell is Dorice?’
‘Dorice is gone. Left. Back to England.’ Dad rubs his eyes and blinks, looking as if he is comprehending this information for the first time himself as well. ‘I woke up this morning in the hotel and she was gone. Six a.m., vanished, no note…’ He stoops and picks up the copy of Grazia on the floor and stares at it, as if the beaming celebrities on its cover might provide him with answers.
‘At first I thought something terrible had happened to her. The hotel hadn’t seen her leave. All her stuff had gone. I was so worried, and felt terrible for ever bringing her here in the first place. So… I went out looking for her.’ He frowns down at the magazine. ‘I got lost, as ridiculous as that sounds. Couldn’t find my way back to the hotel. We had to check out this morning, anyway, as we had a bus ticket back to Quito tonight.’ He looks down at his watch, realises it is no longer on his wrist, and rolls his eyes. ‘Well, we’ve missed that now anyway.’
‘But… how do you know she’s actually left? Back to England? If she’s still missing, shouldn’t we call the police…’
‘She phoned finally from the airport, in Quito, about an hour ago,’ Dad continues, indicating his mobile phone, plugged in to charge beside the bed. ‘A courtesy call, one might say.’ To my dismay, an amused smile starts to tickle the corners of his mouth. ‘The thing is, I don’t think she liked Ecuador very much.’ He snorts, suddenly on the brink of explosive laughter. ‘Or me. I don’t think she liked me very much, either.’ The laughter now spills out of him, causing his shoulders to shake and his eyes to water.
‘It’s the sunstroke,’ Dr Rivas stage-whispers to me, then, turning to address my father, she raises her voice to the slow, carefully enunciated tone reserved only for small children or the very old.
‘Mister Morgan…’ She leans right down and peers into his face. ‘Would you like another glass of water? Or one of those nice energy drinks? Hmm?’ My father manages to curb his laughter and looks back at Dr Rivas with dismay.
‘I’ll go and get you one, shall I? Grapefruit flavour, yes? Now you just lie down and take it easy…’
‘Lie down?’ My father is already getting up, straightening his clothes, picking up his glasses case from the table. ‘I don’t want to lie down. We’re going home. Come on, Kirsty.’
I stand frozen between my father and Dr Rivas, not knowing what to do. My father widens his eyes at me, clearly saying get me out of here.
I turn to Dr Rivas and say, in Spanish, as politely as possible, ‘I believe my father is… recovered enough… to be discharged now?’
Dr Rivas rolls her eyes and gives me an ‘on your head be it’ shrug. ‘Your father is well, although my recommendation would be for him to rest…’ She shoots a withering glance at my dad, already putting his shoes on and pulling his rucksack on to his shoulders. ‘But if Mr Morgan insists on leaving already…’ She gives a martyred sigh. ‘I’ll start getting the paperwork together.’
As she turns to leave the room, I hold out my arm to stop her, a realisation suddenly hitting me.
‘Wait! Do you know where we can buy bus tickets back to Quito?’ The bus had deposited me in the middle of the main street, with no bus station or ticket office anywhere in sight. I remember the crowds of people at the bus terminal in Quito, signalling the mass exodus from a city that can only happen at the beginning of a bank holiday weekend. I had only just managed to purchase one of the last tickets to Mindo… I glance nervously at the clock above Dad’s chair. Already six p.m., meaning it will be dark very soon…
‘You won’t catch a bus to Quito now! Not until at least tomorrow, when the fiestas are over,’ Dr Rivas snorts, looking at me as if I, too, am in need of one of her grapefruit-flavoured energy drinks. ‘And all the hotels here in Mindo have been booked up for weeks. If you didn’t buy a return ticket, you’re basically stuffed.’
I translate this roughly for my father, who – judging by the look of panic spreading across his face – has grasped it well enough.
Dr Rivas stands in the doorway, arms folded, looking back and forth between my father and me. Eventually she gives a long-suffering sigh and pulls a mobile phone from the pocket of her robe. ‘My brother-in-law has a hotel. Let me make some phone calls.’
***
Less than half an hour later, the heat of the sun is beginning to fade into evening coolness, and my father and I have been checked in to Dr Rivas’s brother-in-law’s ‘hotel’.
We almost get lost all over again, taking turn after turn away from Mindo’s main street, finding ourselves going deeper and deeper into the foliage as we try to follow Dr Rivas’s scribbled directions. Then a scruffy little girl of about eight runs out into the dirt track in front of us and says in a heavy accent, ‘Kristie Morgan?’
Without waiting for an answer she takes my hand and leads us down a short path framed by giant glossy-leafed banana plants, their still-green fruit drooping heavily right into our path. Looming before us is a large wooden hut, raised from the ground to waist height on stilt-like legs. There’s a cleared dirt circle reaching about twenty feet all around it, in which two scruffy dogs and a gaggle of chickens are scrabbling and playing. Beyond that is the dense, untamed green of the jungle. A single, hand-painted sign saying ‘hostel’ is staked into the ground beside it.
My father and I stop, exchanging doubtful glances, but then a short, chubby man, wearing mud-stained overalls and a big smile trots down the steps of the hut to welcome us in surprisingly capable English.
‘I am Samuel, hotel manager, my sister-in-law told me all about you. Some character, isn’t she? And this is Tamia, my daughter – and Customer Service Assistant.’ He winks at the little girl, now bouncing up and down on the spot with excitement. ‘Come, come, I will help you make yourselves at home. You are in luck, we have one room left.’
One room?
Dad and I exchange glances again, my own dismay reflected in his face. Eventually he shrugs, and we allow ourselves to be led up the rickety wooden steps to the front door.
In ten swift minutes Samuel has written our details down in a notebook behind a small desk covered in tourist leaflets advertising white-water rafting and nocturnal jungle tours, and led us up another flight of wooden stairs to our room.
Despite the fact the whole building seems to be made entirely of varnished wooden boards, the room is clean and tidy, bare except for twin beds covered with bright purple-and-green hand-woven fabrics.
‘Dinner will be served downstairs in the restaurant in ten minutes,’ Samuel beams, handing me the room key. ‘And please remember – today is Day of the Dead, or Halloween in your world.’ He pauses dramatically. ‘So do not be alarmed if you experience anything… a little strange.’
My father and I look at each other, then turn in unison to stare at Samuel in alarm.
He lets out a hearty laugh. ‘I am just joking! But at nightfall, there will be a procession of villagers going to the local cemetery, to pay homage to our ancestors, and share a meal with them there. It is tradition. You are very welcome to join us.’
My father and I exchange glances again. ‘Er… thanks. We’ll consider it,’ I reply politely.
The ‘restaurant’ is in fact a wide balcony at the rear of the building, directly overlooking the rushing river just feet below us and surrounded by exotic plants and flowers in an array of vivid colours.
Samuel indicates for us to sit at one of the balcony’s three tables and places a jug of lemonade before us. ‘Dinner is trout,’ he declares proudly. ‘Would you like it boiled or fried?’
After ordering, I check my phone for the first time since getting off the bus in Mindo’s main street hours earlier. There are two missed calls and a single message from Harry, sent two hours ago, saying simply ‘???’.
I fire off a minimal response telling him I am with my father, we are both fine, and will be returning to Quito… when? Dr Rivas’s words from earlier ring in my ears. No buses today. Until after the fiestas are over. Tomorrow. Sometime tomorrow during the day.
As soon as the message has been sent, the battery dies. I stare at the blank screen for a moment, realising with a sharp dart of sadness that it makes no difference, I doubted there would be a reply anyway.
I swallow back the lump forming in my throat and stuff the phone back in my pocket, then look up to see my father watching me intently. We’ve barely spoken since leaving the clinic, only the necessary formalities for me to help him sign the discharge papers and navigate our way here, and suddenly I feel overwhelmed at the thought of sharing a meal, a room, and possibly the next twenty-four hours or more exclusively in his company. All the closeness and understanding I’d begun to feel between my father and me in Quito, after the mugging, after he said goodbye to me at his hotel, seems to have evaporated, leaving us with a stifling awkwardness and no idea what to say to each other.
I thought something awful had happened to you, I think, watching him take a sip of his lemonade and look out at the river as if nothing at all untoward had happened over the last twenty-four hours. All I could think of was what would happen if I lost you. But somehow I can’t find the words.
‘Was that Harry?’ Dad asks, turning and nodding at my phone.
Please don’t start, I implore him silently, nodding with my eyes closed. ‘Yeah.’
‘Are you okay?’
My eyes flash open, wondering if I have heard him correctly.
‘Me? Yes, of course.’ I reach forward and take a sip of the lemonade, trying to hide my surprise. ‘How about you? How are you feeling now?’
‘Much better, thank you.’ Dad doesn’t meet my eyes but continues gazing out towards the river and tree-lined horizon.
We lapse back into silence, the sound of the rushing river below us coming into focus alongside the chattering and humming of a hundred different species of animals and insects. At some point the little girl, Tamia, appears with a shy smile and places two steaming plates of rice, and what look like folded parcels of green leaves, on the table before us.
My stomach turns slightly as I unfold one of the deep green leaves and find an entire fish, perfectly intact from its silver flowing tail to its beady black eyeball, staring back at me. But, flicking a glance at my father and seeing him unflinchingly cut his open and tuck into the meat inside as if it were no more than a roasted chicken breast, I do the same.
And, in fact, once I’ve inexpertly prised away the layer of skin and scales, and strategically positioned the plantain leaf over the fish’s face so that its grimly shining eyeball is not visible, the soft white meat inside is simple and delicious.
‘So… I wonder if Dr Rivas is on commission for this place?’ my father finally says.
I turn and stare at him. He has a dribble of orange chilli sauce running into his beard, but I don’t feel able to say anything.
‘What… you mean sending us here to stay at her family’s hotel?’
‘Yeah, I mean, I wonder how many of her patients she sends here?’ He puts his knife and fork down thoughtfully, staring out at the river. ‘What if they have some kind of deal? Every poor, injured or dehydrated tourist that passes through her clinic ends up getting recruited into an all-in-one, rustic jungle experience at her brother-in-law’s house?’ There’s a hint of a smile on his face.
I think about that for a moment, then sit forward. ‘Okay, and what if… in order to orchestrate this dastardly plan… Dr Rivas actually kidnapped Dorice and is currently holding her hostage in the basement here, refusing to release her until we pay the extortionate ransom?’
Dad turns to me with a deadpan expression. ‘There is no basement, Kirsty. The house is on stilts.’
A brightly coloured bird suddenly launches itself into flight from somewhere just in front of us, skimming across the river with a strange chattering noise, then disappearing off into the air. I feel my face breaking into a smile.
‘Ah, but it’s not really Samuel’s house at all, is it?’ I turn to my father. ‘It’s all a set-up, remember? They’re probably putting away the props right now… the fake wooden floor, the chickens running about outside…’
‘And wheeling out the widescreen TV.’
‘With Dolby surround sound.’
‘And built-in 3D functionality.’
‘Don’t forget the voice-controlled lighting and body-temperature activated -heated sofas.’
‘Now you’re just being ridiculous… that hasn’t even been invented yet.’
We’re both shaking with laughter now, our half-eaten meals forgotten in front of us.
‘Dad, we’re actually being really mean. Stop it.’ I wipe my eyes and try to rein in my own laughter, such a refreshing feeling after all the tension of the last day. ‘This hotel is Samuel’s livelihood, he’s obviously really proud of it.’
Dad continues chuckling. ‘I don’t think he’d mind. I’m sure if Dr Rivas told him about my escapades yesterday, he’d have a good old laugh at my expense, too.’
As we gradually lapse into silence again, it dawns on me that I didn’t even know what my father’s laugh sounded like until now. I realise with an unfamiliar, warm feeling that I quite like it.
We watch as a group of dirty, shrieking children chase a chicken around the muddy riverbank below us. I realise one of them is Tamia and, as she catches me watching her, she turns to look up and gives us a joyful wave. I wave back, feeling a pang of envy for her young, carefree life.
‘So can you…’ I begin tentatively, edging my chair slightly closer to Dad’s. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened? I mean, with Dorice?’ I cringe inwardly, realising that the closest Dad and I have ever got to discussing our romantic lives with each other has been me texting him every year to remind him to send Harry a birthday card. But looking at him now, seeming somehow a little sadder, and older, and more tired than I have ever seen him before, I realise I want nothing more than for him to open up to me.
Dad lets out a small laugh. ‘Oh, you don’t want all the disastrous details, love.’ He pauses. ‘She was pretty awful, really, though, wasn’t she?’
I remain diplomatically silent.
‘Go on, admit it, she was. She was a totally different person after a few drinks in the local pub, a few meals out or cinema trips – she seemed nice, and dynamic, and interesting – so passionate about her career. But it was silly of me to invite her on holiday with me so soon. There’s no better way of getting to know someone than going abroad, right?’
I shift uncomfortably on the spot. ‘But I still can’t believe she just left like that… there must have been something to set her off, to make her angry?’
Dad is looking awkwardly at his feet. ‘I’ll spare you the details, really… but it was an ongoing dispute right from the start of this trip. She wanted to get out there and photograph her stupid bloody poisonous reptiles or whatever they were, and I wanted to spend more time in Quito… with you.’ His voice quietens so much towards the end of the sentence that I barely hear the last two words. But yes, I’m sure that’s what he said… with you. I think back to our goodbye in the hotel lobby and Dad promising me he’d speak to Dorice about coming back to Quito sooner.
‘But why didn’t you stand up to her, Dad? She was so rude to you…’ My voice, also, lowers to a whisper. ‘I hated it.’
‘Thanks, love.’ Dad looks at me in surprise. ‘Trust me, several times I felt on the brink of snapping at her or just jacking in the whole thing and going home early. And – in the end – she beat me to it!’ He laughs bitterly. ‘But… I really wanted it to work. I mean, how many more disappointments do there have to be? How many more awkward meetings in pubs? Look at me, I’m a bloke in his fifties with an online dating profile. I don’t want to keep going like this for ever.’
I find myself staring at my father and suddenly seeing him differently. Partly because I’ve never heard him speak anything remotely like this before. Until now I’ve always thought his romantic escapades were a source of pride for him, something he thoroughly enjoyed, at the expense of anyone and everyone else. But looking at him now, seeming somehow older and wearier than ever before, I start to see it for what it really is. He’s no different to anyone else, I realise. He’s just a lonely person trying to find someone to share their life with.
‘Your mother was lucky,’ Dad says, sounding wistful but with no trace of bitterness. ‘She found someone not too long after we split up, and it seems to be working out okay. I mean, Steve is a good bloke.’ He frowns out at the river. ‘Whereas, to be honest, I’ve felt adrift all this time, waiting for someone else to come along… my house still feels like a bachelor pad, after all these years, instead of a home. But, I suppose… the search continues! At the age of fifty-five…’ He trails off and lets out a sad little chuckle.
‘Dad,’ I begin carefully, still unnerved by this new, raw honesty. ‘When I left you that voicemail, asking if you wanted to come out here and visit…’
‘Yes?’
‘What made you go ahead with it? I mean, I know it was for Dorice to do her photography stuff, but…why else? Why are you really here, Dad?’
He is quiet for a very long time, until I start to think he didn’t hear the question. A piercing shriek rises up from somewhere below us and a circular rubber raft suddenly swirls into view on the river, occupied by a group of tourists in neon-orange life jackets all clinging on for dear life. The raft dips and spins hazardously between rocks and the tourists all squeal with delight as it continues its way downstream.
‘It wasn’t for Dorice,’ Dad finally says.
I turn to look at him, needing this to be true.
‘For me, honestly, that was just a pretext… ever since I met her, at the start of the year, she’d been talking about going somewhere exotic for her photography, and I was thinking of going with her. Then I got your voicemail, and I could barely believe it… perhaps for the first time ever, it sounded like you really wanted to see me, Kirsty.’
I look up at him. ‘I did… I do, Dad.’
‘So… your message encouraged me to do it. To finally pick up the phone to you, reach out to you in a way I know I should have done long ago. All the postponed dinner invitations, forgotten phone calls… it’s not something I’m proud of.’ His voice has dropped to a low murmur now, as he turns away from me and watches the raft disappear from sight, swirling off down the river. ‘But I want you to know, I am proud of you, for being the one to make that phone call.’
I continue staring at him, barely believing what I’m hearing. Dad has never said he is proud of me.
‘Plus… I was worried about you.’ He raises his voice just enough for me to hear, looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Your mother and I were worried about you.’
It sounds so strange hearing him utter the words ‘your mother and I’ that I’m rendered temporarily speechless.
‘But… but I was with Harry,’ I eventually manage.
‘Exactly,’ he says grimly. ‘We thought you…’ He trails off.
There it was again. The ‘we’.
‘You and Mum have actually been talking? About me?’
‘Well, we haven’t got much else in common that we’d want to talk about, have we?’ Dad’s attempt at a laugh dies on his lips, seeing the expression on my face. ‘Er, yes, we did exchange a few phone calls when you first left. And before, when you told us you were going.’
I can’t work out whether I feel betrayed or touched. Perhaps a little of both.
‘You have to understand, your mother only heard from you a few times for the first week you were in Quito.’ He’s looking at me steadily now, and something in me feels ashamed enough to make me lower my gaze. ‘She started to wonder whether something awful had happened, like you and Harry had broken up and you couldn’t tell us…’
‘Why the hell would she think that?’ My cheeks flame with indignation.
Dad continues looking at me steadily. ‘Listen, your mother is not stupid. And I’ve had enough… difficult… relationships myself to recognise when something is wrong.’ He says this mildly, with no trace of accusation or judgement, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed with tiredness. I’ve been trying so hard to keep going, to convince everyone, to convince myself that things with Harry are okay.
‘Is it really that obvious?’ My voice feels thick with long-repressed tears and I scrape my chair back abruptly, going over to the edge of the balcony, desperate for Dad not to see me cry. I hold on to the wooden rail and watch the children playing below us. ‘Is it really so clear to everyone that my relationship is just a big sham?’
Dad doesn’t say anything, which only pierces my heart more. Then I hear him get up, too, and feel a hand come to rest almost tentatively on my arm. The tears overflow.
‘Ever since we arrived… he’s been really different, sneaking around, making strange phone calls, hiding something from me.’ Still facing determinedly away from Dad, I wipe my sleeve across my face and sniff. ‘I know what you’ll think. That he’s got someone else…’
Somewhere at the back of my mind is the uncomfortable awareness that I should stop, and not pour my heart out to Dad, of all people, when the whole reason I wanted him to come here was for him to see me at my best, to fix whatever was broken between us so many years ago… but somehow I continue, my voice taking on a will of its own, spilling out all the suppressed pain and suspicions of the past few weeks in total detachment from my brain and common sense.
‘At first that crossed my mind – the thought of another woman. It would be the obvious answer, after all. But then I heard all the stories from the prisoners I’ve been visiting… how they lied to their families and crept around for ages, and it made me think that perhaps he was involved in… something more sinister. I’ve been tearing myself up over it… I think that’s partly why I threw myself into visiting the prison, and helping Naomi. Something to distract myself with, focusing on someone in a worse situation than myself… perhaps, in fact, that’s all I’ve been doing for years, Dad…’
I finally turn to face him, despite the tears now flowing freely down my cheeks.
`’But you know what I’ve realised now?’ I wipe my eyes and look up at him. ‘It doesn’t even matter. I don’t actually care what he’s been doing. Because it’s not the same… he’s lied to me anyway.’ More tears spill over and I wipe them impatiently away. ‘Whatever it is that’s going on, in a weird way, it’s helped me finally face the truth. We don’t talk any more, we don’t have things in common any more. In fact, I don’t think we… I… I couldn’t even say whether I still love him.’
There it is, I finally said it. My words and their terrible implications hang in the air between us, leaving me feeling strangely lighter.
Finally, Dad speaks. ‘It happens, love.’ He reaches out and awkwardly squeezes my arm. ‘I don’t mean to make light of it by saying that. But if anyone knows that it happens, it’s me.’ He lets out a sad, cynical laugh. ‘And all I can advise is… don’t let it make you feel like a failure. Don’t let a failed relationship turn into a failed life.’ He looks at me pointedly.
And what the hell is that supposed to mean?
‘My life’s okay, you know,’ I say, trying to keep the defensive tone out of my voice. ‘I’ve managed fine, actually, I think. I’ve been to university, got a good job, a house… and I’m not, like, on drugs or in debt to the mafia or anything.’ I force a smile through my tears, and hope I sound convincing.
Dad’s mouth is set in a tense, hard line, and I gradually feel the smile fading from mine.
‘Kirsty, do you remember your work experience?’ The question catches me so off guard that I’m unable to answer, and Dad doesn’t wait for me to. ‘Then, some time afterwards, do you remember coming to my house one evening, and talking to me about your future plans?’
Remember it? I feel a cold shiver trickle down my back. ‘Of course I remember it, Dad.’ More than you could ever imagine. My voice is little more than a whisper, and I suddenly feel unable to look at my father.
‘Good. I’m glad. I’ve often wondered if you did.’
I keep my eyes focused on the floor, staring hard at the lines in the bare wooden boards, realising what is coming next and not knowing if I can bear to hear it… out loud, in my father’s voice… rather than simply the quiet, nagging conviction in the back of my own mind that it has been up to now.
‘I’m not going to start lecturing you on how to live your life, or tell you what you should be doing,’ Dad says quietly. ‘But I just want you to understand… please… how frustrating it is for me, to have to sit back and watch you not fight for your dreams. No, wait!’ He holds up a hand as I open my mouth to protest. ‘You know it’s true. I’m not saying your life is a failure or even that I’m not proud of you. Coming out here, seeing you dedicate so much of your time and energy to helping that young lady in prison… even foregoing a trip to the Galápagos to see through your promise to her. Since I arrived in Ecuador, I’ve seen the quality of person you’ve become. And it has only served to convince me further of what I already knew… that you do not belong where you are.’
I turn to stare at him, feeling indignation and anger begin to prickle inside me.
‘And I don’t mean on a balcony in the middle of the jungle in Ecuador,’ Dad continues. ‘I mean you don’t belong with—’
‘Yes, I get what you mean, thanks, Dad!’ The anger overflows. ‘But what would you know about fighting for dreams?’ I force myself to maintain eye contact, even though my cheeks are burning and tears pricking my eyes. ‘Fat lot of good that did me, fighting and pleading for you not to leave!’ The unvoiced anger and pain of the last twenty-three years bubbles up and explodes from within me in the form of a noisy sob. ‘I fought then, didn’t I? I begged you not to go. I pleaded with Mum to bring you back, to not split up, to be a family… who listened to me then?’ My voice sounds high-pitched and hysterical to my own ears, and I see the spreading alarm across my father’s face, but I don’t care. I need to say this.
‘So, don’t lecture me now about fighting or striving for what I want. You were the very first person who taught me how pointless that is.’
I hold on to the rough wooden rail of the balcony and stare down at my hands, knuckles white and trembling. Dad looks completely shell-shocked and unable to speak. I’ve truly blown it now, I think, horror slowly spreading through me at the realisation of everything I’ve just said.
I don’t know how long we stand there in silence, but after a while my pounding heart returns to normal and my tears subside. I gradually become aware of the sounds of birds chattering in the trees around us, settling down for the night, and the thick clouds on the horizon descending further as the light begins to fade. To my amazement a tiny hummingbird no bigger than my little finger, its feathers a luminous sapphire blue, appears by the edge of the balcony rail. My father and I are standing so still and silent that the hummingbird seems unaware of our presence, hovering gradually closer until it is barely a foot away from me, level with the banana plants overflowing the balcony, and so close I can hear the gentle hum of its wings.
Then, amazingly, Dad reaches over and takes my hand.
‘I know I haven’t been the best father,’ he says, at last, very quietly. ‘I won’t try and explain all that your mother and I were going through back then, only that we were very young – so much younger than you are now, even – and at the time it really seemed that leaving was the only viable option for me. It was either leave – and separate a family – or stay, and watch it self-destruct completely. I hope, on some level, you can understand that, Kirsty.’
Not trusting myself to speak, I can’t even look at my father, but a brief flash of awareness jolts through me at his words. A fleeting vision of some possible future life, my almost future life, in which Harry and I have a baby. For a few agonising moments I imagine what it would be like to feel how I do now – I force myself to be brutally honest – misunderstood, unsupported, unloved, while being irrevocably bound to the very person causing you such unhappiness. The thought makes me shiver. I feel myself glancing sideways at my father, a seed of understanding reluctantly taking root.
‘There’s no excuse for my absence from your life ever since, I know that,’ he continues grimly. ‘And don’t think I’m not aware that you resent me for it. All I want you to know is… I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry ever since the moment I made that terrible, impossible decision. The guilt has haunted me ever since.’
Out of the corner of my eye I notice, with a pang of alarm, that tears are filling my father’s eyes. For the first time ever, I find myself wondering whether that day with the removal van as is indelibly etched on his memory as it is on mine.
I hear my father take a deep breath beside me, as if willing himself to continue.
‘So in truth, Kirsty, part of my reason for coming here to Ecuador was also… to ask for your forgiveness.’
I still say nothing, but continue watching the hummingbird on its winding trajectory around the vivid flowers at the balcony edge, allowing myself to be hypnotised by its simple beauty, feeling my anger begin to disperse and float away from me.
‘It took you doing something drastic and unexpected like going travelling for me to realise – life is just passing us by, and my only daughter is… twenty…’
‘Eight. I’m twenty-eight, Dad.’
‘Right. You’re twenty-eight, and I don’t even really know you. See, I can’t even remember how bloody old you are.’ Tears start to roll down his cheeks.
Suddenly I realise the resentment I’ve felt towards my father for all these years is evaporating as effortlessly as the last clouds over the river as night falls around us, leaving only the need to console this sad, ageing man beside me, consumed with regrets. I do the only thing that feels right and turn to wrap him in a hug. He squeezes me back, his arms solid and tight around me.
‘God,’ Dad eventually says, pulling gently away to reveal a trail of my tear stains on his jacket. ‘Shall we see if Samuel’s got anything stronger than lemonade?’
I’m about to ask him whether he thinks that is a good idea, after everything that’s happened, when suddenly little Tamia bursts out of the undergrowth and comes sprinting towards us. ‘Kristie! Kristie! Your boyfriend is here!’ She beams at me, skipping in circles around us, savouring the word boyfriend. ‘He’s come to rescue you!’
WHAT?
Exchanging puzzled glances with my father, we stumble back into the house behind Tamia. Could Harry really have come all the way here to find me? Even as the thought crosses my mind, I realise with a sick lurch of adrenaline that it doesn’t fill me with the hope or excitement it would have done barely even weeks ago. Heart in mouth, I stop abruptly in the doorway as I reach the main reception room, a split second after I spot a familiar black dog stretched out on the floor in the entrance and realise that the man at the table chatting to Samuel is not, in fact, Harry.
It is Sebastian.