Christmas.
It had been an enduring complaint that my birthday came on the twenty-third of December and that I would therefore miss out on presents. I mean, they tell you it doesn’t make any difference, but it does. They pretend you’ll get exactly the same amount of attention and the same number of gifts as if you were born in June or July or March or something, but it’s crap. I understand it. You buy presents for Christmas. And you buy presents for the birthday, but you’re not going to buy the equivalent amount. You might intend to, but you don’t. That’s just the nature of things and everyone born around Christmas gets it. Mainly because they don’t have a choice.
‘What do you want for Christmas, Cate?’ Mum asked. ‘And your birthday, of course.’
I thought about it. Of course I did. But I couldn’t think of much. Clothes. Better yet, a voucher so I could choose my own on the grounds mothers might have strong views on teenage fashion but they are always wrong. A new phone? Sam, I knew, was keen to get me some suitably awesome tech. A gaming computer? That would do. I wasn’t really bothered, but I knew they wanted to get me something that was guaranteed to produce a sharp intake of breath when I opened it. So I pretended to covet a super-duper, unbelievably fast laptop. It would be useful and it would give them enormous pleasure to buy it. Win-win.
My birthday was on a Friday, and if I had been born in June or July or March I’d have had to go to school, but school was out for Christmas. It’s about the only advantage of having a birthday around that time. So when Mum asked me what I wanted to do on my birthday, I knew that she and I could do anything we wanted. Sam would be at work, but we could shop or sightsee – there were still plenty of places I hadn’t been in London. Carnaby Street, famous for its fashion, was an option. Mainly known for sixties fashion, but hey, that could be really cool. I hadn’t even been to Buckingham Palace and although it was unlikely I’d see any royalty while I was there, it was something every Australian should do, if only to say they’d done it.
‘Sorry,’ said Mum. ‘I should have said the Saturday.’
‘What’s wrong with the Friday?’ I asked. ‘You know, my actual birthday.’
‘I have something planned. On Saturday Sam and I will both be free.’
‘Something planned?’
Mum waved a hand.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have a life too, Cate. And I put myself down for an in-service on teaching disadvantaged youth. Should be really good. Really helpful.’
‘On my birthday?’
‘They wouldn’t postpone it on the grounds it was the birthday of Caitlyn Carson. I asked. They refused. Go figure.’
‘So I’ll be alone on my birthday?’
Mum sighed. ‘For some hours, yes. How old are you, Cate? Five?’
It didn’t really matter to me, but it wasn’t often that the opportunity to give a parent shit came up, so I didn’t want to let it go. Then I let it go.
‘All good,’ I said. ‘Maybe the three of us could go see a show on the Saturday?’
‘I’ll check out what’s on,’ said Mum.
It’s difficult to express how much I missed Elise. Talking to her wouldn’t have taken away the pain of my father’s death – and, more, the guilt that I wasn’t there to witness it, to be there and pat his hand and say stupid things and just, just, just be a daughter when a father needs a daughter. To tell him I loved him. To hear that he loved me, though I knew he did. But a best friend is exactly what you need in that situation. And she wasn’t there. It hurt. Yeah, we talked on texts and WhatsApp, but there’s a reason why social media isn’t any good for anything other than … well, the stuff social media does well. Mainly nothing to do with feelings. I talked to her on the phone sometimes, but it wasn’t the same as being there, seeing her face, watching her smile, listening to her voice and seeing something special in her eyes, something that said she understood. We were half a world apart and it felt many worlds further than that.
I’d made friends at the Academy and they were cool. But they weren’t friends who had earned the right to listen to what I wanted – needed – to talk about. And Mum and Sam? They were great. But they were never going to be enough. I felt lonely. Like I was in some kind of bubble, visible but also shut off from everyone and everything else. Something had died in me and no one seemed to see it, let alone understand.
What had my father been thinking when he died? Was I there in his head as he gave his last breath? Where was he? Who had been there? Who cried for him? Who dressed him for the cremation? I didn’t even know where his ashes were. So many questions and no one to answer them. I thought it would break my heart.
I lay in bed on the Thursday evening and checked for messages from Elise. Melbourne was eleven hours ahead of London – in Australia it was my birthday already. But there was nothing. I tried ringing her. Like me, she would have finished school for Christmas. But it went straight to messages. So I texted her. She couldn’t have forgotten it was my birthday. Could she?
I felt a bit sorry for myself. I tried to feel guilty for that, but I couldn’t find one reason to. London was great, but my father was gone, my best friend wasn’t answering my calls and my mother had another engagement for my birthday. Fourteen years old. Should I be more mature? Absolutely.
Then another thought hit. I suppose it had always been there but I was trying not to let it surface. Elise had always said she was okay. She’d insisted. But I’d missed the signs before. And her not texting or picking up the phone was a bad sign.
In the morning I felt a bit better. If something was wrong, Elise’s mum would’ve rung. Wouldn’t she? I tried to comfort myself with that thought.
Mum and Sam had made pancakes for my birthday breakfast, which brought me some way towards forgiving them. Strawberries and cream and maple syrup and crispy bacon. They got stuck in to the food as well.
‘I’ll worry about the calories later,’ said Mum.
‘Why worry about something like that?’ I asked.
‘Says someone who could eat four chocolate cakes and not put on an ounce.’ Mum pointed her fork at me. ‘I look at a french fry and my hips widen.’
‘Too much information,’ I said.
Sam washed up afterwards and then they gave me my presents. Three packages from Mum that, by their general squidginess, were clothes. Two tops, one dress.
‘Beautiful,’ I said.
Mum sighed.
‘I have the receipts for when you take them back to exchange.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you hate them.’
I folded them up carefully and put them on the breakfast table.
‘You have no evidence for that,’ I pointed out.
‘It’s written on your face, Caitlyn. Everything you think and feel is written on your face.’
Something clenched inside. How long would I live with echoes of Dad and the sudden punch when I remembered I’d never see him again?
At least I didn’t have to worry about facial writing when I opened Sam’s gift. A super-duper, unbelievably fast laptop. It was cool. I knew there would be kids at school who would be really envious. This thing was so advanced it opened programs before you even realised you wanted them open. I’d play around with it today, while Mum and Sam did their things. And I’d ring Elise again; she still hadn’t replied to any of my messages. I didn’t care if it was some ungodly hour in Melbourne. I needed to know she was okay.
Mum looked at her watch, then handed me an envelope. My heart stopped for three or four beats.
It had my name on the front, in Dad’s handwriting.
‘I have instructions,’ said Mum. ‘And the first is to tell you that you have choices, Cate. You don’t have to open that if you don’t want to, if you find it too … upsetting. It’s up to you.’
I felt the envelope in my hand. It was thin. Not a card. Maybe a couple of sheets of paper. Maybe just one. I looked up at Mum and Sam. Worry was printed on their faces.
‘What’s going on, Mum?’
‘I don’t know, Cate. I swear I don’t know. I have instructions, like I said. People that I had to ring, letters I had to pass on when I got news of his death. Now I have things to say, depending on your choices. Things to do, depending on your choices. But what it’s all about?’ She shrugged. ‘What’s the story? Only your father knew. No one else.’
The story. It started to make sense.
‘It’s a game,’ I said. ‘A last game.’
Mum smiled. ‘I thought that, too. He had time to think and plan. Time to stage one final miracle. Maybe.’
I weighed the envelope in my hand, but it wasn’t a difficult choice. I couldn’t throw this envelope away like I’d thrown away his last letter so many months back. I slid my finger under the seal and opened it. Mum and Sam took a step back as if what was in there might be explosive. Maybe it was. I took out a sheet of paper and another sealed envelope. I unfolded the letter.
Happy birthday, Cate. Fourteen years old. I am so sorry I couldn’t be there to join in with the celebrations. And of course I’m so sorry that the news of my death arrived in the way it did. I know your mum will have explained everything. I can only hope you will forgive me.
If you are reading this, then you have made your first decision. A few more will come in quick succession. In about five minutes there will be a knock on the door and a man (or a woman – there are some things that I can’t plan for with any certainty) will ask if you want to go with them. This is the next choice. If all this is too upsetting, then just say, ‘No, thank you’, and he or she will leave. Your mother has instructions on what to do if that’s the case, though basically, that will be the end and you can spend the day as you probably planned to spend it. If you decide to go with them, you will get into a car. It’s then that you should open the other envelope that accompanies this letter. Your mum and Sam will get in a car that will follow yours. I did not want you to feel that strangers were taking you somewhere possibly dangerous. So your mother and Sam will be with you, but they are instructed not to interfere because these … experiences are intended for you and you only.
Whatever your choice, Cate, know that I love you and wish you the best possible birthday. Love always,
Dad
I folded the letter and put it back into the envelope, turned the other envelope over in my hand. There was nothing written on it. The silence in the tiny apartment was almost overwhelming.
‘All of that stuff about an in-service today, Mum,’ I said finally. ‘That wasn’t true.’
‘No,’ said Mum. ‘That was a lie. And Sam’s taken the day off. We know that something might happen, that we might be on a mystery tour, but that’s all we know.’ Mum pointed to the letter. ‘What does that say?’
I didn’t want to tell her. Part of me knew this was unfair. She and Sam were apparently players in a game and they didn’t know what their role was or what they had to do, if anything. But I didn’t want to say.
‘What happens between me and Dad,’ I replied, ‘stays between me and Dad. Just like I never told him about what went on at our house.’
Mum smiled. ‘I remember,’ she said.
‘But in a minute or two,’ I said. ‘There will be a knock on the door and we will be leaving.’
Mum and Sam both glanced at the door. It was almost funny.
‘Where are we going?’ said Sam.
‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Sometimes you just have to surrender to story and let it take you where it will. We’ll find out.’
There was a knock on the door.