The Summer of Impossible Things Page 5

  Dad exciting – I repress a chuckle. ‘So are you using it, making films?’

  ‘Sure.’ Her dark eyes are luminous. ‘I took it out with us on Saturday night; we were dancing. I don’t know how it will turn out; I’ve got to wait to get it developed. Let me film you now.’

  ‘Oh no.’ I turn my face away and offer her back her cigarette. I never enjoyed the edited version of my life that Mum spent so much of my childhood documenting and then presenting annually as a time of perfect happiness. Lots of that life was perfect, lots of it was happy, but it was never as happy and as perfect at the home movies. They always seemed like someone else’s memories. As soon as I was old enough to say no, I did.

  ‘You’re shy,’ she says.

  ‘I guess I am.’ I shrug. ‘Are you happy here?’

  ‘Am I happy?’ Her nose wrinkles as she considers the strangeness of the question. ‘I’ve never been this happy before. It finally feels like I’m alive. I’m starting to see there’s so much more I can do with my life. Well, like you, look at you. You aren’t sitting at home waiting for life to find you, are you?’

  ‘I suppose I’m not,’ I say. ‘And your friends, those guys, none of them were ever special, more like a boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’ She looks appalled at the suggestion, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards. ‘Gian, he’s in love with Michelle. Curtis, he likes to think he’s Stephanie’s boyfriend, but she only wants him when there’s nothing better around. Poor guy hasn’t been the same since he came back from Vietnam, all jumpy and nervous, running with the wrong types, if you know what I mean.’

  I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter; just listening to the rhythmic rise and fall of her words, the wonderful music of her voice, is enough. Her Brooklyn accent is more pronounced than it ever was when she was my mother. She is glorious.

  ‘And you’ve met Michael. He’s been pretending to be John Travolta ever since they wrapped on the film … but he’s a good guy, sweet, once you get past all the tough guy stuff. I’ve known him so long he’s like a brother to me. All the guys, even Curtis, they look out for us on a Saturday night; there are guys in the clubs who take liberties. I don’t need them so much now I got Henry, because everyone knows I’m taken.’

  Her expression as she says his name again is so very sweet, so very hopeful, proud and sure.

  ‘Jeez, it’s still so hot.’ Riss tips her chin back to blow smoke into the hair, fanning her face with flat hand. ‘Sun’s been down more than an hour and it’s like I can’t breathe.’

  ‘It is. I’m not used to this much heat. In England it rains every other day and we wear gloves all year round, seriously, and hats too, with bobbles.’ I joke.

  Riss laughs as she shakes her head.

  ‘You’re nuts.’ She tilts her head. ‘You should come over again, hang out with us.’

  A current of friendship flows between us, and it feels acutely real, even though I know I am creating, or recreating, these moments, filling this artificial version of my mother with all sort of hopes and dreams, building whole universes and then collapsing them again in the blink of an eye. Right down to the stink of rotting garbage that rises from below.

  ‘I got to go,’ she says, checking her watch suddenly as if she is late for someone. ‘But you’ll come over again, OK? Just come round the side; it’s always open.’

  Before I know it she is leaving, heading down the ladder of the fire escape so fast in the dark I’m afraid she will stumble. As I try to track her descent I see something glimmer on the metal steps, just for a moment, caught in the headlights of a passing car.

  Without a tenth of Riss’s certainty, I make my way down the metal ladder, searching the now-grilled platform for what I thought I saw, running my fingertips over it until they touch a fine chain. I pick it up: the medallion her mother gave her.

  ‘Wait, you’ve lost your necklace!’ I call out to her as she hits the sidewalk on the opposite side of the crossroads.

  Riss stops, her hand flying to her slender neck.

  ‘Shit!’ she swears, waiting impatiently as I hurry to bring her treasured necklace back to her.

  She watches me, her arms crossed, left hip jutting, as I make the awkward final leap off the ladder, which springs back up behind me with a rusty creak.

  ‘Henry said you don’t have fire escapes like ours back in England,’ she says.

  ‘Nope.’ I laugh, and I put the medal in her hand.

  ‘Oh my goodness, thank you,’ she says, putting it back around her neck. ‘Mama gave it to me when I was thirteen for my confirmation. It’s Maria Goretti, patron saint of young women, to keep me virtuous. It’s real silver, you know. Would you check the clasp for me?’ She turns her back to me, and sweeps her hair to one side, as I refasten the necklace, pressing the slightly loosened link that holds the clasp back together as hard as I can.

  ‘Are you meeting Henry?’ I ask her.

  ‘Maybe.’ She dips her chin and smiles. ‘Are you going back inside? Don’t tell them I’ve left, say I was tired. I’ve only got a little while so … We’ll catch up, I’ll introduce you around, yeah? Gotta go, I’m already late.’ She gestures in the direction that she was running in and takes a few backwards steps, giving me one final wave, before she turns and disappears into the dark.

  Someone is waiting for her in the dense absence of light between buildings; I can sense him, sense his longing. I watch her figure disappear into the dark, every line of her body, every angle, every movement is defined by undiluted joy, and I wonder who is waiting for her, Henry or my biological father. I want to follow her, but I can’t; my feet are glued to spot by one thought.

  If this is what my mother was really like in the summer of 1977, what happened to her to break her heart, her mind and spirit, when she should have had everything she needed for a happy ever after?

  Standing alone, goosebumps rise on my forearms and I shudder. The darkness seems to close around me, and I am suddenly afraid. I don’t want this to be it, I don’t want it to be over. I want to wake up, I want to live.

  I want to know.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

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  The only thing I can think of to do is to keep moving. Perhaps if I take my mind back around to the side of the building where I must have collapsed, that might prompt it to reboot back to consciousness.

  A siren screeches a couple of blocks away, and I can make out a couple of guys on the corner in the shadows, the flicker of a lighter briefly illuminating the spaces between them. It’s late – past midnight – and the streets are empty but not quiet. It feels like, in every dark hiding spot, all of my secrets are having whispered conversations about me.

  Then everything shifts, freezes and jumps. There’s a cooler breeze cutting through the thick air, a modern car cruises by and there’s a different atmosphere as another world, my world, reveals itself just fleetingly before it’s gone. I’m coming round, that must be it.

  I just need to focus. Focus on not being dead.

  ‘Hey, Luna.’

  I start, even though I recognise the voice at once. Brain, I tell myself, this is no time for handsome diversions.

  ‘Michael,’ I say, turning to look at him. If my subconscious has gone to the trouble to imagine him, I might as well appreciate him.

  He has hooded eyes, a straight nose and full lips. His body, under his jeans and T-shirt, is lean with narrow hips. His Adidas trainers are white with yellow-and-blue stripes, old and well worn, but kept carefully clean.

  He shifts a little under my gaze, embarrassed by my scrutiny.

  ‘I saw you leaving through the window. Thought you might like me to walk you home. A girl shouldn’t be out here on her own, not while there’s a killer on the loose.’

  ‘I’m a bit lost,’ I say truthfully, more than a little wan. ‘I’m not really sure how to get home.’

  ‘OK, so I’ll walk you.’ He smiles, jerkin
g his head in one direction. With no other option, I simply follow him.

  ‘So what are you really doing here?’ Michael asks me, and I look sharply at him.

  ‘I said …’

  ‘I know what you said, and I may be just some punk from Bay Ridge, but I know a story when I see one.’

  ‘Honestly?’ I slow down. ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I don’t even really know how it happened. And I don’t know how to get back to the people I love, but I really, really want to.’ I find myself looking up, looking around, as if I’d just clicked my ruby slippers together three times and might find myself at home any moment.

  ‘You OK?’ Michael frowns at me. ‘Something bad happen to you?’

  ‘Would it sound really crazy if I said I have no idea what’s happening to me, right at this moment?’ I ask him. ‘No idea where I am …’

  ‘Well, that’s easy, you’re on ninety-second and third.’ He takes my hand without prompting, and I let him. His touch feels warm and solid, so real. ‘You need to go about another two blocks and you’re there.’

  He begins to walk but I don’t move. He tugs at my hand gently and I take a couple of steps closer to him.

  ‘You’re lost, but you don’t want to go home?’ he asks me, frowning.

  ‘I … the thing is …’ I stare at him, wondering how to explain this situation to a man who doesn’t exist, whose presence in my brain meltdown doesn’t make any sense at all. What’s he for?

  ‘The thing is, I’ve just got to go now,’ I say. ‘You’re …’ I run my palm down the length of his torso without actually touching him. ‘You’re very … very, very …’ I had no idea I had an imagination this vivid. ‘But I can’t. So I just have to go. I have to find my own way back. Thank you.’

  Except I don’t move; there is something about his bemused smile that keeps me pinned to the spot.

  ‘Very, very, huh?’ His grin ignites mine. ‘I’ll take that. I won’t make a big thing of it, or anything, but I’ll take it. The English chick thinks I’m hot.’

  ‘I didn’t say hot, and anyway … Well … goodbye.’ I walk on, knowing that I don’t want to walk into that strange night of whispers and hidden glances.

  ‘Wait up!’ Michael falls into step beside me. ‘I ain’t letting you walk on your own, and that’s that. My ma would kill me. I promise not to dazzle you with my good looks, or seduce you with this handsome physique, not unless you ask me to, OK? You’re safe with me, I’ve been raised right.’

  He bows a little, gesturing the direction with his hand and we walk on in silence. The hot and heavy air seems to press into my pores, the sidewalk feels hard under the soles of my feet, and I hear traffic, though the street we turn into is quiet and dark.

  We turn a corner and Michael stops dead, stretching his arm in front of me to block my path. Just down the street, in the shadows, there is some kind of scuffle, a fight. Three men surround around another lying on the ground. Kicks and punches are being targeted at the balled figure on the floor in industrious silence. Michael takes my hand and we are about to leave, go another way, when a sharp cry cuts through the dark.

  ‘Please, let me go.’ The voice is high. And very young.

  ‘Shit,’ Michael swears under his breath, turning to me. ‘Stay there, don’t move.’

  I stand still as I watch him approaching the group.

  ‘Guys, what’s going on?’ he says, spreading his arms, his voice is full of bonhomie, like he’s simply shooting the breeze. The beating stops as he approaches, and the boy, because I see now it is a skinny boy of perhaps no more than twelve, scrambles to his feet. He makes a break for it, but one of his attackers grabs his ripped and bloody shirt and holds him still. My feet are charging towards the scene before I know it.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shout. ‘Let him go at once!’

  I don’t know if it’s my accent or just my sudden appearance that shocks the man into releasing his prey. I put my arm around the bony shoulders of the boy shepherding him away. His skin is slick with sweat and blood; he’s trembling. He shrugs off my embrace as soon as he can, his whole body tense and alert, looking for his moment to run.

  ‘Jesus.’ Michael steps in front of me, blocking a lunge from the man I liberated the kid from. ‘OK, step back now.’

  ‘You need to keep your bitch on a leash,’ the biggest of the three men says, nodding at me, but talking to Michael.

  ‘You need to watch your mouth.’ Michael’s shoulder square. ‘You don’t talk to her like that. And what the fuck you doing, anyway, three grown men beating on a kid?’

  ‘He shouldn’t be round here.’ The big man squares up to Michael. ‘One of his kind round here, he ain’t up to no good. There’s no place for them in this neighbourhood, you should know that. We’re sending a message, teaching him a lesson.’

  It’s then I realise that it’s not the boy they hate, it’s the colour of his skin. He’s black and that’s enough of a reason for them. I feel sick with shock.

  ‘You racist bastard …’

  ‘Jesus, he’s just a kid,’ Michael speaks across me, sending me a warning look, and I bite my tongue. ‘Kid, what you doing out so late, anyways?’

  The boy shrugs, searching the streets, looking for his escape.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at home?’ Michael asks him.

  The boy looks at him, and shrugs again. ‘Nothing there for me.’

  ‘His mama’s probably on her back, making a living,’ one of the guys says, and his friends guffaw with laughter.

  Michael presses his lips together and I watch as he makes a concerted effort to repress his fury.

  ‘Well, you’ve had your fun. He’s gonna leave now.’ Michael nods at the boy. ‘Kid, go home.’

  The boy doesn’t even look at me before he half runs, half hobbles, into the night, his arms wrapped around his body.

  ‘Fuck, now what are we going to do for fun?’ One of the guys steps closer to Michael. ‘We could do your girlfriend, I guess.’

  ‘Go home, fellas,’ Michael says. ‘Go see your old lady, tell her how you beat the shit out of a little kid and see if it makes her hot for you.’

  ‘You little—’

  ‘Run!’ Michael grabs my hand and before I know it we are flying through the dark streets, until my lungs are gasping for air. We turn corner after corner, and my ribs hurt. We career to a stop, almost colliding with a wall, and Michael laughs, bending over double to catch his breath.

  ‘That was risky!’ I tell him, pushing him in the shoulder.

  ‘No, they were drunk and fat. I knew we could outrun them. Well, I knew I could. What was risky was you marching in there, grabbing the kid. Girls don’t act like that round here.’

  ‘They do where I come from.’ I lean back against the wall, wondering why, in my own hallucination, I am required to catch my breath.

  ‘I get that about you,’ Michael says eventually, his voice echoing in the silence. And somehow I know he is choosing his words carefully, trying to tone down his accent to impress me. ‘You’re real interesting. Crazy, but interesting.’

  ‘Interesting?’ I repeat the word, because I’d love to hear him say it again.

  ‘Interesting,’ he obliges, after a moment.

  ‘What’s interesting about you is that you stuck up for that boy against those racists thugs.’

  ‘Round here you stick to your kind, you know.’ Michael shrugs. ‘They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong.’

  ‘But you did,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t care whether you’re black, pink or yellow, I won’t stand by and see a kid beaten on by grown men. My mama …’

  ‘Raised you right,’ I finish for him. ‘I think I like your mum.’

  ‘What about me?’ Michael’s smile pulls at something in my chest. ‘You like me?

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I say. ‘What else is interesting about you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Michael’s bravado melts a little at the question.
‘I like to read, you know? Read and sometimes I make up stories. I wouldn’t ever tell that to the guys. They’d think I was a pussy. But I can say it to you somehow, I don’t know why. Maybe because you talk like Mary Poppins.’

  ‘Do you want to be a writer?’ I ask him.

  ‘Nah.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s just a thing I like doing; it’s not a job, not for someone like me. At the moment I work in my dad’s bakery. He wants me to take it over one day.’

  ‘Do you want to?’ I keep talking as we walk further into the dark, and the further we walk, the louder our footsteps sound, the more it feels as if the world beyond what little I can see with my own eyes has crumbled away to dust.

  He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, and says at last, ‘Anyway, you’re here. The Obermans’. Second house on the left.’

  He nods vaguely towards a terrace of brownstones. I hesitate. What now? What happens now when he’s gone?

  ‘OK, night then,’ I say.

  Perhaps I could just keep walking around every corner and my mind would make up a backdrop to meet each turn, or maybe it would be like those video games Pea and I used to play when we were kids, and you come up against an invisible wall, your legs still pumping but never getting anywhere.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, as I start to walk away. ‘I hope I see you again, Luna. I mean that, though next time, if you can avoid getting in a fight with a bunch of hoodlums, I’d appreciate it.’

  As he speaks the world warps and rearranges itself around me; it feels like my chest plunges into my guts, knocking the air out of my lungs.

  I can’t reply. I just keep going, as far away from him as I can.

  Everything shifts, just a little, everything I see, the buildings, the cars, trees, people, fade in and out. I start to feel the hard cool of concrete pressing against my thighs, even as I am standing. I reach out for a railing to steady myself and at the same moment as I feel cold metal in my hand, I also feel it flail through thin air.