The Shades Page 7

  Catherine had set her alarm for six a.m. with the idea of getting up before Keira to prepare breakfast, as she had said she wanted to leave early. In the morning, when she went downstairs, she was surprised to find her young guest already up and sitting at her laptop in the kitchen.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she said, nodding at the pot of tea and half-eaten toast. “I woke up starving.” She indicated the computer by way of explanation. “Was just looking up train times.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Catherine reassured, although at that time in the morning, her ease and presumption was less attractive than it had seemed the night before.

  They exchanged telephone numbers after breakfast. As promised, Catherine texted Paige about Keira. Have a young friend interested in fashion. Would you pls meet her for advice? To Paige’s credit, she was quick to respond: Have her come to the office midday Monday week. After that I’m gone to Milan & NYC.

  “I’m there!” Keira whooped when Catherine showed her Paige’s reply.

  Catherine texted back many thanx, along with Keira’s phone number. The meeting was set. Keira couldn’t stop smiling as if she couldn’t believe her luck.

  Soon it was time for Keira’s departure. After collecting her bag, she stopped in the hall, glancing around one last time. “Goodbye, house,” she said with an air of finality.

  “But you’ll be back soon, won’t you?” Catherine was emphatic. This was a statement, not a question.

  Keira looked away. At first Catherine thought she had been too insistent and embarrassed her, but when the young woman faced her again she saw that her lips were trembling.

  “I have wanted to come back here for so long to remind myself that I was once here and that I . . . mattered.” Her voice cracked as she struggled to find the words. “I had all these ideas about making peace with myself, and getting ‘closure’—I know that sounds corny, but it was what I needed to do. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would meet someone so genuinely kind and amazing as you.”

  Keira stepped forward and leaned her head on Catherine’s chest. Startled by her sudden declaration, Catherine pulled her closer, wrapping her arms around the girl’s small frame. She held her, savoring the contact, the girl’s damp breath on her skin, the musky smell of patchouli in her hair. Hearing her say, “It’s much nicer here now, it’s a home,” was strangely gratifying, even though the compliment had not been earned. She and Michael had taken possession of the house just over two years before; after that it had been under construction most of that year. Apart from two visits, and one weekend when work was almost done, they hadn’t spent any time there with the children. Hamdean was never a family home—only an unrealized dream of one. Yet hearing it described as such gave Catherine satisfaction. As if by making an impression on the girl, she had accomplished something of importance.

  It was brisk out, colder than Catherine had expected. The brightness of the morning had suggested a milder day. They were alone on the platform. The station was small and didn’t service many: no ticket office, just a loading bay, a covered bench, and a footbridge over two tracks leading to a second platform with another covered bench. Beyond that a field of woodrush and buttercup was hung with mist, seemingly oblivious to the intrusions of the railway. Keira hugged her chest and sidestepped to keep warm. Catherine offered her scarf but Keira refused to take it. With a stubborn resilience typical of her age, she insisted that she was fine without.

  Soon the train eased into the station. With only four carriages it was as compact as one of Rowan’s old toys. Keira boarded the train and leaned out of the window while the conductor went up and down the platform checking doors. Catherine wished her best of luck for the interview. “When you meet Paige, be sure to—” She was about to give her some background information on Paige, how she needed to be handled, et cetera, but she noticed that Keira wasn’t listening. She was looking at a man who had edged behind her to use the corridor for a loud conference on his mobile phone. The pinstripes on his regimented city suit made Catherine think of Michael and reminded her of his question. “I meant to ask, behind the old topiary, was there a gazebo or summerhouse?”

  This seemed to get Keira’s attention. The girl considered for a moment and pouted slightly; she did that when she was serious. “No. I don’t remember anything there. Can’t have been in my time.” Her lips curved into a smile that Catherine was learning to recognize was effortful. “But then again, I wasn’t at Hamdean very long.”

  The conductor waved his flag and sounded the whistle for departure.

  With one last Good luck with the interview from Catherine, a Will call you after from Keira, the girl stepped back into the carriage and the train pulled away.

  On return to the house Catherine went straight to the kitchen. She left the breakfast plates uncleared, as the casual messiness of cups and crumbs seemed to infuse life into the space. She allowed herself the satisfaction of thinking that the visit had been a success; by trusting each other and sharing their experiences they had grounded their friendship. For her own part, she was glad to have done something constructive for Keira by setting her up with Paige; the meeting had the potential of being a life-changing break. She only hoped that she was ready for opportunity and had been sufficiently prepped. She had intended to say more to her at the station, but on the platform she had seemed distant and withdrawn. On reflection, the way she had refused her scarf, lifting her hand as if to say stop had been a signal to back off. She hadn’t taken this personally, as a little introspection after an intense couple of days was perfectly understandable. She probably didn’t need any more advice. Stop worrying, Catherine told herself. Keira would manage just fine.

  She took out Rachel’s mobile phone that she carried with her at all times. A social worker had returned it to her in London in a clear plastic bag, along with her daughter’s other belongings: mascara, lip gloss, birth-control pills, Oyster Card, student ID, and a change purse containing five one-pound coins. Jackie, the original social worker, had not come. At the time Catherine had wondered whether her outburst at the hospital might have been the reason Jackie had sent a terrified-looking surrogate. The new social worker cradled a second parcel in her arms, double wrapped in opaque paper and plastic. Her hesitant manner and the presentation of the package told Catherine what it was.

  “I have Rachel’s bag.” She swallowed. Like Jackie she was pale. Catherine wondered whether she ever saw the light of day. “I should warn you there are—”

  “Thanks.” Catherine took the parcel. She couldn’t help being abrupt. It was agonizing to watch her tiptoe around the fact that it was stained. She didn’t want reminding of the carnage that night. Nor was it conceivable that she would allow one of her daughter’s belongings to be incinerated and treated as hazardous waste. After some deliberation, she put the parcel directly into a drawer in Rachel’s bedroom cupboard. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on her blood.

  Her decision to put away Rachel’s bag was made tolerable only by the possession of Rachel’s mobile telephone; there was a purpose to having that and keeping it close. After guessing the PIN—1234—Catherine accessed a dizzying stream of conversations between Rachel and her friends, discussions of social plans written in a shorthand: Bizzy ha . . . not going. Wtf? Wat about cruxy? . . . Shame, no. Tarnished! She couldn’t decode the meaning, nor did she try. She was more interested in her mood, which was lighthearted and suffused with her brand of irreverence and humor. The texts, which she read many times, only went back three weeks, as it was a replacement for one that had been lost. Rachel’s carelessness with her technology had been a source of friction between them.

  She studied Merhan’s texts carefully. According to Rowan he had been Rachel’s boyfriend of several weeks. There was one saved voicemail from him, apparently from shortly after they had met: “It was really good to see you. Um. I have been thinking about you a lot. When I say a lot, I mean all the time. Hope your foot is better.” (Catherine wasn’t awar
e of Rachel having any foot problems.) “Yeah, again, uh, it was good to see you. Bye.”

  After that they texted back and forth.

  Can you stay? We will have stars for light and sunshine in the morning, he asked.

  She responded by sending a photo of herself smoldering into the camera.

  I want to I will try

  They sent pictures to each other, demonstrating a variety of poses, from sultry doe eyes to frowns. Merhan appeared older than seventeen. With slick black hair and a humorous mouth, he was attractive. He was more like a man than a boy. In her photographs, Rachel looked soft and sensual, as if someone had taken an eraser to her precise nose and jaw and rubbed away any distinct edges.

  I crave u, she wrote.

  Merhan’s affection for Rachel made it impossible for Catherine not to like this ardent man-boy. His voicemail and texts humanized him, diffusing her rage at him for being the driver of the car that had killed her daughter. Seeing his face was a reminder that she was not the only one to have lost a child, making her regret her behavior toward his parents all the more. She had harangued Mr. and Mrs. Azadi at the hospital for deviating from the plan, as if there had been one; she hadn’t known herself what Rachel was doing that night. Realizing her wrong, she had written a letter of apology and hand delivered it to the Azadis’ home. Even after it was returned by courier the same day, Please—do not contact us again printed across the envelope, she had still wanted to be near. A week later, after Rowan and Michael had gone to bed, she had driven to the Azadis’ home in Kensington. She had parked opposite the double-fronted exterior and sat in her car watching the house. It was after midnight but the house was ablaze with light as people of all ages came and went. They huddled together and clutched one another. They grieved loudly, demonstratively; as it was with her, the difference between night and day no longer had meaning to this family. The second night of her vigil, a police cruiser had pulled up alongside Catherine’s car. The police officer got out and asked Catherine what she was doing: a suspicious woman had been reported in the area. A complaint had been made. Don’t worry, Catherine told the officer. I won’t be back. True to her word she never returned. She didn’t want to cause the family any further disturbance.

  It was to the conversations between her own family members that she always returned. She had read them so many times that she knew all the words. The ones between Rachel and Rowan demonstrated a tender reliance that she hadn’t known existed. They checked in with each other during the day, with Rachel most often initiating the conversation, although sometimes Rowan contacted her first. He told her about a 10K trial run and she teased him for running like a chicken. He texted her the day after having a “weird dream.” She answered: Dreams r boring—only interesting to yourself. When Rowan went into details of the dream—he was in a tent with her, fighting, because she had installed central heating—she was delighted:

  IM SO NAFF!

  I know. We’d borrowed mum’s rugs. The radiators were leaking oil. I was freaking out. It was traumatic

  haha!

  The evening before the accident Rowan had given her the heads up: Dad is looking for you.

  I’m hanging here with Merhan, she replied.

  Don’t you have exams tomorrow? Revision? History of the Plebians?

  Fuck off. Why don’t you come with? Mira’s here in a sexy bikini

  When he didn’t reply, Rachel sent her brother a photograph of herself in Mira’s swimming pool.

  Rowan wasn’t the only family member to contact her that night. Up until then Michael’s texts had been a mixture of amazing facts and educational bulletins. Three days before he had corresponded with Rachel about Amy, the largest rabbit in the world, a Continental Giant, complete with statistics and exclamations galore.

  3 stone? A beast!! I want one!!! please?

  Ask your mother, Michael replied. This was a refrain. Several days later he repeated these words. They were his last to Rachel.

  The night before the accident Catherine had been out all evening at an art opening, followed by a long, boozy dinner with a collector who was in town for the sales. When Michael had returned home late from work and discovered that Rachel was still out, he texted to find her whereabouts.

  Can I stay over with Mira? We r doing homework, was Rachel’s answer. This was only a partial truth, as she had been at her house before leaving to go joyriding with Mira’s brother, Merhan.

  Ask your mother, he had written back, which Rachel dutifully did.

  Catherine’s own messages to her daughter had as much warmth as a bus schedule. What time? Have you got . . . ? Did you do? Yet when Rachel texted, Can I stay over at Mira’s tonight? Catherine never replied, and Rachel had taken this to mean consent. It was eleven thirty p.m. when Catherine finally returned home and realized that Rachel was still out. She made the judgment that it was too late for her to come back—it was better for her to stay with her friend than make her travel at a late hour. It’s probably fine, she had said to Michael. Several hours later, in the early hours of the morning, Michael received the call to tell them otherwise.

  Catherine’s return to an empty house after delivering Keira to the station left her low and dispirited. Her reflex was to pull out Rachel’s cell phone to reread her texts, as had become a habit. But this time she paused, holding the phone in her upturned palm, as if it were a talisman to bring her luck for her next move. She was lightheaded, perhaps because she was hungry. She had skipped breakfast and only had coffee because Keira had already eaten by the time she came down; the remnants of her toast with its horseshoe bites sat on a plate in front of her. It occurred to her that she should make herself an omelet. Thanks to Judith, who kept Bantams, she had a supply of eggs, and she also had rosemary, which her neighbor left hanging in posies outside the French doors. She was reaching up to unhook a pan from a hanging rack of utensils with her left hand when she jogged Rachel’s phone from her right. The phone hit the counter and bounced onto the limestone floor, where it smashed.

  Within a matter of weeks Rowan was into the rhythm of the term. There were late nights having random conversations with Chloe in her room, listening to Radiohead and Bowie, joined by Dido and Hannah, who twisted up their hair into haystacks using claw clips, while eating lemon-cream wafers, which were sort of disgusting and sort of delicious. Sometimes he felt like their pet whippet: greeted by cries of affection when he entered, forgotten by the time he had taken his place at the foot of the bed. This was fine, as he’d go into his own zone and as soon as the subject landed on the fuck factor of his peers he’d tune out anyway; he liked their openness as a change from the girls he knew in London who were so arch and self-conscious they were psycho parodies of themselves. There was the morning race for breakfast before the surly ladies who ruled the dining hall snatched the Frosties away—he never got enough sleep to hear his alarm. Then there were the sessions with Ms. Lakme, whose probing questions were starting to be obnoxious. He blanked her when she started asking about “sexual relations.” Even if he had no interest and no action, it was none of her business and he was going to make sure that it stayed that way. He quickly sussed out his teachers; who was checked in and who had checked out. Soon he had a sense of what was expected—not an awful lot compared to the pressures of his last school. There was one teacher, Mr. Douglas Stewart, who made an impression. He was there at the beginning of term and disappeared for another several weeks. Rowan was about to drop his class because the sub was truly sub, but fortunately Douglas Stewart returned just in time.

  Douggie Stewart was known by the students for his informal style. He was tall with stooped shoulders and stalked around campus, hands plunged deep into the pockets of a wide-shouldered suede jacket. In class he was known for his dramatic delivery and wooden posture. During a lecture he would lean forward, folding and unfolding his torso like a marionette—the kids liked to imitate him and exaggerated his chopping hands for comic effect. If he wasn’t ex– rock and roll, he was definitely ex-some
thing. With hollow cheeks, lines scored vertically as if they had been put there by a razor blade, he gave the impression of having lived a lot. He was low key until he became animated, and then he would unleash with the zeal and passion of a reformer.

  “There was a time when this class could have been about the land. We could have talked about topography, geology. I might have done a little unit on navigation or crop rotation, which, believe it or not, is what we did back in the day.

  “As we confront a global catastrophe, there’s only one conversation to be had: it’s about climate change, and we’ll use that as a jumping-off point to talk about land use and conservation of the Earth’s finite resources. We will look at the science behind global warming. What is climate? How do our ecological systems work? How are they changing? For your first assignment, I will ask you to do something unusual, I will ask you to use your laptops”—he unfolded to full height, as if he was about to say something amazing—“for research. Yeah, I know, that’s radical.”

  He seemed gratified when one of the girls giggled.

  Rowan didn’t laugh. He was rapt.

  “I want you to look at the causes of climate change. I will ask you to come up with a list of preventative measures on a domestic scale—home or school if you want—anything we can do to reduce our carbon impact. Also, I want you to start thinking on a national scale. Most importantly—and here’s the rub—I want you to consider why it’s taking us so long to cop to the potentially catastrophic effects of warming: acidification of the oceans, rising sea levels, loss of coastal habitats, biblical weather, destruction of the polar icecap, to name a few. I want you to ask yourself why, in the face of ruin, human beings are incapable of adapting their behavior. What is the nature of this colossal denial? Are there Darwinian principles at play? Are our brains too small to make the connection between our actions and what’s happening to the planet, and so we must perish because we are unfit custodians? Is there another mind-set conditioning the continuation of foolish choices—our unredeeming selfishness? To most of you this incremental rise in temperature doesn’t sound dramatic—what’s a couple of degrees here and there? But these temperatures have been averaged, and we haven’t taken into account a cycle of acceleration. Think about it. When you lose huge expanses of ice, you lose the ability to reflect heat. In your research, you will read about the tipping point, the moment at which the trajectory towards warming becomes irreversible. You’ll hear different numbers floating about: this will happen in three years—you’ll be lucky if you hear five, but every year we learn that the situation is worse than we thought. For the purposes of this class, and for your future as conscious beings, I wouldn’t be scaremongering to suggest to you that the tipping point is now.”