The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (16 page)

The meal was ready when Dad and I got back from the park. Dad carried what was left of his plane and I took the remote control. I felt sorry for him, especially since it had been my question that had caused the crash, but I didn't quite know how to express it. Dad said nothing either.

I put out knives and forks while Mum and Dad had a muttered conversation. Judging by the way they kept glancing at me, it wasn't tricky to work out the topic. I hummed. I knew the inquisition wasn't over yet. It would accompany the spaghetti Bolognese. Under different circumstances, I would have welcomed this side dish. In this circumstance, I would have preferred garlic bread.

Mum pushed spaghetti around her plate. It made interesting patterns.

I watched the parmesan melt into my sauce. It made interesting patterns, too.

“Pumpkin?” she said. “Your accident on the marina. Falling into the water. Was that really an accident?”

I considered introducing the subject of Earth-Pig Fish and Skullcap Fish into the dinner conversation at that point. Possibly, Mum would be so intrigued by all the religious implications she'd forget the original topic. She might even get so carried away she'd actually put some of the spaghetti into her mouth rather than using it as an artistic medium. It was a million-to-one shot, though, so I reverted to my default position. Honesty.

“No,” I said. The following silence was so heavy you could weigh and bag it. Dad put down his fork.

“You tried to kill yourself?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“I don't understand,” Mum said.

“Neither do I,” said Dad.

“That makes it unanimous,” I said.

I thought for a moment Mum was going to get
very
angry. She put a hand to her forehead as if to check on a pain. Then she rubbed her eyes. Her face was red. She took a sip from her wineglass and her hand shook. She was obviously struggling to keep control. I pushed my spaghetti Bolognese around the plate on the principle that if you can't beat them you should join them. I waited.

“Okay, Candice,” she said finally. “I want total honesty. In return, I promise we will not get angry. But . . .” She shook her head. “I need to know—
we
need to know—what is wrong? Why you have done these things. So let's start at the marina. Why did you . . . do what you did?”

“I was trying to save our family,” I said.

I explained how I had seen it unfold in my head. Dad and Rich Uncle Brian united in rescuing me. A family bonded.

Mum bent over her food while I talked and I saw a tear fall onto her plate. Instantly I felt . . . not remorse. I had to tell the truth. I felt sad. It oozed from me, like sweat.

“You think our family needs saving?” Dad said.

“Yes,” I said. I thought about Mum in her bedroom and Dad in his shed. We were drowning. But no one was throwing themselves into the water after us. So we splashed in our own separate circles. It was only a matter of time before we'd become exhausted and sink. I decided not to share this.

“And how would divorcing us help?” said Dad. “Would you really prefer living with strangers?”

“You
are
strangers,” I said and Mum sobbed, a short gasp, quickly choked. “Anyway,” I continued, “Rich Uncle Brian would take me in.” Dad flinched, so I hurried on. “But I don't want to live with him. I just want you back. That's why I've done what I've done. I'm sorry.”

I meant sorry for the upset, not sorry for my actions. But I was tired from all the talking and didn't want to explain any further.

Mum wiped her face on her napkin and made as if to leave the table. Then, with an effort of will, she forced herself to stay. She picked up her fork, pushed around some more spaghetti, and then gave up. She straightened her back and looked me full in the eyes.

“You are right!” she said. Her voice was loud and shrill. She laughed, but it sounded all wrong. “You are absolutely right. We are appalling parents. We should never have had children. It's a small miracle we only lost the one. It's more than we deserve.”

Then she kicked back her chair, which fell on its side and rocked for a moment. Mum's face twisted and a strange, keening noise came from her throat. She turned and rushed from the room. The bedroom door was slammed shut.

Dad and I sat for a moment, but we didn't even have the energy to push spaghetti around.

I have a computer chair in my bedroom. I do not have a computer. Rich Uncle Brian bought it for me (the chair, not the nonexistent computer). I explained to RUB that Earth-Pig Fish's bowl was like a computer because I could stare at the glass and get information without the threat of viruses. What's more, I didn't have to boot it up. I don't know why computers have to be booted up. It seems exceptionally violent to me, but I am not good, as must be clear by now, at technical matters.

I hadn't used the computer chair for a long time because of the God Problem, but now I sat and wheeled myself in front of the bowl. I bent my face toward the plastic world and watched my fish as they circumnavigated it. I paid particular attention to their reaction when my face ballooned into their vision.

It's difficult to be certain, but I didn't notice any obvious change in their movements. There wasn't a pause, as I felt sure there must be on beholding the miraculous. I was encouraged. So I started talking to my fish. I talked to both of them and hoped Earth-Pig Fish wouldn't be resentful that I was including Skullcap Fish, who (to be fair) hadn't been around long enough to earn my confidence.

Dad knocked on my door ten minutes later. I was tired of all the talking, but couldn't think of how I could turn him away. He sat on the edge of my bed and rested his hands on his knees. We sat in silence for a moment or two.

“How's Mum?” I asked.

He sighed.

“Better, Candice,” he said. “I think she's sleeping now.”

“Is she bipolar?”

I had looked this up in one of the encyclopedias at school. It has nothing to do with the North Pole and the South Pole, even though, when you think about it, the world
is
bipolar. (Does that mean there are bipolar bears up in the Arctic?) It's a condition involving fluctuations between moods of deep despair and moods that are . . . well, normal. It seemed to fit Mum.

“No one has put a name to it,” said Dad. “She's depressed, Candice. Deeply depressed. She has her good days and her bad days.”

“Can it be cured?”

Dad rubbed at his eyes. He appeared desperately tired.

“Depression is complicated. There is no simple cure,” he said. “Though some drugs can help. Trouble is, your mum doesn't like the medication. She doesn't want chemicals messing with her brain, and I can't say I blame her. But who knows? Maybe it's time to give them a go again. Perhaps I can persuade her.”

“Are you depressed, Dad?” I asked.

“Me? No. I'm just . . . a failure, I guess.”

“Why?”

“It's complicated, Candice. I work hard at my job, but it doesn't satisfy me. It barely pays the bills, either. What I should be doing is writing programs. It's what I was put
on this earth to do. I try in my spare time. But I can't seem to make a go of that either. Whatever I touch, fails.”

“Unlike Rich Uncle Brian,” I said.

Dad flinched.

“Unlike Rich Uncle Brian,” he said. I was expecting dark muttering, but I didn't get it. He slapped his hands onto his knees. “Perhaps it's time I gave up, Candice. Accept the inevitable. It's all very well to have dreams, but not when they threaten to destroy your own family. You deserve better.”

“I don't want you to give up your dreams, Dad,” I said.

“And I don't want them to rule my life,” he replied. “That's when they turn into nightmares. And we've all had enough of nightmares.”

“I'm not giving up on my dreams and you shouldn't either,” I said.

Dad laughed and tousled my hair.

“Good on you, Candice,” he said. He got to his feet. “I'd better do the dishes,” he added. “They won't do themselves.”

“Do you need help?”

“Would you like to help?”

“No,” I said.

Dad laughed. “Then don't worry.” He closed my bedroom door, but immediately opened it again.

“You know what we all need, Candice?” he asked.

“Love?” I suggested. “And a new remote-controlled plane?”

“A vacation,” said Dad. “It would do us a world of good.” He closed the door again.

Earth-Pig Fish and Skullcap Fish listened while I told them my brilliant idea, but they made no response. Perhaps they were becoming wrapped up in each other. That was okay. Neither of them paid attention to the plastic frond at the bottom of the bowl, so if it
was
a Tree of Knowledge, it wasn't tempting them. That was good. I wanted them to remain innocent.

I wanted all of us to remain innocent.

Later, I tiptoed down the hallway and rang Rich Uncle Brian. The house was silent. Dad must have gone to bed, or maybe he'd retired to his shed again to pursue a dream or two.

“Hello, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said when he picked up. “I wondered if you would like to buy me a hamburger of dubious origin?”

“Now?”

“No. Tomorrow.”

“Of course, Pumpkin,” he said. “I'll pick you up from school.”

“Wonderful, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said. “It is not food that motivates me, though I won't turn down french fries, but I want to discuss finance. As you are a rich uncle, I felt you were qualified.”

There was that puzzled pause at the end of the line again, but, as I've said before, this is customary between me and Rich Uncle Brian, so I ignored it.

“Should there be time,” I added, “I will tell you about the dramatic turn of events involving Earth-Pig Fish. It is a story worthy of Charles Dickens himself, though it's unlikely he will write it, since he's dead.”

The silence extended, so I cut it off. “See you tomorrow, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said and hung up.

Then I went to bed with my dictionary. I'd finished
Z
, but I was anxious to start again. In my experience it's almost impossible to tire of aardvarks.

Miss Cowie handed back our assignments the following day. I got an A-minus, which worried me. I always get straight As with Miss Bamford (apart from the Alphabet Assignment, which, for obvious reasons, I hadn't handed in yet). Was Miss Bamford too generous or Miss Cowie too harsh? Life is complicated. I toyed with the idea of writing Miss C a note asking for her views on this, but decided against it. My notes are, apparently, an acquired taste. And I couldn't talk to the substitute teacher. By my reckoning, we were a few weeks away from that. By which time, Miss B would be back. I hoped.

At the end of the lesson, Miss Cowie dropped a bombshell. I don't mean she exploded a dangerous device in the classroom. No teacher, to my knowledge, has done that. I speak metaphorically.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “we will start work on the next component of the course. You have finished Autobiography . . .”
Oops
, I thought. “. . . and now we will move on to Biography. As you know, a biography is a record of someone else's life. I have decided we will start small.
I will pair you up and you'll spend tomorrow's lesson interviewing each other, making notes for an oral presentation on the important aspects of your partner's life.”

Silence greeted this pronouncement. Once again, I was worried. At least half the class were people I had never spoken to. It was going to be extremely difficult interviewing someone purely by writing questions on a sheet of notepaper. Plus, it would probably anger Miss Cowie, though I hoped Miss Bamford might have told her about me. As it turned out, I needn't have worried.

“Candice Phee, you will be paired with Jennifer Marshall.”

I smiled. I like Jen. I turned in my chair to share my smile.