By the Time You Read This (12 page)

I was now shopping in Covent Garden, unafraid to spend $60 on a pair of shoes, haggling with intolerant wholesalers was distant memory dust. I was also now unafraid of the trendy wand, happy to dress my age and skip the “beige cardies.” Even Carla, who I hadn’t seen for some time, noticed when she came round to invite me to one of Fred’s gigs—which I declined, of course, gigs not really being my scene.

However, now I didn’t have an excuse not to venture back into Charlton to see Mom and her child, which I managed on a monthly basis and was something I got through mostly by clock-watching. Then, on one such day, I ran into Corey.

“Lo Bag!” he enthused, scooping me into his strong arms.

“I thought you were still in France!”

“I’m back for a bit. Sometimes you need your mom’s cooking.”

“Your mom’s roasts
are
legendary…”

Then, silence. I couldn’t think of one word to say to break it.

And then he spoke. Quietly. “It doesn’t take that long to get here via the tunnel, you know.
Either way.”

I ignored the insinuation. “Look at you!” I said in over-exaggerated tones. I pulled at a tuft of his hair that had grown into a fashionable but lazy style, the baggy jeans and holey T-shirt telling the world “I’m so cool.”

“You look great!” he enthused, shaking his head slowly and, I think, appreciatively. He held out his arms and I felt a blush as he scooped me into them for a second time. Even though I’d fantasized about Matt nonstop most nights, in reality I hadn’t felt a man’s body against mine since Greg two years ago, and it felt good. Corey felt good.

“You’ve got to come in! Mom’s out with Calvin. We can catch up and you can tell me what my sister is doing with that idiot Fred, the wannabe rocker who speaks like he has a plum in his throat!”

I followed Corey into the house with a strong sense of déjà vu.

“So, what do you think about your mom and Calvin?” I asked.

“I try NOT to think about them, if you know what I mean.”

I laughed nervously. “I meant with him being so much younger and that…”

“Well, Dad’s living it up in Barcelona…”

“How is your dad?”

“Opened up a bar and everything. I went to see him a couple of weeks ago. He asked about you, wants to know when you’ll come and visit.”

“Really?” This surprised me.

“Of course! You’re like one of the family. Seriously, though, if my mom’s happy then that’s cool. I just hoped she would have found someone a little bit older than me, you know?” He pulled a cigarette box from his pocket and offered me one.

“Sorry, don’t smoke.”

“Don’t be, it’s a filthy habit and I should have remembered you don’t smoke,” he said, lighting up. “My sister tells me you’re a top executive or something.”

“Hardly. I work in computers.”

“Say no more, Lo Bag. Supposed to be good money in that. But I got to say, you surprise me.”

“Why?” I raised a newly plucked eyebrow.

“I saw you doing something more creative, I suppose.”

“What, like you?” I laughed.

Corey remained focused. “I can see how it could be tempting. Some of my friends have jumped onto the computer bandwagon, becoming certified engineers and kissing goodbye to a serious future in art. Not me.”

“So, you think I’ve ‘sold out’ then?”

“I didn’t say that, Lo Bag. I just believe we all have a creative side. Mine’s art, Mom likes sewing things, Carla…well, Carla just likes to sit and gaze into the eyes of her boyfriends.” We both laughed and Corey’s dimples sang out to me.

“And what’s mine then?”

“I dunno…you tell me.”

I remembered my twenty-first birthday present. The joy
at seeing the pictures for the first time. My dad and me in various poses. Together. Captured in film for the very last time, and yet—forever.

“Maybe I haven’t found it yet. Sorry…”

“Lo Bag, I don’t judge anyone. You’re just doing what you feel you have to do. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

As we continued to “catch up” I perspired uncomfortably into my crisp white shirt. Especially when he looked at me, perhaps in no particular lustful way, but in a way my body seemed to respond to. I’m not sure if this had something to do with my “drought,” as Carla liked to put it, or just the familiarity of the whole situation, but after over four years of being apart “it” was still there…this thing. This thing I couldn’t articulate. This thing that had existed between me and Corey ever since he kissed me in this very living room after my beer-choking session.

“You look really lovely,” he said out of nowhere. I wasn’t sure where to look. His lips, his chest, further down…I felt like a little kid, merely on the brink of adulthood, unsure of how to say or do anything that would seem remotely adult. He moved over to me, slowly, and I knew what was going to happen, because it had happened before. Our lips connecting. Slowly at first, and then moving with a hunger that needed immediate gratification.

Upstairs in his room, his fingers moved without guidance. Unbuttoning, removing, burying themselves in places I’d only allowed Greg to explore. I thought I’d explode as his tongue made quick circles on my lips, brushing against my teeth, teasing me with every short stroke. A rush of heat moving up inside of me, appearing out of my mouth as words. “I want you.”

“Are you sure about this?” he said huskily.

I was sure.

“Y
ou okay?” asked Corey.

“Yep.” It just seemed right, lying there together. Corey lit up a cigarette and held it to me. I didn’t think twice as I took it from him.

“Just like old times, right?”

“Tell me about it.”

“You okay?” he asked again.

“Yes! Stop asking me that.” I passed the cigarette back to him.

“Always away with the fairies, you. Even when we were kids.”

I smiled as he kissed me so tenderly on the forehead. So soft, so loving. And I wanted to stay there with him forever, but at the back of my mind I knew he’d be off back to France soon. I had to prepare myself for this inevitability. Him leaving me again. So that’s what I did.

“Where are you going, Lo Bag?”

“I really have to go,” I said, jumping into my clothes, one eye on the clock.

“But what’s the rush? Mom won’t mind seeing you here. Trust me on that one.”

“You have a great trip back to France, you hear?” I neared the door.

“But I’m not going back until next week. We could—”

“See you!” I sang, halfway out of the room. I exhaled deeply, shutting the door behind me.

It was better this way. Yes, we could have met up again. Talked some more, had a nice time together. But then he’d
be back on the Eurostar within days. Away from here. From London. From me. I wasn’t about to put myself in the firing line only to be shot down. No way.

C
orey left on the Friday according to Carla and by the Saturday I was sitting alone in the apartment as I did most weekends. I didn’t mind as not going out drinking like many people my age meant I got to save cash (although I did make an exception on Millennium Eve by buying a bottle of champagne which I hardly touched and left for Carla).

A
nother Saturday at home and the sun shone furiously outside as the sound of children playing loudly annoyed the crap out of me as I tried to concentrate on a videotaped recording of
EastEnders.
Thanks to a small pay rise, I now had all the mod cons I desired, including a tabletop washing machine, which meant fewer trips to Mom’s and the Annoying Sprog’s. The phone rang. It was Carla.

“F
red’s got a record deal,” she said.

“That’s great!” I replied, flicking the pause button.

“And he’s dumped me.”

“Oh…”

“Said it would never work, now that he’s about to become a big star.” Her voice faltered and I knew she was in pain.

“Sorry…”

“Can I call you back? I’ve just got to finish putting a hammer to this crappy guitar. I’ll call you back, okay?”

I smiled, re-pressing the pause button. Although I was
sad for Carla, her situation just proved my theory about people.

The phone rang again, but this time it was Mom. My body tensed up, preparing an invisible riot shield for the onslaught of strained conversation regarding my lack of visits, eating and sleeping habits and whether I had enough soap powder in the house—but this time I couldn’t have been more wrong with my mundane predictions.

“It’s your sister.”

“What about her?” I groaned. Last month Mom had phoned to boast about the Sprog’s obvious genius tendencies, following a quick completion of the puzzle I’d bought her for Christmas. The Sprog said this; the Sprog did that. Boring stuff that only a real sister would appreciate—and I wasn’t her real sister.

“I…I can hardly say this…I can’t…” said Mom.

“Mom, what is it?” I hit pause on the video.

“She’s gone missing. She’s gone missing!”

T
he police had been called.

Mom had last seen the Sprog playing in the back garden as she prepared vegetables for dinner. The phone had rung and Mom had launched into a long conversation with a friend, only to return and find the toddler had disappeared.

Carla’s mom and Calvin jumped into their car, while Carla and I ran round to the neighbors’ houses, screaming her name. We searched around the rec, under trees, shoving hastily photocopied pictures into the path of anyone within eyeshot, as well as in Mr. Tally’s shop window and telephone boxes. We begged passers-by for a snippet
of a sighting, anything that could lead us to her whereabouts. I then heard a whisper about the police visiting the mental care home up the high street but refused to let this news penetrate. Likewise when I heard they were considering searching Blackheath Common.

An hour passed.

We retraced our steps. Covered old ground. Communicated by cellphone—the first time I was able to justify the fact I’d actually bought one.

Two hours.

No sightings.

Three hours.

No news.

I was now left with a new, horribly unbearable nagging thought: that this little girl wasn’t coming back. I was totally bewildered as I watched my mom unravel, almost disintegrating right there in front of me, inconsolable at the loss of her “miracle child.” Her husband was unable to offer any useful words of comfort, as he himself looked riddled with fear. The Sprog wasn’t even three yet. Too young to hold a conversation and too incapable of finding her way home. What if she was hurt? What if someone had hurt
her?
I tried to remove such echoing thoughts from my head and my heart, but failed miserably. Bad things always happened. People left, went away and
never
came back.

I crumpled her photocopied image in my hand, unable to fight a searing ache that appeared from the tips of my toes to the very last strand of hair on my head. Huge, angry tears appeared.
Please don’t let anything have happened to her,
I begged.
Not to my little sister. Please.
I remembered
what Dad had written about siblings and knew for sure that as of the summer of 2000 I loved her. I loved my little sister Abbi. She was a terror, screamed a whole lot when unable to manipulate her own way, lugged around a smelly knitted donkey, its ear shoved up her nostril (and which she refused to sleep without), and the trickle of snot that always found its way into her mouth—let’s face it—disgusted me. But she was Abbi. Forget all that stuff about her not being my sister. Of course she was my sister! Mom gave birth to her. We had the same blood running through our veins, just like me and Dad, and I loved her. Loved that smile. Her cheeks. Those ringlet curls, that lovely doe-eyed smile. A stunning child mostly seen in the pages of catalogues advertising mini parkas and pink lace-up shoes. What a beautiful child. So beautiful, I had even managed to convince myself that Mom’s and the Bingo Caller’s genes could not have produced this little girl. That when Mr. and Mrs. Beautiful came back to reclaim her, complete with Volvo and golden retriever, we’d all be devastated. And she’d be gone forever. So I had decided that I would never
truly
love Abbi. Never truly embrace that sweet, adorable little girl.

And in some ways, this had made real sense—But now it just sounded childish, ridiculous and above all, cruel.

I
paced the streets of my youth again. Lanes Fish Bar, the rec, fearing the worst possible conclusion. I was too late with my declarations of love. Too late.

Abbi was dead.

Too late.

Her tiny little body cold against the harsh elements.

Too late.

My tears arrived in abundance again, this time accompanied by masses and masses of guilt.

I walked slowly back to the house, my head bowed, and willed myself to turn the key in the lock. It was then I heard the crying and so braced myself for the inevitable, for more tears, more sorrow. Abbi was dead. Gone, just like Dad. And I had to be strong again.

I shut the heavy door behind me.

An obvious crowd had gathered in the kitchen. Everyone’s back was toward me as I opened the squeaky kitchen door.

“L…Lois!” screamed my mom as the crowd split, revealing her swollen, tear-stained face to me.

“Mom?”

“L…look…”

“Mom?”

“She’s back!” wailed Mom, in her arms a disheveled but alive little sister.

“Sprog!” I raced over, collecting her from my mother. Abbi raised her eyebrows in surprise at my current level of fuss. She wriggled a bit until someone handed her the knitted donkey, whose ear she placed firmly into her nostril. I think the room erupted in laughter, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I just wanted to smell her, rub my fingers into each curl and, most of all, I never, ever wanted to let this child go again.

Apparently, Abbi had crawled through a hole and into the garden next door, belonging to an elderly couple who’d not long moved in. She’d fallen asleep behind their rose bush, and apart from a few thorn pricks was relatively unharmed as she lapped up the attention from me and half the neighborhood.