First Born(8)

It hits me like one wave crashing on a pebble shore, followed by the next. Tiredness, fear, loss, confusion, jet lag, hunger, nausea. We should have met here properly next year – brought together by a long ship journey, with all the right safety equipment, with proper planning. Time for us to reconnect and just be. Forgive each other for all of the harsh words. Laugh about it. I’ve daydreamed of the walks we’d take in Central Park. The chats we’d have in the apartment over bowls of cereal with cold milk, just the way we used to chat as teenagers. And now none of that will happen.

Mum is crying in the next room. The partition wall is far from soundproof.

They’ve given me twenty minutes to freshen up and change clothes before we go out for food. I can’t face the communal bathroom yet so I change my clothes and take a drink of water. My room is taller than it is long. A dingy shoebox standing on its end.

Dad knocks gently on the door. I recognise the cadence of his knuckle taps from home, from back when my sister and I were tiny, sharing a room, sharing everything.

‘You ready, Moll?’

I step outside and he takes me a little way down the corridor and says, ‘Your mum’s not handling this so well.’ He looks exhausted. Broken. ‘She puts on a brave face, but she’s very tired.’

‘I know.’

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw and then he breathes out and kisses my forehead.

‘Ready?’ asks Mum, appearing from their room.

We head downstairs. Mum’s gripping her handbag so tight I think she might destroy the leather. Like it’s an anchor point for her. A safety harness.

‘Is there a Pret nearby?’ I ask.

Mum looks at Dad and Dad looks at me. ‘Maybe, but we haven’t seen one yet. We go to the nice diner round the corner. They’re kind in there and the food’s good. Not too expensive.’

‘You’ve been there a few times?’ I ask.

Mum says, ‘It’s clean, sweetie. It’s a safe place, I promise.’

‘I don’t think I can eat.’

Dad opens the door and lets us both walk out into the manic Midtown street-life. The pavements are alive with pedestrians, and there are yellow cabs, and a fire truck in the distance with a Stars and Stripes flag hanging from its rear end. We walk round the corner and the air smells of weed.

‘There it is,’ says Dad.

I want to press them for details about what exactly happened to KT and about whether they think her death was in any way linked to them being here in the city to visit her. I need the specifics. All the available information. But I also need to consider their wellbeing. They’re both thirty years older than I am. They’re even more out of their depth arriving here from their sleepy blue-collar village outside Nottingham. I need to help take care of them. They think I’m here so they can protect me, but in reality it’s the other way around.

The diner has large glass windows and it looks modern, not retro. There’s a menu board inside the glass.

We walk in.

Quiet conversations and efficient servers. A semi-open kitchen, which I always say is a good sign of cleanliness and transparency. The booths or banquettes are small. Imitation leather. On each table sits a ceramic pot containing packets of sugar and Sweet’n Low, and a small vase with an artificial flower. We are seated. One laminated menu each.

‘The toast is pretty good,’ says Mum. I guess I inherited my wild adventurous side from her.

‘I think I’ll have pancakes,’ says Dad. ‘With maple syrup.’

We both look at him. He looks back as if to say What? Mum mouths the word Paul at him. Our expressions are too complex to unravel but translate roughly as How can you think of eating pancakes tonight? Simple toast is somehow acceptable in these circumstances but pancakes, with syrup, contrary to any logical reasoning, are judged, by us both, in this instant, to constitute some sort of hideous betrayal.

‘I might just have toast,’ says Dad. ‘I’m not so hungry really.’

We order toast. Two teas and an americano. The server is a Puerto Rican woman in her forties. She has a gentle smile and she doesn’t rush us. Maybe she sees we’re lost in the shock end of the grief spectrum, or maybe she treats all of her customers like this, because who doesn’t need quiet kindness, especially in a hectic city like this one?

‘I need to buy a few things,’ I say.

‘It’s too late tonight for that, sweetie,’ says Mum. ‘You need rest after your flight. You know how you get if you’re too tired. We can find you the things early in the morning, before we visit the police station.’

‘Police precinct,’ says Dad.

‘You know exactly what I meant, Paul,’ says Mum. I stare at them both. She puts her hand on his and says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m just exhausted.’

I reach over to put my hand on top of theirs but the server arrives with our drinks.

‘Two teas, one americano. Your toast is coming.’

We all thank her.

It’s quiet in here. Calm.

‘What . . . what happened?’ I ask. ‘I need to know what happened to KT.’

Mum hands Dad two packets of sugar. Her hand is trembling.

‘They’re not telling us much yet, Moll,’ says Dad, stirring his coffee. ‘We wish we knew more but the police have been so busy trying to catch whoever did this, we don’t know details yet. They’re still trying to piece together the puzzle, so they tell us.’