Quiet in Her Bones, page 5
At Diana’s side stood Calvin, tall and lean. Must’ve been one of his rare days off. Born of immigrant Chinese parents he’d lost in a traumatic incident in his youth, Dr. Calvin Liu was the clean-cut high-achieving son of Asian parents’ dreams. I, meanwhile, was the opposite. Unlike Diana, Calvin wore running gear. Probably heading out to one of the few open trails.
It had been Calvin who’d partnered with me while I was training for that half-marathon ten years ago. I’d never completed it, though Calvin had urged me to keep going, telling me that it might help take my mind off my mother’s sudden absence from my life.
Though I was in no mood to talk, I shifted direction to cross the drive. I respected Calvin, and Diana was one of the few people in the Cul-de-Sac whom I genuinely liked. Not because she’d been my mother’s best friend, but because she hadn’t gossiped about her in the aftermath of her disappearance. She’d also made the time to find a confused sixteen-year-old and tell him that the one thing on which Nina had never wavered was her love for her son.
“She’ll come back for you,” Diana had promised. “I know she will.”
She’d been wrong, but I’d never held it against her. I’d known my mother in ways even her best friend hadn’t. My mother’s love had come with strings attached. She’d demanded absolute loyalty, heartfelt devotion—and I’d just gotten serious with my first real girlfriend weeks before she disappeared.
“Aarav, why do you go out with these silly girls?” Her fingers in my hair, kneading, her fingernails scraping my skull. “Aren’t I enough?”
She’d been drunk, the taste of vodka in the kiss she’d pressed to my lips.
Hadn’t told my shrink that one; he’d probably start worrying about child abuse. It hadn’t been that. My mother had been kissing me on the lips since I was a toddler, just her way. But the attachment she’d demanded, the unflinching dedication, that hadn’t exactly been healthy. Had she lived, my mother would’ve become the mother-in-law from hell.
“No girl’s going to be good enough for my beta,” she’d slurred the same night. “My lovely boy, mera pyara Ari.”
“Hi, Diana. Hey, Calvin.” He’d been good to me, too, in his distant way. In my final year of school, he’d even carved out time to talk to me about my future, and where I saw myself in five years, then ten.
Neither one of us could’ve predicted this future.
I glanced down. “Can’t pet you today, Charlie. Got a serious bending-down issue.” The dog nuzzled my moon boot, his distinctive ears less pointed with each day that passed. “How are Mia and Beau?” I’d babysat Diana and Calvin’s now-teenaged children a lifetime ago. A glorious summer full of transitory happiness.
I’d helped Mia put ribbons on her sparkly green trike, shown Beau how to fix a broken toy. The six-year-old boy had attached himself to me for a long time afterward.
Father figure at fifteen.
Because Calvin was too busy, too critical to the flickering lives of strangers. Cardiothoracic surgeons weren’t exactly plentiful on the ground.
“Mia’s just been chosen for a government-backed exchange trip to Beijing next year. Can you believe it?” Diana shook her head. “She’d throw such tantrums when I sent them both to Mandarin classes and look at her now.”
“You must be so proud.” I wasn’t surprised when Diana was the one who answered with an enthusiastic nod. It had always been white-as-snow Diana who’d fought to preserve the children’s ties to their father’s culture.
I’d never been sure if Calvin’s lack of involvement was on purpose or just another casualty of his schedule.
Calvin finally spoke. “It’s good the two can converse with relatives in China.” His English was crisp and precise, without New Zealand’s soft vowels—he’d told me once that he’d studied in England for a number of years.
The sojourn had left a permanent mark.
“And Beau. Still a science whiz?” The kid who’d loved music as a child was following in his father’s medical footsteps.
Still wanting Dr. Calvin Liu to see him.
“Second in his class in biology and chemistry.” Diana beamed, but Calvin’s expression was grim.
Number two wasn’t good enough for him. Ah, Beau. Just another poor little rich kid with an absent parent who held him to impossible standards. I felt a pang. Maybe I’d reach out to the kid again. I might be a self-diagnosed sociopath with a mask for every occasion, but I wasn’t a monster.
“I saw an unfamiliar car by your place,” Diana said. “And Calvin was stuck for ages behind a police roadblock after his night shift, weren’t you, honey?”
“Lost an hour,” Calvin muttered, hands on his hips. “Now I’ll only fit in half my run.”
Going running after a night shift: Pure Calvin.
“They found Mum’s car with her inside,” I said, knowing that, unlike the telegraph of Trixi and Lexi, Diana and Calvin would tell no one.
Calvin went motionless. Diana’s fingers flew to her mouth, her eyes huge. Charlie’s lead fell from her fingers. The elderly dog sat where he was. No dashing off into the bushes for this bulldog. Those days were long behind him.
“Oh my God, Aarav.” Trembling fingers leaving Diana’s mouth to land on my arm as Calvin finally snapped out of his shock to put an arm around her. “Are you all right?”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just said, “I’m still processing.” Dr. Jitrnicka had taught me to use certain phrases to give myself time to respond, so I didn’t rage. Turned out they were also good for giving me time to think up lies.
Diana hugged me, gentle and maternal.
Drawing back when I didn’t really respond, she wiped away a tear and leaned back into Calvin’s embrace. “She loved that car.”
An unspoken question in the words, but I wasn’t ready to tell her the rest. About the bones and the missing money. “You were the only person for whom she allowed dirt into the Jaguar—I remember us driving out to the rose farm to get that special rose for your birthday and how carefully she drove home, not wanting to jostle it.” Family aside, the blooms were Diana’s passion—everyone was welcome to look, but touch one and you’d feel her wrath. “She’d have loved to see how your roses have thrived.”
“I still have that one she got me.” A watery smile, while Calvin rubbed his hand up and down her arm.
“I know—I can see it from my room when it blooms.”
Calvin’s eyes caught mine, and I saw that he wanted to comfort his wife in privacy. Good.
I didn’t want to talk about this any longer. “You’d better finish Charlie’s walk before he starts snoring.”
The dog was settling down into a nap pose.
Diana looked down even as more tears bloomed in her eyes. “Dear Charlie. He’s never let me down. I’ll miss him desperately when it’s time for him to move on.”
“Aarav.” Calvin’s voice. “You know you can always count on us for support. Whether it’s with arrangements or otherwise.”
That was Calvin, too. Practical to the point that it seemed cold and unfeeling, but he’d been the same way when he helped me buy running shoes, and that had been an act of kindness. “Yes, I know. Thank you.”
I moved on as Diana bent to revive the dog and Calvin hunkered down beside her. And when I caught the pained sound of muffled sobs, I didn’t look back.
9
Diana and Calvin’s neighbors, the Dixons, were coming down their drive, showered and dressed and ready for their post-lunch coffee and cake at Lily’s. Seventy-five and seventy-nine and in no hurry to move in to a retirement home, they treated old age like an attempt at hostile takeover.
Adrian did a stop at their place for a personal training session once a week—it might be cynical of me, but I had a feeling that stop was the only one at which Adrian did the job he advertised.
“Hiya, my man Aarav!” Paul Dixon, the older of the two, tipped his jaunty black bowler hat. His blunt-featured face bore a permanent pink cast as a result of hard living during his time as a rock musician. Get close enough and you could see all the fine broken veins.
He’d had two monster hits. Add in a financial genius wife and boom, the man could buy a ten-million-dollar penthouse if he so wished, but he’d chosen the green privacy of the Cul-de-Sac. “How’s the leg?” he asked.
“I should be able to walk only on the boot soon,” I said, more in hope than anything else, because right now, it still hurt like a bitch if I even thought about putting any real weight on it.
“You should get yourself a cane, sweetcakes.” Margaret Dixon turned on one low-heeled but knee-high boot to fix her husband’s crisp black shirt; the magenta of her hair shone even in the dull light. “More comfortable than them crutches.”
“Yeah, I was thinking that, too. I’ll see if I can order one online.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that!” Paul said. “Just wait here.” He began to walk back up the drive while Margaret smiled out of a mouth coated in red lipstick.
The ebony of her skin was unlined, her only apparent concession to age her low heels. Otherwise, it was leather pants and sparkly tops.
“I like the sequins.”
She cackled. “Bloody horrendous, innit? Put dear Dr. Liu and those snotty Fuckpatricks in a right royal snit.”
It made me laugh, her butchering of Veda and Brett Fitzpatrick’s name, and for a moment I could imagine this was a normal day, with Margaret on gleeful bad behavior and Paul so incessantly cheerful I’d decided to cast him as a serial killer in a future book. “Brett and Veda still being assholes?” The lawyers were my father’s neighbors to the left, and two more sour individuals I’d yet to meet.
“Think they’re bloody toffs, too good for the likes of us. Meanwhile me and Paulie can buy and sell them under the table.” She patted me on the cheek. “Talking of the filthy lucre, you do what I said with yours?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’d come straight to Margaret after realizing I was in danger of pissing away my newfound wealth. She’d given me some “no bollocks” advice, per her own description, then hooked me up with her and Paul’s money managers.
“Entire lot of them have sticks up their bums,” she’d told me around the fragrant smoke from an herbal cigarette, “but that’s how I like them financial types. They’re so proper they itemize every fucking paper clip on their expense reports. No funny-fiddling with our money, or faffing about and charging it to us—but remember, you gotta watch them.”
“I did fall behind in looking at the reports after my accident,” I admitted, “but my accounts seem in good order.”
“Send them to me and I’ll give them a squiz.” Another pat on my cheek. “You grew up pretty. Got your mama’s smile.” She kept going while I fought to maintain my casual expression. “I remember when you were a boy racing up and down here on your little red bike. Cheeky bugger you were—reminded me of our Cherry when she was small, yeah.”
“I never had a red bike. Maybe you’re thinking of Beau.”
“That’s bollocks, sweetie.” She glanced over at Paul, who’d just reappeared. “Paulie baby, didn’t Aarav have a red bike back when Fifi talked you into that crazy gig?”
“Bloody Fifi. Still miss that barmy tart. And yeah, Aarav, you were a right maniac on that red thing.” Grandfatherly laughter, as if he’d never once been caught having an orgy on his tour bus. “Here you go. Try this then.” He handed me a glossy wooden cane, the wood a rich dark hue.
It fit beautifully under my hand. “This is really nice.”
“Belonged to my pa. Bring it back when you’re done and we’ll be square. Righto, Maggie, my love, time to murder one of Lily’s cakes and horrify the neighbors.”
The two headed off down the street on a burst of shared laughter, leaving me with crutches, a cane, and a coffee. After some thinking, I hooked the cane on one of the crutches, and managed to get going again. At least it wasn’t far.
I’d forgotten about the red bike by the time I reached the house, my head heavy in a way that had become familiar since the accident. Leaving the crutches inside the front hallway and abandoning the coffee on a nearby table meant for flowers, I used the cane to support myself as I stumbled up the stairs. I should’ve taken a ground-floor bedroom instead of my old suite but I’d never been good at doing what I should.
Pain was a metallic taste in my mouth by the time I made it upstairs, my head in a vise. Hand trembling, I knocked over several of the pill bottles on my bedside table before I finally got my hands on the right one and unscrewed the lid.
Two minutes later, the lights went out.
* * *
—
I woke to the ringing of my cellphone. Groaning, my mouth thick with the residue of chemical sleep, I tried to pull it out of my pocket, my fingers feeling fat and sluggish. The sound had stopped by the time I dug it out. I blinked to clear bleary eyes, then stared at the name on the screen. “Shit.”
Dropping my head back on the bed, I grabbed the bottle of water on my bedside table and wet my throat before calling Dr. Jitrnicka’s office. “Apologies for missing my appointment,” I told the receptionist, polite because being polite to her cost me nothing.
“You understand we have a policy of charging you if you don’t cancel at least four hours ahead of time?”
“That’s fine.” Money wasn’t an issue; the boy who’d mowed lawns to buy his mother a cheap silver ring could’ve now afforded to give her diamonds.
“A moment please. Dr. Jitrnicka would like to speak to you.”
A click before the call connected. “Aarav.” The doctor’s rich baritone filled the line. “How are you? It’s not like you to miss an appointment now that we’re making such progress.”
If anyone knows who I am beneath the masks, it’s Dr. Jitrnicka. We’ve been “working together” for the past six months. He sees under my skin, to all the shit I hide from the world. “The police came. They found her.” He’d know which her; there was only one woman about whom we talked in the therapy sessions.
“I see,” he said, using one of those “let me think” phrases on which he was an expert. “You must have conflicted feelings.”
“Not alive. Dead. She’s dead and has been since the night she disappeared.”
The pause was long and filled with quiet breathing.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the doctor said at last. “I know you’ve always hoped she’d return home and you’d get to speak again. If you want to do a phone session, this time is yours.”
“No, not now.” I wasn’t ready to dig into my emotions when it came to my mother’s bones. “I’ll book another appointment.”
“Let’s do that now.” When I didn’t reply, he said, “Aarav, this could be a major trigger for your drinking. Have you built the support structure we discussed? Are those people around you, ready to offer their help?”
I wanted to bark out a laugh and say sure, I have my father, that pillar of a man. “It won’t be a problem,” I said instead. “Accident turned out to be a blessing in disguise—I can’t drink while on these meds. Since I have no intention of ending up back in hospital, I’ll follow the rules. I want to drive my Porsche again.”
“The repairs are complete then? My impression was that the damage was fairly major.”
Sitting up in bed, I stared at the wall ahead of me, the painting that hung there a remnant of my teenage years. Something made me say, “I’m thinking positive.”
“That’s a good thing. Take care of yourself—and call me night or day. I don’t mind the interruption and will call back as soon as I can if I’m in session at the time. We’ve done some good work and we can’t allow this turn of events to jeopardize that.”
“Sure, Doc.”
After hanging up, I continued to look at the wall opposite. It was a pale gray color that Shanti had apparently chosen after her marriage to my father. Bull. Shit. Shanti didn’t so much as say boo without my father’s permission. If she’d had any input, it was because he hadn’t been interested.
But all I could see right then was the sleek beauty of my customized Porsche. A Porsche that was currently sitting safe in the secure garage of my city apartment. Dr. Jitrnicka had to be mistaken. I wouldn’t have forgotten that my pride and joy was in for major repairs. It’d be like forgetting my own head. Even highly intelligent doctors had off-days, and I couldn’t be the only one of his patients who’d had an accident.
He’d confused us, that was all.
10
Rubbing my face, I used the cane to get to my feet, then hobbled over to the bathroom. It was after four by the time I emerged, having managed a quick wake-up shower. My eyes went to the slim black laptop I kept on top of a desk in front of the balcony sliders.
A pile of printed pages sat next to the laptop.
That was one of my things—printing out pages as I went. I’d mentioned it in an interview after my first book hit it big, saying it gave “weight to the evanescent nature of my ideas” and now half the literary world thought I was a wanker and a poser.
I might be, but I also just liked to print out my work as I went. I’d done it since I was a teenager. It gave me a feeling of achievement, of steadily climbing the mountain even if a particular day’s work added up to a great big heap of nothing.
Today was one of those days.
Walking over to the pile, I picked up the last page I’d printed. As always, the final line on the page hung unfinished:
There really wasn’t much he could do about the blood, without
I’d woken at 3 a.m. and spent the next three hours trying to finish that sentence and failing. That’s why I’d been downstairs when the police came. Attempting to find inspiration in a bottle of Coke.
