She wanted to feel that way again. It wasn’t age dependent, surely?
Was Liza right? Was she being stubborn? Unrealistic? What did she expect at eighty years old? Did she really think she was going to dance barefoot across the sand and haul in a sail? Drink tequila in Mexico?
Those days were behind her, although she still had the memories and the evidence of the life she’d once lived.
The house was silent and she walked into the room that had been her study for all the years she’d lived here. The walls were lined with maps. Africa. Australia. The Middle East. America. The whole world was right there in front of her, tempting her.
How she missed exploring. She missed the bustle of the airport, the scents and sounds of a new country, the excitement of discovery. She missed sharing it with people. Go here, see this, do this. The Summer Seekers had been her baby. Her show.
What use was her experience to anyone now? She’d thought she might write a book about her travels, but it turned out that writing about it had been nowhere near as exciting as doing it. She’d scribbled a couple of chapters and then abandoned them, bored with sitting and drowning in a sea of nostalgia. She didn’t want to write, she wanted to do.
It had been eight years since she’d last traveled out of the country, a sedate trip to Vienna to celebrate their wedding anniversary. They’d eaten Sachertorte, richly chocolatey and unquestionably indulgent. Flavors had been one of the pleasures of exploring new countries. Flavors were memories for Kathleen. When she smelled spices, she was transported to the palm-fringed beaches of Goa. The soft sizzle of garlic in olive oil made her think of long, slow summers in Tuscany.
She’d always had a passion for adventure. For travel. She hadn’t paused long enough to let life settle on her.
She stood in front of the map of North America, marked with the historic Route 66.
That particular road trip had long been on her wish list. She would have taken the trip many years back were it not for the fact that it ended in California. California was a big place, of course, but still it was too uncomfortable.
Thinking about California made her think of the letters. She reached out to open the drawer in her desk, but then snatched her hand back.
It was far too late now. You couldn’t change history. All she could do was look at the maps and the photographs and dream.
She looked at the box files, bulging with maps and notes.
Selling this place wouldn’t just mean selling her home, it would mean leaving her past. Her house wasn’t stuffed full of meaningless objects, it was full of pieces of her life. Everything came with meaning and memory attached.
She locked the door of the study, and returned to the bedroom where she hid the key in a drawer.
That man breaking into her house had made her evaluate her life.
Yes, she was vulnerable, but so was every human being. Most didn’t realize it, of course. Most people believed they were in control of everything that happened to them and perhaps it took age and long experience to know that life could deliver blows you never could have deflected, not even with a skillet.
She’d never let fear stop her living. Instead she’d made the most of every moment, dealing with trouble as it came her way. If anything she’d been reckless.
She was no longer reckless, but nor was she ready to live out her days in a room with a call button.
A restless feeling stirred inside her. Excitement. Anticipation. A thirst for adventure. Lately it had been absent and it was reassuring to know she was still capable of feeling it. It gave her an energy and a drive that was much needed.
She walked to the bathroom and removed the bandage from her head. Enough of that.
She scrubbed at the dried blood and cleaned herself up as best she could, deciding that washing her hair probably wouldn’t be the wisest move right now. She tried not to look directly at her reflection. In her mind she was youthful, but the mirror mocked her attempts at self-deception.
Turning away, she dressed as quickly as her body would allow and walked down to the kitchen. She was disappointed to find no signs of Popeye. She was ridiculously fond of the cat, and not entirely because he expected very little of her.
She’d always been an early riser and she began the day with strong coffee. The sun was shining, so she carried her cup to the small marble-topped table she’d had shipped from Italy. The moment she stepped outside, her mood lifted.
It promised to be a perfect day, the air filled with the scent of flowers and a sweet chorus of birdsong.
This moment with her coffee was a brief respite before what she knew would be a difficult weekend. She excelled at some things, but parenting wasn’t one of them. She’d been forty when she’d married, and Liza had been born nine months later. Of all the adventures Kathleen had faced, nothing had frightened her more than the thought of being a mother and having someone emotionally dependent on her.
She didn’t fit the template that many used to measure parental performance. She’d missed almost every sports day, had never attended a ballet class and had treated parent teacher conferences as optional. She had read to her daughter, although she’d always favored travel books over fiction. She’d wanted her to understand how big the world was, and she took some credit for the fact that Liza had achieved top grades in geography. But it was also true that the first time Liza had put two words together it had been to say “Mummy gone.”
Kathleen had always struggled to balance her own needs with society’s expectations.
And now she found herself in that position again. Someone of her advanced years wasn’t supposed to have a sense of adventure.
What was she supposed to do? Sell her home and move into residential accommodation to please her daughter? Protect herself and not move from her chair until her heart gave up?
In the sixties she’d smoked marijuana and danced to rock and roll.
When had she become so careful?
She finished her coffee and bent down to tug up a weed growing between the paving slabs. The garden was her pride and joy, but keeping it tidy was an endless task. She could pay someone, but she didn’t like having strangers in her home. She wanted to be able to drink her morning coffee in her nightdress.
The sun was already hot and she lifted her face and soaked up its warmth. Sunshine always made her want to travel.
“Mum?” Liza’s voice came from the kitchen door. “You’re awake early. You couldn’t sleep?”
“I slept perfectly.” Kathleen decided not to mention the headache. “You?”
“Yes.”
Kathleen could see that was a lie. There were dark shadows under her daughter’s eyes and she looked exhausted. Poor Liza. She’d always been so serious, weighed down by her sense of responsibility and devoted to keeping everyone’s lives on what she considered to be a safe track.