The door swings open. A man fills the frame. And it falls out of my mouth before the memory of his face has even properly registered. “M-Marv.”
Scottish Marv stares at me, his blond hair now white, and tummy rounder, but still, the same as the smiling, patient man who would bring comic books and chocolate coins over when Den had to pop out to work. The one who’d sit and play Snakes and Ladders with me, and balance shells in his shovel-hands on the beach. Marv looks at Eliot, then to me.
“Yes?” he says. “I’m Marv.”
“I—I…” A smile breaks out on my face. “It’s me.”
Marv stares, and I realize, stupidly, that although he has barely altered, the last time this man saw me, I was eight years old.
I laugh, embarrassed. “Sorry, it’s been years, I…” Eliot is staring at me, brow furrowed. “I’m Emmie. Emmeline.”
Marv stares at me again, mouth agape, eyes fixed.
“Emmeline Blue?” I say again. “Katherine’s Emmie.” He keeps staring, so I keep talking, but I know he knows who I am. It’s the way he swallows. The way his cheeks flush. Yet the words just keep coming. “Den’s Katherine. Den Walsh. Twenty years… twenty-two now, would it be?”
His face. Marv’s face doesn’t break into a smile, or anything that even resembles surprised, or confused. He just stares at me, the flushed color in his face now draining, second by second, from his ruddy face. Trouble. Maybe he thinks—true of my mum and Den’s relationship in those final months—that I’m here to stir up trouble. Their split was sudden and volatile, Mum always screaming at him, Den, gritted teeth, storming out. Marv, as one of Den’s friend’s, is on guard, most likely. He doesn’t want to be dragged into Katherine Blue’s drama, and doesn’t want his friend to be either.
“I’m not here for Mum,” I rush out. “I don’t want any trouble at all. I just want to show you something, and I hope you can help somehow.”
A nod. Once. That’s all I get from him, his mouth still agape as I pull the jiffy bag of cards from my bag.
“Mum sent me these.”
Eliot watches Marv, and shifts beside me, folds his arms across his chest, straightens, stands taller. Reluctantly, Marv takes them.
“They’re cards,” I say. “Birthday cards, with…” He’s just looking at me now, eyes downturned at the corners. “With y-your address…” And it’s as if my heart knows before my head. Because I feel the sting across my chest. I feel the words dry up in my mouth. Why hasn’t he spoken? Why hasn’t he said a single thing?
He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“S-Sorry?”
Marv looks at me, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he’s been jogging, then at Eliot, as if for help. Eliot watches me, calm, steady. Waiting.
“I’m sorry,” Marv says again. “I am. But…” He clears his throat, swallows. “But I can’t do this now. I really can’t. I… I have a family. They don’t—they don’t know…” And I already know, as I look at him, his eyes watery, hesitating, hands open in front of him as if he plans to reach out and touch me but decides against it.
“No,” he says. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” Marv closes the door quickly. I hear the clatter of the latch, locking us out.
I look up at Eliot. “Emmie,” he begins. “Are you—”
I turn. I can’t stand here. I cannot stand here on his path. I cannot be here.
I run to Eliot’s truck. I hear the dog barking again from behind the locked door, and I hear Eliot’s feet pounding the concrete behind me. And I don’t cry until I’m in the truck, bent into myself, arms shielding my face. I wonder if he’s watching, from inside the house. I wonder if he’s desperate for us to drive away before his family gets back.
I hear the driver’s door close beside me, feel Eliot’s hand softly land on top of mine. I try to speak, to tell Eliot to drive, but tears soak up my words.
“It’s okay,” Eliot says softly. “It’s okay, Emmie.”
But it’s not. It’s not okay. It can never be.
My dad. I’ve found my dad. And my dad is Marv. Marv, who made me laugh so much I cried when he made my Barbie dolls dance along to the adverts on TV. Marv, who took me to the beach on my bike. Marv, who disappeared when Den did. Marv, who only turned up when Mum was out. He isn’t in Brittany. He never was. And every day I dreamed about finding him, about having him to talk to, to tell him things I’d done and achieved, he’s been right here. Fifteen minutes away. Around the corner. And he doesn’t want me. He shut a door in my face. I am half of him, and he shut a door in my face.
Eliot’s hand squeezes mine. I hold it.
After a while the tears stop and we sit in silence, the only sound in the truck was of someone’s lawn mower outside, and the hiccups in my throat as I try to catch my breath.
After a while, Eliot brushes his thumb over my knuckles and draws back.
“Let’s go,” he says. And he starts the engine, and we drive away.
December 7, 2004
I should have stayed in the cubicle. But I thought they’d gone. I had knelt on the toilet seat, my knees under me, my mouth closed, eyes closed, trying so hard to concentrate on my breath, and on not making a sound. I could hear them laughing, swapping lip glosses, Georgia’s voice saying, “She’s fucking pathetic,” and another girl saying, “She’s a joke, mate. Desperate.” I waited, hands sweating, bones shaking beneath my skin. I thought it was best I kept going to school—so nobody would talk, or believe the anonymous letter left in Ms. Spark’s pigeon-hole was mine. They’d suspect the girl who was suddenly off school, she said. But they know anyway. I should have never written that it happened in the IT block, because that’s what did it and gave me away. As soon as the school told Mr. Morgan they’d had a report that something happened there, the night of the ball, Georgia knew it had to be me who wrote the letter. Her mum too. Because they all knew he was helping me find my dad. And that’s why they say I accused him—Georgia’s amazing, strong, loving dad—of those awful things. Because I’m jealous. Because I’m lonely and desperate for attention. But they’re true. As much as they think I’m making it up, that Mr. Morgan is too cool, too funny, to do something like that, it is true. And I wish so much that it wasn’t.
I heard the knock of the bathroom door as it closed, and their voices fade and disappear. That’s why I opened the cubicle door and stopped hiding. But as soon as I did, I regretted it. Georgia was standing there, with Ashley, from the other form. A girl Georgia and I once chatted with in PE, who told us her boyfriend was a drug dealer, and Georgia had said as we walked away, “Her boyfriend probably works in Burger King, Em. She lies. Wouldn’t mess with her, though. I like my teeth too much.” And we’d laughed, arm in arm, through the leafy school grounds. But it’s seemed to have made Georgia more coveted, this whole thing. Students that barely spoke to us before, now flock to Georgia as if she is a celebrity, all of them leaning across dining tables, listening to her, holding her arm, rubbing her back; so many faces staring at me, with hooded eyes and smirks.