Modern Heart: City Love 3 Page 22

  Usually the long silences between us would be punctuated by obnoxious phone messages that started with a grating, “Ska-lit!”

  Whatever my mother was calling about, she wanted to discuss it with me in person, which confirmed my decision not to answer her calls at work. No call from my mother could be classified as office appropriate.

  I ignored the rest of the missed call alerts from her and opened my texts. Texts from Cate and Christa. None from Maddy. I deserved that. She was more mature than me so probably wasn’t holding a grudge, just giving me some space. I suspected she’d had more than enough of my recent behavior, though. Maddy had her daughter to think about now. I’d call her later tonight and apologize. I scrolled down the list of texts further. There was one from John.

  Only one?

  I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. Five messages? Six? I guess it was better than none.

  I hit “open” before I could wonder about it any further.

  Scarlett. I’m not going to apologize. What I did was well-intentioned. If you can’t see that, you don’t know me at all.

  I placed the phone down on the table carefully, my hand shaking. Well, that definitely wasn’t what I’d been expecting. What had I expected? Groveling? Begging for forgiveness? Jesus. Was his message an ultimatum? Was he expecting me to say that I was sorry?

  I stared at the phone until it went black.

  I was sorry. Sort of. I wasn’t sorry for getting angry because I was furious about how he’d gone behind my back like that. But I was sorry for my parting words. They hadn’t been called for. He’d only just opened up to me about his divorce and then I’d gone and thrown it in his face.

  Maddy’s little speech last night about how words could wound was accurate. Unfortunately I hadn’t taken the class in how words could be used to heal.

  I pushed the plate of food away in frustration. Although he hadn’t said it, his message was clear. The next move was mine.

  I could admit that I’d been so deeply shocked by seeing my mother at my exhibition that I’d reacted poorly. And let’s not forget I’d been going to tell him I loved him.

  I inhaled a shuddering breath.

  Goddamn it, I still loved him. Well, didn’t that just suck? It would be so much easier if I could erase all these messy feelings. Regret and shame were forerunners. Loneliness was hot on their heels, which bothered me too. I’d been alone since I was eighteen. I’d actively chosen not to have a boyfriend. If I wanted company or support, I had my girlfriends. Somehow though, John had eased his way into my life, and I’d gotten used to having him around. It was more than that, of course. I didn’t understand it, but when John and I were together we just seemed to fit.

  “Shit.” I shoved my chair back from the table. It was time. I needed to read the article before I spoke to him.

  I was halfway across the apartment when my phone rang. I swore again. It might be John. I jogged back to the dining table.

  It was my mother.

  “Oh for …”

  I picked up the phone angrily. Honestly, they move back to Sydney and all of a sudden she wants a relationship with me? Then again, she wasn’t going to go away so I might as well just deal with it.

  “Mother. What’s up?”

  There was silence on her end for a beat, maybe because she was shocked I’d finally picked up.

  “You need to come visit.”

  A social call? It was so absurd, given our history, that it was almost laughable. “Not a good time right now.” I moved the phone away from my ear, about to hang up.

  “Ska-lit! Do not hang up on me!”

  Well, that was more like it. I sighed and put the phone back to my ear. “Why the sudden need to see me?”

  Another pause, which was very out of character. My mother always knew what to say, or at the very least had something inappropriate to say.

  “Bàba.”

  Silence hung between us. Something was wrong, but I didn’t want to admit it. My chest felt tight. Even as my brain struggled with what was happening, my body instinctively knew. My mother didn’t speak in single words. She didn’t have phone conversations like this.

  “You still there?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Then it occurred to me. I’d been too distracted to think of it before now. “Was Bàba at the art show?”

  “No.”

  Oh, crap. I’d thought he’d been there somewhere in the crowd. My mother was always the one for confrontations. I hadn’t even considered he hadn’t attended.

  “Come see us. Tonight if you can.”

  She ended the call.

  No angry orders. No demands. What the hell?

  Fear spurred me to action. I grabbed my jacket from the sofa, slipped on my boots near the coffee table and scooped up my keys from the hall table.

  Then I saw it on my way out the door. The magazine Maddy had left.

  Chapter 32

  The drive to my parents’ house took forever.

  It felt odd making the journey to my childhood home after all these years. When my parents had moved to Brisbane, they’d rented out their apartment. Now they were back they’d taken up residence again like the past twelve years hadn’t happened. I’d visited them once not long after their return in the neutral territory of a café, but had made no further effort to see them for obvious reasons.

  The drive should have taken about forty-five minutes, but tonight I was caught in the slow crawl of the evening commute. It would have been more sensible to wait an hour, but I wasn’t good at waiting at the best of times.

  Every time I pulled up at a set of traffic lights, I eyed the magazine, which I’d thrown onto the passenger seat. My fingers itched to reach over, pick it up, and turn to page fourteen. I resisted the urge. I wanted to be able to sit and read it uninterrupted, not when I was supposed to be focused on driving. Also not when I was distracted by thoughts of my mother’s unsettling phone call.

  When I pulled up in front of the low-rise nineteen seventies apartment block, I sat in the car for a minute. I eyed the magazine again then dismissed the idea. I could read it properly after I saw my parents.

  I got out of the car and made my way to the entrance. I pressed the button on the intercom for unit three. The extra security was about the only thing that had changed since I was a child, and possibly the gray carpet in the hallway.

  “Yes?” My mother’s voice crackled through the speaker.

  “It’s me.”

  She buzzed me in and I walked up the steps to the first floor. When I reached the landing, she was waiting in the doorway. She nodded and moved aside to let me in.

  I took a deep breath and stepped into the apartment. It felt smaller somehow, almost suffocating. It was hard to believe I’d grown up here. It was tiny. A small lounge room with a kitchen barely big enough for two people, and two small bedrooms. They’d repainted the walls an off-white instead of the dirty gray it had been when I was growing up. My God. Their furniture was still the same. They didn’t do sofas. There were three armchairs positioned around a cane coffee table that I recognized, their wooden arms scuffed and the dark green fabric worn.

  My mother motioned to one of them. “Sit. I get Bàba.”

  I sat. I frowned at the television. As far as technology went, it may as well have been an antique. Flat screens seemed to be beyond my parents’ comprehension and the ugly gray box took up most of one corner of the room. A few small framed photos hung on the wall. One of me when I was seven or eight at a piano recital and some black and white photos of some ancient, and probably deceased, relatives in China. Aunty Cindy maybe?

  “Scarlett?”

  I turned at the sound of my father’s voice and sucked in my breath. “Bàba!”

  I jumped up and rushed toward him but he waved me away in annoyance. “Move. I need to sit.”

  I hesitated. He was leaning heavily on a black walking stick, the effort of which appeared to be making his arm waver.

  “ Ska-lit!” my mother
shouted from behind him.

  I flinched and quickly got out of the way. I stared in horror as Bàba struggled to make the few steps into the living room to his armchair. It was painful to watch. Half of his body didn’t seem to want to cooperate. With each step it was like he had to gather all his willpower before he could take another step. Then, when he did manage it, one leg dragged behind him. While he waited for the uncooperative leg to catch up, it forced him to lean so hard on his walking stick I thought it might leave a hole in the floor.

  When he finally arrived next to the armchair, my mother rushed to his side and waited for him to place a hand on her shoulder. He lowered himself into the chair using my tiny mother on one side and his walking stick on the other.

  “Bàba?” I asked. My voice sounded young – it was fear giving it a high-pitched edge.

  “Stroke.” He said the word calmly, with no hint of frustration.

  I was still standing, looking down at him, unable to move. “You had a stroke?” The question sounded worse when I said it out loud.

  He nodded. For the first time I noticed Bàba’s face was different to how I remembered. One of his sharp, almond shaped eyes sagged more than the other, and it wasn’t due to age. Then I realized it was the entire side of his face, not just his eye. It was like someone had taken my portrait and smeared it with a wet sponge so one half of his face was out of focus.

  “When?” I whispered. How long had it been since I’d last seen them? Four months? Maybe five? It was about a month after they’d returned to Sydney, but I was finding it hard to think straight.

  “Three months ago.”

  “Three months ago!” I glared at my mother. “You didn’t tell me? How could you not tell me?”

  She shrugged. “Was very touch and go. I needed to focus on your father.”

  My shock turned to rage and I stepped toward her.

  “Scarlett.” Unlike my mother’s Chinese twang, Bàba’s pronunciation of my name had always been smooth and lilting. And soft. He never yelled.

  I turned to him. His warm brown eyes held mine. Despite the physical evidence of the stroke, it was still the same shrewd look I remembered.

  “I told your mother not to tell you.”

  All the breath left me. I collapsed onto the chair. “Why, Bàba?”

  “Your New York art show.”

  “What?” Nothing was making sense. Tears stung the corners of my eyes and my head ached with the shock of seeing my father like this.

  “You needed to concentrate on New York. If you’d been worried about me, you may not have gone.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “How did you know about that?”

  “I’ve been keeping up with you on social media.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Twitter. Although I prefer Pinterest, it’s more visual.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Scarlett,” Bàba said gently. “I would have had your mother contact you if it was serious.”

  “If it was serious? You had a stroke! You could have died and I—” I cut myself off. I was going to say I wouldn’t have been there, but I couldn’t summon the strength to speak the words.

  “But I didn’t, and I didn’t want you seeing me at first. It’s taken me this long to get to this point.”

  This point was good, was what he was saying. Oh God. “I should have been here,” I whispered. Guilt mixed with anger pulsed through my body. Guilt for not trying harder to have a relationship with my father, and anger at my mother for pushing me away. Anger at my father for letting her. But then I couldn’t let them take all the blame. I’d willingly played the role of absentee daughter too, because it was easier. Now I was starting to see how much that decision had cost me. I should have fought harder, I realized. “I’m sorry.”

  “Your mother was here,” he said firmly, his eyes leaving me momentarily.

  I followed his gaze. My mother stood steadfastly by his side, gripping his shoulder tightly. They’d always been such a strong unit. It was partly why I’d felt so alone as a child. When they weren’t happy with me, I had no one. They always had each other. I met my mother’s eyes. They were almost black and I’d hated how hard they could be when directed at me when I was younger. But now, as I looked into them, I saw something else. Doubt.

  She was scared of losing him.

  Well, maybe we did have something in common after all.

  I forced myself to take a deep breath and returned my attention to my father. “Why are you telling me now?”

  My mother stepped forward. “Because you angry at John. And it time you know about your father.”

  “You don’t even know John!” I protested.

  “No. I only met him last night, but you very mean to him about me.”

  “I—”

  “You need to apologize.”

  I stared at her. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Not his fault. Yes, he put flyer in letterbox, but your father already knew about exhibition because he see it on iPad.”

  “Then why did you let me think it was John?”

  “Thought that it would be easier than explaining about your father last night. Maybe you also think it was sweet.”

  Sweet? Since when did my mother use words like sweet? “Hang on. Then how did you get an invite?”

  “I ring Sandra.”

  Oh. Well, I had to admit, that sounded more like my mother’s regular behavior.

  “Why you not sell ‘Patient Tiger’?” she asked.

  I frowned at the change of subject. That she was referring to the painting of Bàba by its proper name was also disturbing. “I don’t want to sell it.”

  “Stupid. Sandra say it would go for a lot of money.”

  I glared at her. “It has personal significance.” I stopped short of saying it reminded me of all the painful memories of my final year of high school.

  “What about ‘Framed’? That one not personal?”

  Good God. She knew more than one of my painting names? What the hell was going on? “That’s a self-portrait. I can always paint another one,” I answered, distracted by the thought that she’d shown interest in the dark painting of myself.

  “It very expensive.”

  “Yes, well,” I retorted, “that’s what starts to happen when you make a name for yourself. People are happy to pay money for it.”

  “I know. Another lady was willing to pay five hundred more than asking price for that one. She didn’t even care I told her I’m your mother.”

  “Why would you do that?” I needed to call Sandra and apologize. I couldn’t believe my mother had interfered. In retrospect, running away last night was turning out to be a very bad idea.

  She grinned at me. “Work out well. That woman buy another painting for more than asking price.”

  “But you talked her out of ‘Framed’!”

  Oh God. This wasn’t happening. I’d lived my whole life wishing I had the support of my parents, when in reality it was a horrible idea.

  “You sold that one too, don’t worry.”

  “And how do you know that?” I ground out. My hands bunched into fists.

  “Scarlett.”

  I looked at my father. Far out. He’d just told me he’d had a stroke and I was standing here arguing with my mother about my art. “I’m sorry, Bàba.”

  “That’s OK. Would you mind going into our bedroom and getting my jacket? I’m cold. Your mother will make tea.”

  I knew what he was doing. He probably wasn’t even cold, he was playing the peacemaker.

  “Sure, Bàba.”

  My mother went into the kitchen and I headed toward their bedroom. The jacket was lying on the bed. I could have sworn it was the same bed cover I remembered. Brown and white stripes. Home decoration wasn’t my mother’s strong point.

  I grabbed the jacket and turned to leave the room.

  And stopped.

  The jacket fell from my hands.

  The reds and blacks
blurred as my eyes filled with tears. I backed slowly away from the painting. My legs hit the bed and I collapsed onto the mattress. It squeaked under my weight.

  “Scarlett?” my father called.

  I swallowed and blinked quickly. The tears left a trail on my cheeks. “Bàba?”

  “You coming?”

  I swiped at my cheeks. “Yes.”

  When I came back into the lounge room Bàba met my eyes. Despite his recent illness, I was struck with how much he looked like the version of him in my painting.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  I sat on the armchair nearest to him, gripping the jacket tightly in my hands. I didn’t bother to give it to him and he didn’t ask.

  “Surely you can’t afford …?”

  Bàba gave me a stern look. “We’re not poor, Scarlett. We choose to live simply, that’s all.”

  The painting had been several thousand dollars. “You could have asked.”

  “No. It was worth every cent.”

  My eyes filled with tears again. I didn’t care. “I don’t understand.” And I didn’t. They’d let me live my entire adult life thinking they hated my art and now they were following my career, attending my exhibitions and buying my pieces?

  “We dealt poorly with your choices when you were younger,” Bàba said. “It’s only in recent years we’ve realized that.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was fight with my father, but I couldn’t stop my next words. “So it’s only when I start to make money out of it that you support it?”

  Bàba sighed. “We wanted you to have a career you could rely on.”

  “I do. It’s called advertising and you don’t like that either.”

  “It’s true. We don’t see the value in it like others do, but the world is changing. You’ve done very well for yourself.”

  I looked down and my fingers played with the black fabric of his jacket. “But you still don’t approve.”

  “I’d say it stopped mattering what we thought years ago.”

  I met his eyes. “That’s what I thought too, but it doesn’t always feel that way.”

  “Scarlett, when your mother and I left China, we turned our back on a lot of things. On a lot of people.”