Seven Days of Us(19)

“No, that’s for you. I appreciate it.”

“Ooooh. Right, thanks!”

He set off down miles of musty corridor, hoping he’d be able to communicate more smoothly with his father.

The room was done in the same maroon as downstairs, the bed covered in a glossy quilt and the curtains thick swags, like a puppet theater. There were little signs everywhere. “Please do not throw anything other than toilet paper down the toilet.” “Please reuse your towels, wherever possible.” “Kindly note that a late checkout will incur an extra charge.” He considered documenting his arrival on camera, but right now a shower was priority. It was over a bathtub, the water pressure pitiful. He heard a knock and got out quickly, grabbing a towel. The girl from the lobby was standing outside with a tray. She blushed, looking for a second like she might drop everything, before handing it over and scurrying away. Clearly, what they said about the Brits being uptight was true. Although perhaps it was a little cruel to greet a teenage girl fresh out of the shower, he thought, catching sight of his torso in the mirror. Dana and his mom were always reminding him that being gay wouldn’t stop him from breaking female hearts. Cross-legged on the bed, he tore the spongey bread roll and took a cautious sip of tangerine-colored soup. It was tepid, custard textured, and so sweet it might have been dessert. Too bad. He couldn’t expect Whole Foods here. He dug out his iPad and e-mailed Dana.


FROM: Jesse Robinson <[email protected]>

TO: Dana Robinson <[email protected]>

DATE: Sat, Dec 23, 2016 at 8:40 p.m.

SUBJECT: So far so good

Hey,

So I’m sitting in my room in the Harbour Hotel, Blakenham, overlooking a beautiful harbor. Spent an awesome day with David Rubin, who relocated to London in June. We had brunch near his apartment in Shoreditch, it’s a really nice neighborhood.

Still no reply from the Birth Father . . . What do I do?? Not sure how many days of sightseeing Blakenham town has to offer!


Wish me luck with the jet lag,

J xoxo

The truth was, this wasn’t at all how Jesse had envisaged his first day in Britain. Pressing send triggered an intense wave of “What the fuck?” What was he doing in a provincial hotel, eating terrible soup, when he should be doing shots at La Descarga or walking Dana’s dog Flynn on Santa Monica Pier—or back home in Iowa already, helping his mom cook. No, forget that, right now he should be welcomed, with open arms, at Weyfield Hall. Or, at the very least, brushed off with an e-mail. But he wasn’t going to say any of this to Dana, who’d been mad when he’d booked his flight before hearing back from Andrew. He considered resending his original e-mail, but would that look desperate? He was pretty sure his birth father had received his message. Before leaving L.A., Jesse had sent Andrew a message from a fake Gmail account, posing as a publicist in Brooklyn to see if this would elicit a response. Andrew’s one-line reply had been almost instant: “I don’t cover New York, as you’d know if you took the trouble to read my column.” Seeing an e-mail from Andrew, but not addressed to him, was unexpectedly painful.

Maybe now’s not a good time, he told himself—again. It was Christmas, after all. Maybe Andrew had replied, but for some reason his reply hadn’t delivered. Perhaps he was so overwhelmed, he didn’t know what to say. This whole thing was like the misery of dating, multiplied. He’d steeled himself for a guarded response. Calgary had helped him to accept that he and Andrew might have totally different energies, despite their genetic link. But he’d never expected to be cut dead. He was starting to wonder if it wouldn’t have made more sense to suggest meeting in London. He had no clue what he was going to do in Blakenham for a week, if this silence continued. He lay back on the static quilt, trying not to think about how many greasy heads had lain on it, and reached for the “Positivity Meditation” podcast in his iTunes.





? 3 ?


   Christmas Eve 2016


   Quarantine: Day Two





Olivia


THE KITCHEN, WEYFIELD HALL, 7:50 A.M.

? ? ?

A vivid dream about Abu, the little boy who had died in her care, made sleeping in impossible. Olivia came down to find everyone already in the kitchen, talking over the white noise of Radio 4, the ticking toaster, and the coffee machine. Her mother jumped up, asking how she’d slept, and whether she’d like eggs, and would she prefer tea or coffee, and how about a croissant? Olivia had never liked chatting in the morning. She still felt foggy with sleep and shaken by the scenes she had revisited. Sean hadn’t replied to her e-mail. It was bothering her more than she’d expected. Don’t get too attached, she told herself. It might be different back home.

“Your temperature, you did remember?” asked Emma.

“Of course. It was normal. I’m fine, Mum,” she said, stepping over a bank of carrier bags, spilling with an obscene amount of food. For a second she feared Emma had broken quarantine to go shopping, before realizing it was Waitrose online. Her eyes must have adjusted to an alternative, Liberian reality, because everyday things kept striking her as near-futuristic. She found herself gazing at some bagged spinach on the worktop, the little leaves all cleaned and trimmed as if they’d never seen soil, until a quizzical look from Phoebe stopped her. Everything seemed so safe, so sanitized. She poured a bowl of muesli and tried to remember where the bowls and spoons were kept. The first drawer she opened was inexplicably full of gold pinecones and ribbons. She tried a cupboard, and a melamine picnic set nearly fell in her face. This house was ridiculous. Why was there so much stuff everywhere, piles and piles of it? She wished she’d spent quarantine alone in her tiny flat, which she’d never fully unpacked and now preferred that way.