The Island of Missing Trees(96)

Ada was silent.

‘Your mother loved you very much, more than anything in this world. Her death has nothing to do with the absence of love. She was blooming and thriving with your love, and I’d like to believe with mine, too, but underneath, something was strangling her – the past, the memories, the roots.’

Ada bit her bottom lip, saying nothing. She remembered how, when she was six years old, she had broken her thumb, and it had swollen to twice its size, the flesh expanding and pushing against itself. That’s how words felt in her mouth right now.

Kostas grabbed his plate, realizing she did not wish to talk any more. ‘Let’s go and see if we can find a film to watch.’

That night, Ada and Kostas ate their toasties in front of the TV. They couldn’t agree on a movie, but it felt good to sit there looking for it, and it felt light, too, that moment, for as long as it lasted.





Cynical Hawk


London, late 2010s


On the first day of term, Ada woke up early, too nervous to sleep. She dressed in a hurry, despite having plenty of time, and checked the contents of her rucksack even though she had packed everything carefully the night before. Having barely any appetite, she made do with a glass of milk for breakfast. She covered a few pimples that had appeared overnight with concealer, then worried that she might have made them more visible. She tried putting on a little eyeliner and some mascara, then changed her mind halfway through and spent the next ten minutes scrubbing her face. Seeing her panic, her father insisted on driving her in.

When Kostas pulled over in front of the school, Ada held her breath, still as a marble statue, refusing to get out of the car. Together they watched the students milling about in front of the gates, gathering and breaking apart in groups like shifting pieces in a kaleidoscope. Through the closed windows, they could hear their chatter and peals of laughter.

‘Do you want me to walk in with you?’ Kostas asked.

Ada shook her head.

Reaching across, Kostas took his daughter’s hand. ‘It’s going to be okay, Ada mou. You’re going to be fine.’

Ada twisted her lips but said nothing, focusing her gaze on the dry leaves stuck under the windscreen wipers.

Kostas removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Did I ever tell you about blue jays?’

‘No, Dad. Don’t think so.’

‘Remarkable birds. Highly intelligent. They puzzle ornithologists with their behaviour.’

‘Why?’

‘Because these small birds, just about ten inches long, are excellent at mimicking hawks. Particularly red-shouldered hawks.’

Ada turned aside, speaking to her own reflection in the window. ‘Why do they do that?’

‘Well, scientists think the mimicry is intended as a hint to fellow jays, warning them there’s a hawk nearby. But some people believe there could be another explanation, that it could be a survival strategy: when the bird is frightened, it helps its nerves to impersonate a hawk. This way, the blue jay scares off its enemies and feels braver.’

Ada flicked a glance at her father. ‘Are you telling me to pretend to be someone else?’

‘It’s not pretending. When the blue jay soars into the sky calling out like a red-shouldered hawk, in that moment, it becomes one. Otherwise it couldn’t have made the same sound. You see what I mean?’

‘All right, Dad, I get the message. I’ll go and flap around the classroom like a hawk.’

‘A cynical hawk,’ said Kostas with a smile. ‘I love you. I’m proud of you. And if they give you a hard time, those kids, we’ll find a way to sort it out. Please don’t worry.’

Ada patted her father’s hand. There was something childlike in the way grown-ups had a need for stories. They held a naive belief that by telling an inspiring anecdote – the right fable at the right time – they could lift their children’s moods, motivate them to great achievements and simply change reality. There was no point in telling them that life was more complicated than that and words less magical than they presumed.

‘Thank you, Dad.’

‘I love you,’ Kostas said again.

‘I love you too.’

Grabbing her school bag and the knitted scarf that her aunt had given her as a present, Ada climbed out of the car. She walked slowly, her legs weighing heavier as she approached the building. A few feet ahead, she spotted Zafaar, leaning against a balustrade, chatting with a group of boys. She felt a sharp stab of hurt as she remembered how he had laughed at her. She quickened her steps.

‘Hey, Ada!’ He had seen her and left his friends to talk to her.

She stopped, the muscles of her back tensing.

‘How you doing?’

‘Fine.’

‘Look, I felt bad for you when that thing happened.’

‘You don’t need to feel bad for me.’

Zafaar shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘No, seriously. I know about your mum, I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

Zafaar waited for her to say something else and, when she didn’t, buried his hands in the pockets of his blazer. His cheeks flushed.

‘Well, see ya,’ he said quickly.

She watched him walk away, a new spring in his step as he headed back towards his friends.



In the classroom Ada chatted with Ed a little, half listening to his explanation of how to mix beats using two decks. She then sat in her usual seat by the window, pretending not to notice the curious stares and furtive whispers, the sporadic giggles.