Page 47 of Take Me Away
‘Wow, your home is beautiful.’ Christ, there’s this gigantic pressure on my chest.
‘Your hair is all wet.’ Maisie is eyeing me with fascination. ‘And your foot! Does it hurt real bad? Is it purple? Can I see? I’ve got plasters, do we need plasters, I think we need plasters.’ I’m sure this girl forgets to breathe.
‘Maisie,’ Kit warns, hanging up his dripping coat. ‘Give her some space to breathe.’
She does, biting her lower lip, looking like she might combust, when a barrel of fur launches at me instead. ‘What the—’
‘Cap!’ Kit barks, and the dog that’s as wide as he is tall slopes down, all sheepish and contrite. I lean down and scratch his ears. He’s an old guy, a proper old dog with stiff legs and warts. ‘Sorry, Isla. That’s Captain, Jess’s dog.’ The present tense in his statement smacks me hard in the chest.
‘It’s okay,’ I say before turning my attention to Maisie, who is still biting down on her questions. ‘And yes, it hurts a bit, but it’s not as bad as I thought it would be this afternoon.’ An outright lie – it’s throbbing like an absolute bitch.
‘Come sit down,’ Maisie insists, taking my free hand and guiding me towards the sofa. ‘Dad made curry. I finished mine while he came for you. It’s really good, even though he puts in too much garlic.’
‘I do not put in too much garlic,’ Kit mutters, gathering my wet coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. I try not to notice a woman’s coat hanging there. ‘The recipe calls for three cloves.’
‘He always puts in five,’ Maisie informs me with the wise confidence of someone who has witnessed this particular crime repeatedly.
I lower myself onto the sofa, unable to suppress a wince as I elevate my foot on the coffee table. Maisie immediately arranges the throw over my legs, tucking it in with a motherly efficiency that’s endearing and heartbreaking in equal measure. ‘Do you need a cushion? You need a cushion, don’t you. Let me—’
‘Maisie!’
‘There,’ she says, satisfied. ‘Comfortable?’
‘Very.’ I smile at her. ‘Thank you, Maisie.’
Kit disappears down into the kitchen, the sound of bowls and cutlery following him. Maisie perches on the edge of the sofa beside me, studying me with open curiosity.
‘I was watching your movie,’ she announces. ‘The Lighthouse. It was really good.’
Heat rises to my cheeks. Nothing is quite as disconcerting as having someone watch your work right before meeting you. Imposter syndrome is real and it never ever goes away. ‘Oh. That.’
‘You were amazing. Especially the part where you yell at your dad in the lighthouse. Was that real crying or pretend crying?’
‘Real,’ I admit. ‘The camera can always pick up on fake tears, so you have to dig deep, think about something that makes you very sad.’
‘What did you think about?’ Maisie asks, leaning closer.
‘Just … missing someone,’ I say. ‘Someone I’d left behind. That feeling when you realise you can’t go back to the way things were, even if you wanted to.’
‘I miss my mum sometimes,’ Maisie says quietly. ‘Even though I don’t remember her that well. Dad says that’s okay not to completely remember and that little bits will stay with me forever, and I can miss the little bits I do.’
My chest tightens, an intense sharp dart right between the ribs. ‘Your dad is right. It’s always okay to miss people. What bits of her do you remember?’
Maisie chews on her bottom lip. ‘Her hair.’
‘I bet it was like yours.’
She nods, still worrying her lip with her teeth. ‘And her smell.’
I don’t say anything, feeling like space is better than empty words.
‘But,’ Maisie tilts her head to the side, ‘her face is blurry now. Like I can remember the outline of it, but not the bits that go in the middle.’
I think I’m going to bawl. I want to reach out and give her a hug that she can feel in her bones, but I also don’t want to overstep. Kit’s made his feelings about me being around his daughter more than clear.
‘Can you draw her? You’re an amazing artist, maybe you can draw all the impressions you have of her and create a collage that gives you a full portrait.’
‘Do you think?’ Her blue gaze blinks at me.
