Finding Mia Read online

  The door swung open and a nurse came in to check Flo’s vitals.

  Time turned sticky as Isobel stared at the open door. She could leave. Right now. Flo was in good hands. Isobel owed Dr. Brigham nothing.

  Blood rushed to her face as she stood up and walked. Every slow step was a pounding heartbeat. I told him I’d stay, but I can’t. Her pace quickened as she got closer to the door. Fighting the urge to run, Isobel fled the hospital like an ant fleeing a kid with a magnifying glass on a sunny day.

  Taxis lined the street. Rush-hour in this holiday town was a non-event. She slid into one, and two stops later she arrived at her rented cottage with her ruined canvas and a steaming packet of Chinese food that was her best attempt at supper. She settled in the lounge with her noodles and tea, determined to shift-delete today from her memory banks.

  I made the right decision. There was nothing more I could do for that baby. I wouldn’t survive anything more.

  Not hungry, Isobel forced herself to keep lifting the plastic fork from the greasy cardboard to her mouth. Somewhere between the warm liquid and the sweet and sour tang of the noodles, the clutch let up in her mind and tension dissolved from her shoulders. Her gaze fell on the canvas—watermarked from the rain, beach sand embedded along the edges. Her stomach twisted and she set the half-eaten noodles aside. Maybe bed would be best.

  She lay in her bed in the dark and listened to the wind. The storm had vented its fury for an hour solid then left as quickly as it had come. It took half an hour of turning this way and that, re-fluffing her pillow, to realise that she was fooling herself. Her good friend sleep was off visiting in another part of the town and had no intention of coming back anytime soon.

  Throwing on a silk gown, Isobel wandered downstairs. The wind had blown away the last lingering remnants of rain clouds and tucked itself in for the night.

  Moonlight poured through the ceiling-length windows, creating a pool of living light on the lounge floor. Driven by some nameless emotion, Isobel picked up the ruined canvas and a pencil. She stood for a moment outside the circle of dancing moonlight, feeling suspended between the life that is and the life that will be.

  She stepped into the glow and sank to the floor. Without really intending to, she slowly began to sketch. No thoughts dictated where the lines went or the shading grew. The pencil tip traced and dipped, at times light—barely touching—then bold and dark. Time flowed over her under the caress of soft moonlight as she gave in to the whim of her overwhelming feelings. Feelings she dare not look at in the harsh light of day. She worked tirelessly, pouring her heart out through her finger tips, redeeming the damaged canvas with exquisite beauty.

  Hours later, needle-sharp pricks of sunlight woke her up. She struggled upright, feeling every vertebra in her spine mumbling complaints.

  Oh, hush up already, body. What are you doing on the floor anyway?

  Rubbing thick sleep from her eyes, she forced them open—first one then the other. Then she saw the canvas.

  Ten years of nothing. Ten long years of bashing her head on empty canvas after empty canvas and now this.

  A tremor of shock shot through her from the tip of her head to the deepest secret places of her heart. It was suddenly hard to swallow. The form, the lines, the shading and contrast—it was, without doubt, the best piece she’d ever done.

  And…it was Flo.

  3

  She stowed the damaged canvas next to the dustbin—the picture facing towards the wall—and was on her second cup of tea when she heard the crash.

  Someone screamed. Then silence.

  Running to the window, she moved the lace curtain aside just enough to peep into the neighbour’s yard without being seen.

  A bike, a boy, a gate that hung precariously on one hinge, and a battered daisy bush told the tale of a crash.

  Her neighbour’s front door swung open. The boy’s mom ran and bent down over him. With her hair scraped back into a spiky ponytail and something pink messed down the back of her track pants, she was an overworked mom through and through.

  The boy cried and clutched his arm.

  Isobel let the curtain drop. Not my problem.

  Popping two slices of seed bread into the toaster, she opened the top drawer before remembering the cutlery was in the next one down. You’d think I’d be used to this place after a month. A whole month of living in Scottburgh and she’d managed to avoid meeting her neighbours. Waving the butter knife in midair, she said aloud, “I’m not here to make friends, after all. I’m just here to hunt down my missing muse. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  The toaster popped loudly, the only applause she was going to get for her soliloquy.

  She spread a thick layer of marmalade across her toast and was about to bite when the doorbell rang. She rolled her eyes. Perfect. She put the toast down on the bookshelf in the hall, brushed crumbs from her hands, and peered through the spy-hole.

  A spiky blonde ponytail told her it was the next-door mom. The soft crying told her bike-boy was there too. It would be so easy to slip quietly into the lounge and lay low until they gave up and left. So tempting.

  She opened the door.

  “I need your help. He’s broken his arm. My hubby’s away. My car won’t start. I—”

  This can’t be happening. “Give me a mo’. I need my keys.” She slipped into her shoes, found her keys, and left with a last wistful glance at her toast. Then it hit her.

  “Oh, crumbs. My car isn’t here. How can I be so dim?”

  Blonde mom blinked, uncomprehending.

  The boy buried his head in his mom’s leg and whimpered.

  Isobel sighed. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’ll call a taxi.”

  Minutes later, they were trading names as they piled into the back of the yellow vehicle. The boy’s name was Ben, and he apparently had ongoing issues with staying on his bike.

  “Oh, Ben, how many times have I told you to use your brakes before you hit the gate? You really need to stop falling off that bike. You’ve only got so many limbs to break, you know.” Ben’s mom kept up a nonstop stream of chatter, chiding and consoling, interjected with the odd comment to Isobel. “So kind of you to help. I wish my husband didn’t travel as much as he does, but what can you do?”

  Through it all, Isobel found out that Melindi, the sobbing boy’s mom, had a six-month-old baby girl at home with her nanny and a hubby that travelled out of town. A lot.

  “Do you know he is away nearly half of the year?”

  They pulled up outside the hospital, saving Isobel from having to answer. She moved to safer ground. “Would you like me to wait for you?”

  Ben clutched his arm and sobbed.

  Melindi’s eyes took on a vague panic. “Please walk us in? I’m not sure I’ll manage doors carrying him.”

  Come on, universe! Give me a break! “I really can’t—”

  “It’s OK. I’ll get by.” Melindi slid out the car with Ben in her arms, but the movement twisted his arm.

  He screamed and started crying with fresh gusto.

  “Wait! Melindi, sit tight. I’ll go get a wheelchair.”

  Melindi didn’t answer, but nodded. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears, the strain beginning to show in the creases on her forehead.

  The nightshift and dayshift nursing staff were trading places as they walked into casualty. A day-shifter met them at the front desk. “Hey, Ben! What do we have here, Mel?”

  “Ben fell off his bike again. This time I’m sure he’s broken his arm.”

  “Right. Let’s get you straight to x-ray. Follow me.”

  Isobel trailed after the wheelchair feeling like a sixth finger. Who on earth is on first name terms with the emergency staff in casualty? She shook her head in wonder and kept walking. Every step took them closer to the paediatric ward.

  By the time the radiologist took over, Melindi was shaking. “My nerves are shot.”

  “You need some caffeine. I’ll go find us some coffee.”

&nb
sp; Melindi frowned at her trembling hands and slumped into a plastic chair that looked more tired than she did. “That would be great. Thank you, Bel. For everything.”

  Isobel didn’t trust herself to answer. She smiled faintly and went on a hunt for coffee. She found it—right outside Flo’s room. Curiosity put her hand to the door, and she pushed it open before she’d given it a second thought. Then she froze. Hand on the door handle, one foot in the room…she was stuck. Stepping over the threshold was impossible. Can’t do this. Fool! She spun around to leave and walked smack into Dr. Brigham.

  “You came back! Come and see. She woke up earlier this morning.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room, ignoring the deep furrows in the tile caused by her reluctant heels.

  A nurse was wiping down Flo with a cool cloth and the child whimpered at every touch.

  Isobel‘s heart lurched.

  A lopsided grin tugged at the doctor’s lips. “It’s OK.” His voice was gentle.

  Isobel wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to Flo.

  The nurse moved aside, clearing a space Isobel dreaded filling.

  The good doctor brought her forward and she felt an overwhelming urge to accidentally grind her heel into his foot. Then she looked at Flo. The angry red had deepened since the night before, much like a tomato ripe enough to burst. Blisters had already begun forming.

  Her eyes were open, though unfocussed.

  “She’s a bit out of it from the pain meds.” He reached up and checked the flow from her drip. “I’ve also put her on an antibiotic. Infection would be bad news. Her little system is under so much strain as it is.” He leaned on the bed, moving close enough to look into the little girl’s eyes.

  She responded with a clumsy hand on his cheek.

  He cupped her hand in his and smiled as the nurse packed up her swabs, bowl, and towels and left.

  His eyes never strayed from the girl who continued to pat his cheek, but his words were for Isobel. “It is good that you came back. I thought I’d lost you for a while last night.”

  She had no idea what to say to that. Saying nothing at all seemed to be working for her. She stuck with it.

  “Her name is Mia.”

  “Oh?”

  “Label on her clothes.” He gestured towards a pink bundle of folded cotton on the shelf next to the bed.

  Mia’s eyelids grew heavy and her breathing slowed a touch as she drifted into peaceful sleep.

  Isobel found herself mesmerized by the rise and fall of the child’s chest. Somehow, it fed some empty space inside of her that she’d shoved in a dusty corner and ignored for years.

  “I need to finish my rounds but I also need to talk to you. About Mia. She needs a safe place to stay for a while.” He pulled a card from his pocket.

  Isobel said a mental ‘Ha!’ at the thought of getting off so lightly.

  Cards get lost. Cards get forgotten in pockets and ruined in the wash. She could think of thirty reasons why she’d never have to make the call without breaking a sweat. There was no way she was taking in a toddler.

  Then he pulled a pen from the other pocket and asked, “Number please?”

  Her insides groaned.

  “I’m in hurry. What is your number?”

  The man was pure, 100 percent bully. “I’m staying in Breezy Cottage just off the beachfront. The number is in the book.”

  “Great. I’ll be in touch. The name is Liam, by the way.”

  By the time she got back to Melindi with two steaming cups, Ben was moving from x-ray to a consulting room. The novelty of riding in a wheelchair took his mind off the pain enough to put a broad grin on his face.

  Melindi took the cup and swallowed two big gulps. “This is just what I need. Where have you been all my life?”

  “Is it broken?”

  “Oh yeah. Doc says it’s a clean break though. Should heal perfectly. Six weeks in a cast for a busy eight-year-old. This is not going to be fun.”

  It was midday by the time they walked out into bright sunshine.

  Ben sported his new cast proudly and ran along tapping it on each dustbin, pole, or person they passed, eliciting a frazzled “Ben! Stop that!” from his mom with every clang.

  The irritation that had been building since her run-in with the doctor dissolve as Ben swung around and grinned at them. His eyes danced, and he ran at full speed and barrelled into his mom, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Sorry, Mommy!” Then he was off again, swinging his arm as if to check if it would fall off.

  Melindi frowned. “Just wait until the pain meds wear off. Poor kid.”

  That’s the trouble with the numbness that sets in after great pain: it always wears off. Isobel sighed. “Let’s get you two home.” She found her car just where she’d left it the night before. Melindi raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t even ask.”

  ****

  The restlessness hit again without warning. Isobel scrubbed the kitchen floor on her knees with a nail brush as her scrubbing brush had deserted her, then found a dusty spot behind the fridge that required advanced yoga skills to get to. The sun was losing its grip on the horizon as she emptied the cutlery drawer and soaped down the divider tray.

  The doorbell rang.

  Rubbing an itch on her forehead with the back of her dripping hand, she opened the door and clung to the handle as her knees nearly gave way. “Dr. Brigham. You didn’t phone.” She cringed even as the words bungeed off her lips.

  “Please don’t Dr. Brigham me, just call me Liam. No, I didn’t phone. I had an unexpected gap and thought I’d come find you instead of…calling.” He didn’t look the slightest bit apologetic.

  “Well, I can make tea if you want to come in. Though I’m sure you are busy…”

  “No. Yes! I mean…I’d like tea. I’m not rushing.” His eyes were twinkling and he coughed behind his hand. She could swear he was trying not to laugh.

  “I’ll put the kettle on then.” What was going on with this man? She steered him to the lounge and put the light on in the kitchen to make up for the failing sun. Bending down to take two cups from the cupboard, she saw her reflection in the toaster. A stray lock of hair trailed down her forehead, sporting a row of sparkly soap bubbles. So the man found soap bubbles funny. She slapped her forehead, sending the residue flying. This was not going well.

  She carried the tea through, wishing for a giant fast forward button. The lounge seemed smaller with him in it. She put his cup down and tackled his chuckling head on. “So you find soapy foreheads funny?”

  “No, not at all.”

  She felt her eyebrow climb. Oh, really?

  “What really makes me chuckle, though, are those.” He pointed to two perfectly round dirty marks on her knees. “Nice homey touch.”

  She looked at her knees, promptly fell off the edge of mortification, and landed in the lap of so-what. She grinned with a shrug. “I clean floors, and I’ve got the knees to prove it. Have you got a problem with that?” She sat on the sofa opposite and fluffed the cushion next to her. She pointedly left her dirty knees just as they were.

  He chuckled. “Not at all. In fact, why don’t you come over and clean mine next?”

  Isobel had grown up with three brothers and knew how to defend herself. She picked up the cushion and threw it across the room. Hard. It hit him as he took a sip of tea, slopping hot liquid into his lap.

  “Oh, grief! I’m sorry! Here let me help—”

  “You have got some serious muscles on you, woman. Relax, I’ll mop up in the kitchen.” He stepped gingerly across the carpet like a cat in snow, trying to stop the liquid pool in his shirt from dripping on the floor.

  Isobel wished she could disappear into a parallel universe in which she had never met, nor thrown cushions at, Dr. Liam Brigham. She rose to help him clean up as a good hostess should, thought about what that involved, and promptly did the right thing—took her tea and escaped to the deck.

  Moonlight shimmered across the broad expanse of sea. The s
alty air was cool around her. A fresh breeze had picked up since the sun had set.

  She heard him come back and turned around to see if he’d been successful in his tea-mopping efforts.

  He stood frozen in the middle of the lounge. He held the picture of Flo—little Mia—in one hand, the other across his forehead, hiding his eyes—his feelings.

  Her heart caught in her throat. “What are you doing with that?” She moved to take it out of his hands, but he dodged.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “That is none of your business.” His tone raised her defences, and she reacted much as a bear would if poked with a stick.

  He dropped his hand and she read turmoil in his eyes. It made no sense.

  “I’m sorry, Isobel.” He sounded tired, impatient. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that I want to know the truth about her. I thought you weren’t connected to her in any way. But this?” He floundered, trying to find the right words, “This goes against everything you’ve said. Tell me the truth, Isobel. Please.”

  Anger flared. “You are assuming many things. Things you know nothing about.”

  “Well, then, tell me what is really going on.”

  “You actually think I’m involved with this?” She took the sketch from his hands and clutched it to her chest. She crossed the hall and opened the front door without a word. It was time for him to leave.

  He didn’t. He stood in the middle of the hallway. “Talk to me, Bel.”

  She hid behind her crumbling anger, desperately trying to stay mad. “Don’t call me Bel. Just go.”

  “I can’t do that. For her sake, I can’t. Talk to me.”

  She fought the tears that threatened. “I won’t. Please.”

  “No.” One word, spoken so softly. A mountain that simply would not yield. “Talk to me.”

  She sank to the floor, her back against the cool cement of the wall. The sketch of Mia fell to her feet, and she turned it face-down. There was only one way to get rid of this man. “I’m an artist. I lost it…somehow. For the last ten years, I’ve been trying to find it again. That’s why I’m here in Scottburgh. I haven’t been able to paint or draw anything. That night, after I’d taken her to hospital, I couldn’t sleep. I came down here and drew that by moonlight.”