A Kind of Eden (11 page)

‘Please, come. Just talk with me for a minute. It feels weird. Everything feels weird. I don't know what we're doing. Here we are in paradise, but you're out there looking at maps and I'm in here alone.'

Her voice is shaky, and he suddenly feels sorry for her. And
yet at the same time, he is irritated. He doesn't want things to get heavy yet. There will be time for that later on. But this is so typical of Miriam; he should have known. He sits on the edge of the bed. Her hair is towel-dried and her face looks scrubbed. A clean slate.

‘I just feel as if we're not communicating with one another. I feel like a stranger, and you're a tourist guide.'

She cries a little, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘We've come a long way to see you. I want things to be okay. Things were so weird at Christmas. I keep thinking that maybe you don't want to come back. You want to stay here and live in Trinidad.'

‘Whoa,' he hears himself say, ‘steady on, Miriam. You haven't been here a week and you're assuming all kinds of stuff.' He talks with a surprising confidence. ‘I want more than anything for you both to have a good time. There's so much to see and do in this place. It's a great opportunity for Georgia.'

He runs his fingers through his sticky sea hair. ‘We've both had a lot on. Just try to relax and enjoy the sun. Stop worrying.'

She smiles weakly and says, ‘I'm okay when I think we're okay.'

‘I know.' He looks down at the doves embroidered on the pillowcase. Hand-stitched birds of peace.

‘So, are we okay?'

‘Yes, we're okay.'

He pats the top of her leg, and for a moment, he hates himself.

Deceit, the cruel enemy of love
.

Miriam says, ‘There's something else: last night I dreamt of Beth.'

A hook in the heart—he is caught.

‘She was right there like she was in the room. She was wearing her purple nightshirt.'

He remembers well her Bart Simpson nightie, the cheeky caption read, ‘And your point is?' When she died, Miriam took to wearing it daily under her clothes like another layer of skin.

‘Did she seem all right?'

‘She said she keeps trying to telephone us but we don't answer.'

‘Was she anxious?'

‘No, not anxious.'

‘Well?'

‘She was a bit agitated; as if we were ignoring her. She seemed to want my attention.'

Miriam is relieved to be able to talk to him about this. Her face twists with pain. He has no choice but to allow her to come closer to him. She shuffles over the bed; he puts his arms around her thin, stiff back.

‘Breathe,' he says, softly.

This was something they learned in counselling; by taking deep breaths it is possible to release pain more quickly and effectively. Holding the breath can block the release of uncomfortable feelings. In the long term it can create chronic illness. He is not sure about this. But the part about releasing he knows to be true. He feels Miriam shudder with her crying; she sobs softly into his chest. They stay like this for a few moments.

‘You know, there was a girl on the plane sitting right behind us. She reminded me so much of her. She might have
been eleven or twelve. I almost said something to Georgia but I thought it wasn't fair. Then when we were coming through immigration, Georgia said, did you see that girl, didn't she look like Beth?'

Miriam wipes her nose. ‘It's ages since I dreamt of her. In the early days, it was all the time. Do you remember?'

It was true; back then Miriam used to look forward to going to bed. Her dreams were vivid and alive. At the time he was envious. The only problem, she said, was waking up.

‘I wonder if she's trying to tell us something.'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know. It's strange to dream of her now.'

‘Maybe it's being in another place; a part of your mind is more open.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Or maybe it's because it's her birthday in a few days.'

‘Maybe.'

Miriam's eyes are watery. ‘I feel a bit fragile at the moment. I don't know what's wrong with me. I think such bleak thoughts. I'm hoping the holiday will help, all of us being together as a family.'

It is obvious to him, she wants him to reassure her. But he cannot. Cannot or will not?

‘Something needs to change. I feel like we need to get our lives back on track. It's hard to do that when we're in separate countries.'

He doesn't know what to say. A phrase comes to him:
The truth will set you free
.

Georgia calls loudly from the passageway and he is saved.
‘Whatever you're doing you can stop it now.'

Miriam smoothes her hair and pulls her T-shirt down over her thighs. Georgia slowly opens the door, peeks through the gap.

‘So you
are
in bed!'

He says, ‘What did you expect at siesta time?'

‘I'm starving. I'm doing all I can not to bite my arm off. Can we go out for some food?'

They eat dinner at a popular four-star hotel. The dining tables are set around a stage and a steel band is playing. The night air is cool, coming off the sea; the small coconut trees at the edge of the terrace are lit by fairy lights. The silky water, the dark sky, the sentimental tinkling music, make him think of Safiya.

The waitress keeps topping up his glass with rum punch—and Georgia thinks this is funny. He is soon feeling light-headed.

‘Dad, do you remember when we went on holiday to Majorca and Mum collapsed with food poisoning in the restaurant?'

‘And the paramedics almost knocked me out with a canister of oxygen which they dropped right by my head.' Miriam makes an unattractive, ghoulish face.

‘I remember your mother throwing up on the floor of the restaurant. The other guests started getting up to leave.'

Georgia says, ‘You were jealous because the doctor looked like George Clooney.'

‘Jealous?'

He had forgotten this part. He can't remember anything about it. ‘In the hospital?'

‘Yes,' says Miriam, ‘and he came to see me the next day at
our hotel; at the time you thought it a bit over-zealous, beyond the call of duty.'

Georgia adds, ‘You insisted on staying in the room while he examined her.'

Perhaps he has erased the memory. Simple as that. He has no recollection of a handsome doctor.

‘The point is,' he replies, ‘your mother always liked dark men—Italian, Spanish, Latinos. God knows what she ever saw in me.'

‘Awww, Dad,' Georgia puts a protective arm around his shoulder. ‘I'm sure she fancied you like mad.'

Miriam smiles; she is enjoying this.

After dinner, tables are cleared away. Miriam asks him if they can dance—she has always enjoyed dancing, and they do, in an awkward but familiar way to Lionel Ritchie's ‘All Night Long'.

Miriam insists on driving home. He explains that there is no such thing as ‘over the limit' here, but she won't hear it.

He looks out at the passing fields of darkness, and he wonders how long she will accept his excuses and lies. It is a fact: people do not believe lies because they have to, but because they want to.

He leaves Georgia watching television and flops down on the bed. He might fall asleep before Miriam finishes in the bathroom; he hears the rush of the shower and feels himself drifting off.

‘Don't crash out just yet,' Miriam says, looming over him. She is wearing a different nightdress. She looks too thin, he
thinks; her bony chest pokes through the peachy lace. A cadaver.

She stands back so he can see the whole effect. It is short and the lace makes a V to the waist. Her breasts are partially exposed. It was probably expensive. French.

‘Do you like it?'

‘It's pretty,' he says, and he sees she needs more. ‘Very nice. Very you.'

She looks pleased; her eyes are steady as she climbs on the bed, and he wonders for a moment what he should do. He tries not to think too much; it is easier to go with it. He reaches for the light switch.

‘Are you sure you want the light off?'

‘Yes,' he mumbles, and now he feels Miriam's mouth, the soft hole of her mouth with its strong tongue. She runs her hand over his trousers and opens the zip. She tugs his trousers away, and he feels exposed. She lies beside him now, stroking and rubbing. Her wet hand starts to work him gently. She was always good at this part, getting it just right. Can he get away with this, with just this? She will want more.

He feels below where she is naked, and, at once, she opens herself up. Before he knows what he is doing, he has wrestled Miriam so that she is underneath him and he is penetrating her. She holds on to his back; she lifts her head to press her face into his neck. It is familiar. Old terrain. He moves in a steady and slow rhythm. Miriam lets out breathy little coos. He had forgotten—she has always made this simpering, urgent sound. Now he can feel the sweat on his stomach as he slides over her.

But it is difficult for him to come. She says, ‘Let me, let me.' And she pushes him a little so that he lifts and rolls to
his side, and onto his back. Miriam climbs on top of him and he can see her now, a greyish shadowy shape, and suddenly the room is brighter—a mobile phone going off, perhaps, provides light. Could that be Safiya? And her hair is in his face, brushing against him, and then she is burrowing down in his neck. She feels hot; there is no air. He lets Miriam do the work now—rising up and down, her hands above his shoulders. She is working hard. Finally he comes, a sudden rise and a fast cascade into a sweet and minor release. There is none of the explosion he feels with Safiya, the rush from root to crown of pure pleasure. And yet it is familiar and he is satisfied.

Miriam is not ready for him to finish, but she doesn't seem to mind. It has always been difficult, getting the timing right. Miriam wants him to be fulfilled first.

She lies down beside him, her head on the pillow. There is enough light for him to see her eyes are open and she is looking at him.

The room seems to spin a little, and he wonders if he might be sick. An old song pops into his head:
If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with
. He doesn't want to think about this. He shifts onto his side; he can no longer feel Miriam's breath on his face. Before he has a chance to think about anything else, he falls asleep.

Safiya complained about the man-made reef prohibiting the natural ebb and flow of the tide. She said the water is not as fresh as it used to be. But for Miriam and Georgia, with its leaning coconut trees and wooden jetty, Pigeon Point beach is a holiday dream. A paradise.

They put their towels and cooler in a large cabana and look for loungers. He drags a couple from further up; he had forgotten about chairs. He seems to remember they are expensive; last time he was here Safiya refused to pay tourist prices and lay on a towel. In a while, no doubt, a man will come looking for money. Georgia starts to cream up.

‘Use plenty of sunblock, please, Georgia,' he says. ‘Don't be fooled by the breeze, the sun is extremely hot.'

Miriam is wearing a different bathing suit, a whole piece with no straps. It is more elegant than her bikinis. If only she would ditch the cowboy hat. He pulls off his T-shirt and tosses it behind him.

‘I'm going in,' he says, and makes for the shore.

‘Wait for me!'

Miriam trots after him and they wade into the warm water together.

‘Ah,' she says, ‘this is wonderful. Like stepping into a bath.'

He dives underneath and swims quickly along the bottom of the pale seabed. It is clear and calm. He wishes he had brought goggles and snorkels. There are hundreds of tiny fish swimming around the bottom, darting about, synchronised. How do they know to swim like that? Like birds in a flock. Safiya would say this is God. He calls it nature. He wriggles up and breaks through the surface of the water.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Miriam swimming towards him, and he starts, slowly, with a gentle breaststroke, to swim in the opposite direction; away from the shore and cabanas, towards the jetty, the open sea. He swims and swims until he feels his legs begin to tire.

Out here, some way from the beach, the shallow water reaches his chest. He can see Georgia lying on her sunbed reading, Miriam's head bobbing. He is aware of a heaviness around his heart, a sadness. It was there first thing this morning when he woke, along with a headache from last night. He wishes he felt differently; that he could slot back into the way he used to be. He has thrived within his family—with Miriam, Beth, Georgia, and he has never felt alone. They have accepted and loved him without question; he has belonged to them. He knows this is not a small thing.

There was a time when he and Miriam were deeply in love. He'd arrive home in the evening, keen to speak to her and share the events of his day. Miriam had a way of getting to the heart of the matter, articulating his feelings when he wasn't able to. Miriam understood him. Yes, she understood his inner workings. Curiously, this is what Safiya says about him: unlike
the young men she meets, he
understands
her. Has Miriam's role become redundant? Has he become too self-sufficient? Has he outgrown her? Can it ever change again? Or is it too late? He suspects it is too late.

Today Miriam is more relaxed, more like her old self, which is mostly a good thing, although this troubles him too. Apart from feeling guilty, he doesn't want to raise her hopes, for her to think that everything between them is fine. Yet he cannot protect her forever. The truth is, if he hadn't slept with Miriam last night, it would happen today or tomorrow or the next day. It is likely that it will happen again. It was naïve of him to think otherwise. Regardless, Miriam is still his wife.

It would help if he could speak to Safiya. But escaping to make a phone call has been difficult. The signal at the house is poor. He has sent text messages. Last night she sent a message telling him that she misses him. She asked if they could speak at some point soon. He wonders about her father.