A Sea of Stars (4 page)

W
e drive in silence for ages until Dad puts on the radio to fill up the car with sound.

“I'm sorry for scaring you,” I whisper to Cat. “I didn't mean to; it's just Dad and me always play that game on the cliffs. We've played it forever.”

Cat stares right through me like I'm not even there, nibbling and nibbling on a nail, twisting her hair round and round her finger and blinking her eyelids in the sun. I can't even tell if she's heard me.

“I am sorry,” I whisper again.

I feel really bad now. This is a terrible day for me, but it must be a million times worse for Cat.

Dad pulls over and parks the car outside a thatched cottage with a swinging teapot sign above the front door. When Cat gets out of the car I notice her jeans are a bit too short for her and the laces on her trainers are bedraggled and frayed. If I were brave enough I'd take hold of her hand or touch her hair.

“They have gingerbread people living upstairs,” says Mum, smiling and guiding Cat through the door, “and some of Father Christmas's elves are up there too, making all the cakes and goodies.”

I know this is a lie, but, because Cat's ten and not twelve, her eyes start twinkling.

“Really?” she says.

Mum smiles and then Cat gets that she's being teased and slams her face shut like a book. She starts twisting her hair so fast and so tight that the end of her finger turns poppy red with blood.

“I didn't believe you anyway,” she snaps, pulling away from Mum. “I'm not a baby, am I?”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Cat, darling,” Mum says. “I wasn't thinking. Maya believed that story for years.
Every time we used to come here, she'd sit wide-eyed, hoping to spot a gingerbread man or an elf. It was just a bit of fun. But I'm sorry, I won't do it again.”

Cat's eyes burn black. She scrunches her face up in a frown. She looks from me to Mum and back again.

“Your family have a weird idea of what's fun,” she scowls. “And stop saying ‘sorry', both of you; it's boring, boring, boring. Nobody ever means it when they say ‘sorry', anyway; they still go on doing horrid things.”

Then she glares at Mum with fire in her eyes and snatches hold of Dad's hand.

The teashop is full to the brim with customers and crying babies. Ladies dressed up as Victorian maids in black pinafores, white aprons and mop caps bustle about with trays of steaming tea, happy smiles dancing on their lips. But we're not so happy. I feel lumpier and bumpier than before – worse than in the pizza place. I feel all quiet, all muffled, as if my mouth is full of cotton wool. And a guilty
feeling gnaws away at my bones as I glance at Cat's frayed cuffs. I wish I could take her shopping for some new clothes. I wish I could buy her some cool stuff. But the cliff walk and the sound of Cat, Cat, Cat's scream has turned our family into a delicate egg that might break into a million tiny little pieces, making me too scared to say anything.

Cat drums her fingers on the table. She tap-tap-taps her feet on the floor.

Dad sighs; he rubs his eyes and draws a smile across his face.

“How're you feeling now, Cat?” he soothes, putting more special word cream on Cat's sore life.

Cat twiddles with the sugar cubes. She pops one in her mouth and sucks. She keeps her eyes down low. “OK,” she says.

“Because we'd understand if you didn't feel OK,” says Mum. “What's happening in your life right now is huge and we want you to know that we're here for you, Cat. You're likely to feel really wobbly over the next few weeks, we all will, because of so much change. But what we do in our family when
we feel wobbly or worried about anything is talk. Share the problem and help each other through.”

“We hope, in time,” Dad says, “you'll feel safe enough to trust us with your worries, Cat.”

She looks up. She tap-tap-taps her feet on the floor.

“I'm not worried.”

I don't believe Cat because, if I were her, I would be trembling like jelly. But Cat freezes out every flicker of emotion on her face and keeps on tapping and tapping and twiddling the sugar tongs. She must be worried a bit, though. She doesn't even know us, not really, and in a few days time she's about to come and live with us, for good. Maybe she hides it all in her tummy or in a secret little box inside her heart. I wish Dad would soothe me with some nice words because I am worried.

I take ages deciding what to order. I really want the coffee-and-walnut cake, but Dad and Cat are having the scones and jam and cream thingy and I want to be the same as them.

I wonder what actually happened to yesterday's
cheesy bread that went back to the foster home in Cat's bag – if she scoffed it up all to herself or shared it around with the other kids. I wish she hadn't done it; it makes me feel a bit weird thinking my sister might be a stealer or something. There's so much I want to tell her: that the Sellotape lives in the left-hand drawer in the office; that we have cereal and yogurt and fruit for breakfast on week days and croissants and jam and bacon and stuff at the weekend; that we're allowed to read at night until 9pm and then we have to switch our lights off, but that I have a secret torch hidden under my bed. I want to tell her about Alfie and the shelf and everything. I want to whisper all my worries about Mum getting stressy and how scared she is about stuff since he died. I need to start talking to Cat about something, so eventually, when I've ordered the scones and cream thing, I get brave.

“I've got a ginger cat called Peaches Paradise,” I say, “and she's really cheeky sometimes because she sneaks down to the harbour and begs for fish scraps when the boats come in.”

“I know that,” says Cat, twiddling and twiddling with her hair. “I saw all about her in that book you sent. The one with all the pictures.”

 

It'd felt strange making the ‘Our Family' book for Cat. I mean, how can anyone really tell what you're like from a bunch of pictures? It's the same as Dad's mini travels on Google Earth. Cat's DVD was much better; at least we got to hear her voice and watch the sunlight dance on her beetle-black hair. We just stuck pictures in the book. We had one of me surfing, one of me in the hammock reading and one of me in my uniform on my way to school.

Dad chose one of him making pots on the wheel, one of him in the gallery selling them and one of him out in the garden chopping logs. Mum chose the Sunday magazine photo of her that made her mermaid sculpture business so popular, one of her in the kitchen baking cakes and one of her last summer at the Surf Shack Café's barbecue.

I was worried about missing Alfie out. I thought he should be in the book because he is a part of
our family too – well, kind of. I suggested we took a picture of the shelf. Dad made it from gnarly old wood that smells of damp earth and moss and sea mist, and it has all Alfie's things on it: a photo of his tiny face, and the teeny-weeny plaster print of his foot, and feathers and blue eggshells and pink seashells and things that fly in on the breeze.

We could've written about how, every year on Alfie's birthday, we always have chocolate cake and a quiet little moment to remember him. How we always light the candle and Nana and Pops come over with a shrub for Alfie and a silver charm for me.

But Mum thought Alfie might be too confusing for Cat. She said there was plenty of time. So, instead, we put in photos of Nana and Pops in their garden and loads of pictures of Peaches Paradise. And some of our house too, and the beach, and Rachel and Gus, and people who hang out in the Surf Shack Café. We did doodles and sketches and filled the pages with glitter and tiny paper seashells and silver mermaids.

 

“Would you like a pet too, Cat?” says Dad. “Something of your own to take care of?”

And that starts up another worry. I'm not sure Peaches Paradise would like another pet in our house; she might get a bit worried and nervous too. But Cat's eyes shine and she draws a dog with her finger in a pile of salt she shook all over the table.

“Can I have a pony?” she asks. “Or an elephant?”

And Dad laughs and then Cat laughs too and a bright yellow butterfly of love with beautiful heart patterns on its wings flutters between them. They share a secret smile that makes my heart scrunch up small like a nut. And I'm really sad I've never sent him a bright yellow butterfly with hearts on its wings.

Later, when we've finished our tea, while Dad's paying the bill and Mum's looking through a tourist guide of fun family things to do, Cat walks right up to the cake display. She stares at it for a moment, licking her lips. My heart starts thudding hard against my ribs. She edges open her bag and twitches her eyes around the teashop to check no one is looking.

“You can't do that,” I whisper. “You might get caught and then we'll all be in trouble. The social workers might stop the adoption or something. Dad'll buy it for you if you want it that much. You only have to ask.”

Cat flashes her eyes at me, bright emerald green like Peaches Paradise's eyes when they sparkle and flash in the dark.

“I do what I want,” she whispers. “No one tells me.”

And, with the speed of a magician's hand, she quietly slips a huge slice of chocolate cake and a handful of sugar lumps straight into her bag.

Later, when we've dropped Cat off at Tania's and we're on our way back home, her words trample through my brain. I try them out on my lips, whispering quietly so Mum and Dad can't hear. “I do what I want. No one tells me.” And they feel as shiny as gold as bright as the moon.

T
he day after Cat's cliff-top scream, we decide we'll pick her up from foster care and bring her home for her first visit. Mum's stress is reaching an all-time high and the tension in the air makes me feels like I'm going to snap in half, as if my body is made of glass. Mum's really, really worried about getting things wrong with Cat – really, really worried I'm going to make her scream again.

“Please, Maya,” she says, straightening the sofa cushions for the hundredth time, “keep things gentle. Just be easy and relaxed and normal, OK, sweetheart?”

I don't say anything, but Cat's words swim through my head. I do what I want. No one tells me. And they feel huge and powerful, like the Statue of Liberty on my tongue.

Then Mum starts stressing about the fact that she thinks Cat likes Dad more than she likes her.

“She needs to bond with me too,” she says. “If this is going to work, she needs to bond with us all.”

“Give her a chance,” says Dad. “We've not even got her home yet. If you think about it, she's bound to find it easier to relate to me because she's never had a dad before. It's bound to be trickier settling to a new mum and a sister when you have a mum and a brother of your own. It'll take time for her to adjust.”

Mum starts fiddling with her fringe and biting her top lip. I think she's jealous, like me. I think she saw the sparks and butterflies as well. I look down at the bay. It's a perfect day, the sun is shining and the waves look brilliant. I check my watch; if I hurry I've just about got enough time for a surf
session with Anna before we have to pick up Cat.

“Can I call Anna and meet her for a quick surf before we go?” I ask. “Her dad won't mind watching us; it's so clean and glassy out there – I can't miss it. Pleeeeaassssssssssse?”

Mum twitches. She checks her watch; she looks out the window.

“Oh, Maya, love,” she says, “not now, eh? Not today. And, anyway, those clouds in the distance are brewing up a storm; it could get rough in no time.”

“Please!” I say, “The clouds are miles away. It's perfect out there!”

Dad glares at me.

“Listen to your mum,” he says. “You can't go down now, Maya. Maybe later, when we've got Cat.”

“But I want to go surfing,” I say. “It's no big deal; I won't be long.”

Then Mum starts crying and Dad glares at me again, as if it's all my fault, so I shut up.

 

When we get to Tania's, Cat's wearing this strange red dress that's about three sizes too big for her, with long black socks and scuffed up school shoes. But her hair is still shiny; she still smells deliciously of custard; her lips are still like cherries. I decided on my new Roxy shorts and flowery top today, the ones that Dad and I bought in town. I can't wait to take Cat shopping, to see her in some normal stuff. I wonder what she'll choose.

“Can we go clothes shopping for Cat today?” I say, when we've picked her up and we're in the car.

“Maybe later,” says Mum. “Let's go home for a bit first.”

“I've got clothes,” says Cat, stroking her weird dress. “I don't need to go shopping.”

I open my window, stick my head out and sigh. Cat isn't easy to be around. She's awkward, like she's bumping into things all the time, like her thoughts are bumping into words. I watch the world zoom by, a very un-neat felt-tip pen scribble of grey and yellow and green. I wonder what happened to the chocolate cake Cat stole. Maybe it's still squished
up in the bottom of her bag or squashed under her pillow at Tania's. Maybe she ate it secretly herself or handed out little chunks to the babies.

Chocolate cake reminds me of Alfie. But lemon cake is worse because that's what we have on Alfie's dying day when we light the candle on the shelf again. Dad says the candle represents Alfie's spirit, lighting up the world. I like it and everything, but it's hard to get too sad about Alfie because I can't remember him – not really.

And it's weird because I can't really remember why we decided to adopt Cat in the first place, either. I remember Mum seeing the article in the paper and the little faces gnawing away at her heart. And I remember us agreeing that we have so much wonderful stuff in our lives to share. But after that everything seemed to happen so fast I don't remember actually saying yes.

I take a big, deep breath and the thick blue exhaust fumes rush up my nose. They punch my brain and make me feel fainty and sick. I quite like it. So I take another big, deep lungful, then push
my head out further so the cool fast air presses my cheek flesh to my bones.

 

I think maybe Nana and Pops were right. Because, when Mum first told them about us adopting Cat, they rushed straight over to our house.

“Do you think this adoption thing is wise?” I overheard Nana saying from the other room. “We're delighted to support you and we're looking forward to welcoming the girl in, but do you really have the time it takes to raise an adopted child? They're usually so troubled and they've been through so much. It's a delicate process, especially with older children. We're worried about Maya too; we don't want her to suffer.”

They spoke like they were eating rhubarb without sugar, with their mouths puckered and pulled.

Mum's heart burned.

“They don't know what they're talking about,” she said in her high-pitched squeaky voice when Nana and Pops had gone home. “Do they think we haven't planned to take time off when we get Cat,
to be cosy all together and settle in? Do they think the Adoption Agency would have offered us a child if they'd thought we wouldn't cope? My parents are ridiculous! We've had more education from the social workers and information support groups and books than we ever had when we were expecting Maya or Alfie. They don't put birth parents through the same rigmarole as this.”

“Maybe they should,” I remember Dad saying, “you know, test parents to make sure they're fit to take care of their kids properly.”

 

“Don't lean out the window,” says Cat, pulling on my arm. “It makes me nervous.”

I stare at her. “Everything fun makes you nervous,” I say.

She starts nibbling. “Doesn't,” she says.

“Does.”

Then she reaches into her bag, scoops a finger full of yesterday's chocolate cake and pops it in her mouth.

“Doesn't,” she sneers.

“Listen to Cat,” says Mum, twisting in her seat. “She's right, sweetie, it is dangerous. Get back in. There's a good girl.”

I can't be bothered to argue. I shut the window and slump back down in my seat. It's like I have two mums nagging at me now, going on and on and on. Two scared people tying me down. I stare at the seagulls circling and swooping through the sky and wonder what my life would be like if I'd chosen to be a seagull or a beautiful yellow butterfly.

“I hope you like your room,” I say to Cat, because I need to say something that will just go smoothly, like a normal friendly conversation, like normal sisters. “It's next to mine and looks right out over the bay. You can hear seagulls in the morning and see stars from your window at night. It's a really nice room. We've made it special for you.”

Cat twitches and twiddles and blinks. She faces the window and starts nibble-nibble-nibbling on a nail. I'm walking on eggshells as my tummy ties itself up in knots. She doesn't answer me.

I think it's a game she plays, freezing people out,
making them feel clunky. A normal person would say, “Oh that's nice, I'm looking forward to seeing my new room,” or “I love seagulls,” or even, “I hate seagulls and wish they were all dead,” but she doesn't say anything at all. It's really annoying; it makes me feel stupid.

Cat is just weird and that's a fact. I don't know if she's going to scream in my face or nibble-nibble-nibble, or stare right through me as if I don't exist. Susannah, the social worker, told Mum and Dad that Cat was really troubled inside and I need to remember that. She's been severely neglected and traumatised, so Susannah said her behaviour might sometimes be unpredictable. I thought unpredictable would be OK; I thought it might be fun, like she might play mad games and stuff. I didn't know it would be like this. It's like waiting for a dud firework to go off, wondering if it'll shoot up in the air and burst into colourful sparkles or explode and burn up your face. I want a sister, but deep down I kind of wish we could drop Cat back off at Tania's and pretend we never thought
of having her in the first place. It would have been better if Mum had read an article about travelling to Australia and got all excited about that instead.

Then I notice Cat's socks are all baggy and frayed around the top and that she has a great big scab on her knee. And my anger melts and I really, really want to hold her hand. The bedroom doesn't matter.

 

It's kind of strange that Nana and Pops buy shrubs for Alfie's birthday. Dad says it's symbolic; we can't watch Alfie grow as a boy, but we can see him grow through the shrub. When I was younger, I'd look at the shrubs for hours, trying to find Alfie's face. I sometimes wonder what he'd look like now as a seven-year-old boy. I wonder if he'd love surfing as much as me.

I don't know how to explain all this to Cat – how to tell her that every year, on Alfie's dying day, Mum spends most of the day meditating in silence while Dad and I snuggle down and watch films.

I mean how do you even start explaining your
family to a new person in a way they'll understand? It's like trying to unpick a spider's web or count each grain of sand on the beach.

It's not really the big things; it's more the little things. Like, we always have a star on our Christmas tree rather than a fairy because my dad loves stars. Like, Mum always has to let the phone ring three times before answering it – for no reason at all. Like, I always put the cap back on the toothpaste before I clean my teeth, whereas Dad does it after. The patterns our family makes are complicated and it's going to be too tricky to weave Cat in.