Face (10 page)

I’m going to try calling you now. Please let’s talk before the bir
th!

Adios,

Dad x

When
my phone rings it jolts me off the bed, I fumble and drop the thing, and it lands face up- Oh God- but Dad has not materialised. The phone is still ringing and it’s only Cliff, his name on display. I cut him off. Of course it wouldn’t be Dad, his message is a week old. I already ignored that call.
Adios, Dad.
His single attempt- no doubt he considers that a fulfilment of parental duties. My stalker is more persistent; I wait for Cliff’s text message to arrive, and it does, with a self-satisfied ping.

Did you find your M
um’s question on the C.O.F site link I sent?

Chapter Twelve

It’s the lingering sadness that gets me, the hooded eyes, the weighted flesh. The different generations were so much more obvious back then. I’ve got a group photo up, it must be an extended family because it’s study material for Human Biology: the History of Genetics. It’s a site we use for school, an archive of old photos. You can’t see too well with these 2D images, but if I stare for long enough at this girl I’ve picked, my brain can start to scoop her out of the artificial flatness. Imagine if she were calling on my phone. That same face every call, so solemn. Family is a serious business. Her mouth is tiny, almost pretty. The same mouth sits on the creased-faced woman beside her, her mother? A blurry arm is moving behind the girl’s head, the clasp for-the-camera coming too late.

             
The shades of their skin mean something too- more than this is a family. Something about geographical region of origin, they’re adverts for their ancestors, if you like. They vary from medium brown to medium white. Back then they liked to categorise themselves on set combinations of features and skin tones they didn’t choose, which couldn’t have said too much about those people in themselves, their values and desires. It’s all they had, though..

I study
each face in turn, fanning outwards, and spot similar lips on a dying man. Not literally, but death is clearly due soon. It’s a version of the mouth, fanned creasing around the narrow lips, grooves that don’t stop. He clearly loves a family get together; that old-fashioned happiness that twists the face so deeply that it looks like pain. You couldn’t begin to count the creases. He doesn’t care. The girl is what, twelve? I could be wrong, she’s boyish, might be ten. They always look older, the Naturals. She’s sulking, she doesn’t want to be on display. Cosmetics did a cover-up back then- but not for children. Not for a bad mood. Youth was as good as it was going to get. Doesn’t she know?

It’s
impossible to skim over this photo; each face is damaged in its own way. Nature doling out the physiognomy of the face like sweeties in a jar, shaken and counted out. They all got the same number, but check out the combinations! The unfairness strikes me above all else. Genes are despots, taking over the face. This girl is not an individual with hopes and dreams for the future; she’s a monument to all her relatives that have gone before. Let the poor girl emerge from the unlucky flesh.

             
I find a boy about my age. My gaze ferrets around, unable to settle, so many different planes to his face. His nose is flattened as if punched, and what’s more, it veers to the left. A stiff smile, held too long for the camera. The type of fake grin I can’t do anymore, I’m free from his face ache. Straight whites, he got lucky there; the teeth stand out. I get a gut twinge of something- not attraction, but fascination, like a car crash. This boy understands it ends like this, his people a piece of history for future generations to gawp at. A face captured in the moment of realisation.

One final female catches my eye because she is all wounded pride, doing a Mum.
Old Mum. What has she just been told? Her skin is smooth and taut, except the neck, which is folded as whipped cream. Cavernous cheeks draw the eye to sausage lips, glossy and deflating at the corners. Doughy skin stretched inhuman. Lived-in Natural skin, doing what it shouldn’t in its lifespan- defy gravity. The eyes have seen it all before, and didn’t enjoy it much the first time around. Who would love her? Somebody just like her, I guess. Dating must have been like, matching up your flaws.

None of these faces are choices
. They just are, for a lifetime. A lifetime! There’s no manufactured tug in the eyes. No clear advertisement of self. I am left oddly detached; who knows what this lot dream of, behind the camera? Or what they might do, given the chance.

             
I won’t find the face of my future sibling here.

Chapter Thirteen

By the time I reach the park gates the shadows are pooling underfoot and it’s all turning alarmingly pretty. I stop in my tracks, zip myself up to the chin. Is this a good idea? Clearly not, but is it even passable? If nature intrudes, if there’s some kind of show-off sunset, I’ll angle my back to it. I don’t want any misunderstandings.

             
The children’s play area is at the far end, fenced in. Underfoot the grass is spongy with rain, radiant with health, part of the palette of hyper- greens used in the Virtual School window. I get this sinking sensation with each step, a tug of my calf muscles, but I’m cutting across to arrive first. I stalked the stalker; I made the verbal contract, a venue and a time. But if I get the gut twist, I’m gone. Appearance made, contract fulfilled, adios Cliff.

I circle a broad oak tree, halt as the whole area comes into vision. The swings are motionless, all four. The red of the roundabout textured with gold, the sun’s early evening enhancement. Elongated shadows of branches advance, no sign of Cliff. The only sound is of a bird, frantic, a cross between a trill and a scream. Music therapy for the highly strung.

Most
people are late. My friends, I mean. My plan is to wait on top of the tunnel, the best vantage point. Analyze his approach. You can tell a lot about somebody from their walking style. Dad is apt to wander like he’s received a blow to the head, cheerfully directionless; but Mum, she’s a stomper, her feet go exactly where she wants them to go. Proper stalkers- I’ve never had one before- would be, what? A geeky, uncoordinated marching? Blinking at the fresh air. A light-footed predatory approach and I’d be out the back gate long before his arrival. Hang on, psychopaths are super- smooth talkers- surely that’s Cliff out? But first impressions are often deceptive.

The gate
clanks shut behind me. The metal on metal sound triggers a memory of this gate, taller, being held open for me by Dad, his low bow and expansive arm gesture:

             
“Queen True, I took the liberty of instructing your people to construct a monument to your loveliness... and behold!...the roundabout was born, so that you may be admired from every angle.”

A
flush of warmth at the memory. The sort of rush that’s supposed to come when recalling someone who’s died at a ripe old age, when in an instant, all the whopping great mistakes he made in his life serve only to reflect poignantly on the frailty of the human condition.
He did the best he could, under the circumstances.
Instead of reflecting- with greater accuracy- on their complete and total failure as a human being. Anyway, I like to come here because it never changes. Every surface feels familiar.

I
reach up and place a palm on the toasted metal of the tunnel, conjuring the row of skinny legs swinging above my head, the soles of the shoes far bigger than mine: zigzag grips, wiggly grips, dirt-streaked socks, stripy socks. The hierarchy of age, the battle for the best seat in the park. I’m not telling anyone, but I still get that rush of triumph when I see the whole of the top of the tunnel deserted. A couple of slaps dong, dong, to my old friend, and-

“Hi
.”

Of course
, hiding is his favourite game. The voice had an echo. I do a wide loop around to the entrance, and discover him reclining at the far end, trainers up on the inside wall, hands crossed behind his face- which is covered. The sort of pose I might have pulled to fake nonchalance.

             
“We meet at last.” Cliff slaps the tunnel, a double-handed drum roll.

I put my foot in the tunnel and hois
t myself smoothly onto the roof, turn side-on straight away. The sun is almost touching the tops of the furthest tree line, nothing too cheesy. He appears at the far end, clambering awkwardly onto his knees, around and down. He’s less familiar with this seat. I can feel him staring directly at me so I raise my chin and make a point of examining the scenery, although I cannot say much about the detail. He totally should have looked away by now, and hasn’t. He’s wearing a fedora pulled down to his eyes, black with a black band- I pluck that from my first glimpse of him because he’s still watching- so the park is all mine. I have the same hat on top of my recycling pile, in cottonleather, the Careworn shade of black. Between the fedora and the scarf edge is a slit of skin, and his eyes.

             
“How’s your Mum handling the news?” Cliff says.

             
“Fine.”

             
“Has she had the baby yet?”

             
“Should have had it two days ago.”

             
“Boy or girl?”

             
“It’s a surprise.”

“
Ah. I’d have thought she’d had enough of surprises.”

I get
a jolt as I register he’s on the dimpled side of me, ridiculous. Seven is wrong- my face is not why we’re here. We both study the view and the silence expands. Not so much as a dog-walker for distraction. I risk a fast glimpse- I can’t not- he’s all knees and elbows, braced. Trainers are the full-on moulded type, for serious runners.

              “You know they give ‘em the test for Electro-Magnetic Sensitivity around one year old?” Cliff says.

Jabbing at
what I know- it’s virtually nothing, but I’m not letting on. I’m not the kid here.

             
“So they zap them with an electromagnetic field...” I say

              “Kind of,” Cliff’s voice curls in amusement. “The computer administers a short-lived dose of nanobots under controlled conditions, to test if there’s a reaction to its own electromagnetic field. You get your answer: Electro Magnetic Sensitivity, or not.”

The rim of his fedora is pulled low. The scarf starts at the bridge of his nose, crosses his cheeks to underline his eyes, and finishes in ripples of pale grey on his chest.

“So tell me Doctor Cliff, what will the results be? As you seem to know a creepy amount of detail about my family, even the as yet, unborn.”

“Hey that’s not fair. Your Mum advertised the information.”

Cliff pre
sents indignant eyes, I avert my gaze.

             
“She posted a question.”

             
“She didn’t have to leave her full name on the website, along with yours. She meant for you to find it.”

The idea amuses me
, the concept of Mum forward-planning, not careless. Cliff is not the expert he thinks he is. He’s inviting me to lock gazes now; he has to work harder with no other features as back-up.

“My Mum used to do
it too,” he continues. “Post stuff about me on the C.O.F website. ‘Help! I’ve got a teenager who won’t come out of his room. What do other parents do to smoke them out?’ It’s easier for her to offload onto the internet, the faceless masses.”

I can tell from his
voice that he thinks he’s lightening the tone. I picture the online community of Naturals, rows and rows of hideous faces- just like my cartoon of him.

“She even posted my baby photos
! What about my human rights? It’s sick.”

He won’t get a smile from me.
Cliff sways back in amusement; it only takes a second to throw your balance up here. I seize the moment to stare: the structured fabric expertly masks his profile, there’s not so much as a ripple, even as he chuckles at his own joke. Cliff’s arms tense, a line of muscle, and his long, lean torso is rebalanced.

             
“Would your Mum..?” I start, and stop because Cliff is talking over me.

It’s hard to flow a
conversation without eye contact. We both wait, only he watches.